Some Like It Hot Wings

Disclaimer: I don't own South Park or the classic movie Some Like It Hot. Alert readers may also catch references to Putting on the Ritz by Joe Keenan, in which a character comes to transvestism "by means of conscription," La Cage Aux Folles II, and definite overtones of The Odd Couple. Gratitude and apologies to all.

Oh, yes—and there are two references to Cartman's having dyed his hair during the episode Stupid Spoiled Whore Video Playset. Yes, the ep itself is cool, but I have to thank StansFan's oneshot Tears, Rain, and Hair Dye for really alerting me to the possibilities of that hair dye. Go read it. It's on here, or you can find it more easily by going to the South Park C2 Quadruple Stuffed.

Chapter One: I swear this is the last favor I'll ever ask you

"N-no, Eric! I won't do it—a-an' that's final!"

Butters Stotch was waving his hands in front of him like an umpire trying to signal "time out." It would have been hard to communicate "that's final" any more strongly. But unfortunately, it wasn't final, because he was backed into a corner.

Literally. Eric Cartman had him penned into the corner of his own room. There wasn't any further back he could go, unless he slipped into the closet and hid among his Professor Chaos costume and the sad remnants of his abortive tap-dancing career. And as for going around him---impossible. There was one more option that Butters didn't think of, and that was a Rochambo or, as Cartman himself liked to call it, a "kick squa in the nuts." That would have worked, but Butters was just too nice even to think about it.

"Look, it's a perfectly simple little thing. Don't go getting all sand in your vagina about it and shit—you sound like Kyle."

"I d-don't have s-sand in—never mind, Eric, I just won't do it!"

Cartman stepped back, a puzzled expression on his fa-, uh, big-boned, face.

"Why not?" he asked reasonably. "You've done it before."

"Yeah, a-an' I hated it! It was horrible an' scary! An-an' I'm not like you, Eric, I don't like dressin' up as a girl for fun!"

Cartman's eyebrows came down and he glared at Butters, but he only said evenly, "That was for a prize!"

"I'm not talkin' about when you w-went on Maury Povich and all that. I'm talkin' about when you d-dressed up as Britney Spears an' danced around with that cutout of Justin Timberlake and even. . . "

"That was when I was confused, goddammit!" Cartman yelled, windmilling his arms. "You'd be confused too if your Mom was really your Dad and your Mom could be anybody! By the way, Butters," he said lightly, "do you still have that videotape?"

Butters shook his head. "Oh, no you don't, E-eric Cartman! I've got that in a s-safety deposit box with instructions to sh-show it at the drive-in if anythin' happens to me! Su-so go ahead, Eric, I'm not scared a you anymore!"

Cartman looked at Butters with increased respect.

"I've underestimated you, Butters. Touché." He threw up his arms and went to sit on the chair at Butters' desk. Butters relaxed a bit and stepped back into the center of the room.

"Y-you mean I don't have to go getting dressed up as Marjorine again?" he said, looking anxiously at Cartman. Cartman waved a hand dismissively.

"Let us speak no more of it, Butters. The subject is closed, serioushlay. How are your hamsters doing?" he added, putting a plump hand on the hamsters' cage.

Butters rushed over protectively. "Hey! You leave my m-minions of destruction alone!"

Cartman shook his head sadly. "I'm hurt, Butters. I really am. I asked about your hamsters, and you just assumed that I must intend them some harm. That's a low blow, Butters. Well," he said, jumping down from the chair heavily, "I can see I'm not wanted here. I'll be leaving now, Butters." He shuffled slowly towards the door, head down, clearly dejected.

Butters' jaw had dropped open. He closed it and began to follow Cartman out.

"Oh, now wait now, Eric, I didn't mean ta hurt your feelin's."

"It's all right, Butters, I understand, I have a certain reputation. . ."

"Well, it ain't your reputation, Eric, it's more what you've done . . ."

". . . among certain people . . ."

" . . .to me. . . "

" . . .from my younger days that might. . . "

"It was a few weeks ago."

"--let me finish, Butters—that might prejudice you against anything I might say or do. Why," Cartman rolled his eyes dramatically to the skies, "why is it so hard to live down the past? Why?"

Butters looked at him dubiously. "Wu-well, Eric, cookin' people's parents, that's kinda a lot for people to forget about, an'. . ." He was cut off by a shriek of despair from Cartman, whose back began shaking with sobs. "Aw, cracker crumbs." He patted Cartman on the back soothingly. "C'mon, Eric, I'm sorry. You just come on in an'—an' sit down on the bed, an' I'll get you some milk, only just please stop cryin', ok?" Butters ran down to the kitchen. When he got back, Cartman wasn't on the bed, but peering under it. "Watcha doin', Eric? There ain't nothin' down there. That's just under the dumb ol' bed. I don't have nothin' under the bed, ceptin' a few stray socks an'—"

Cartman sighed heavily and sat down. "No. No, you wouldn't. Silly of me." He began to drink the milk with a philosophical air. The problem with boring people is that it is so hard to blackmail them.

Butters climbed up on the chair, still a bit close to his hamsters. "Now, Eric, maybe you better explain. What's so important about gettin' me all dressed up as Marjorine?"

Even Cartman had a hard time getting this one out. "-----I want to go to Raisins again."

Butters jumped off the chair. "You what?"

"I can't stop thinking about those wings. . ."

"That's what this is about?"

". . . and the bite-size pizzazas. . . ."

"You wanted me to go with you to Raisins dressed as a girl? C-Christmas, Eric!"

"I want those wings! Those were the best wings I've ever had, goddammit!"

Puzzlement began to mix with the expression of horror on Butters' face. "But why---I mean, I could never—but why can't you go alone?"

"It's simple logic, Butters. Once I go into Raisins, I'm a single male. I'm a target. The girls in there are going to use every trick in their book to get my money. And they aren't getting any from me."

Butters sat down again shakily. "I-I-I don't wanna talk about this, Eric."

"Talk about what? I'm just saying I don't need them hanging all over me. I just want them to bring me my goddamned wings and pizzas, put 'em down, and get the fudge away from me."

"Why couldn't you ask Stan or Kenny or someone. . . ."

"No can do, my friend. A table of guys is just a bigger target." His voice soared up in a sarcastic falsetto. "Hi, there, welcome to Raisins! Hey there, cuties, everyone in here's such a loser but you seem really kewl! When am I gonna see you again, sweetie?"

Butters' eyes began to blink rapidly. "Aw, p-please Eric. Please don't d-do this to me."

"What the hell are you talking about? Oh," and comprehension at last dawned on Cartman's face. "You're still thinking about that skanky ho, Lexus. Jesus Christ, I'd have thought you would have forgotten all about her."

Butters looked over at Cartman angrily. "You do, huh? Y-you think I should have for-forgotten about Lexus, but you still remember th-the wings? That's normal? And

d-don't you call my ex-girlfriend a sk-skanky ho, or so help me, I'll. . . "

"Well, what do you call a girl who tells guys how wonderful they are for money?" Cartman shrugged. "Who touches 'em and tries to make 'em spend more? That, my friend, is the definition of a ho."

Butters was beside himself. He actually raced over to Cartman, grabbed his collar, and yelled in his face.

"Where'd you learn that, Eric? At home? From watchin' your mom?"

"EYY!" Cartman yelled, red-faced with fury, "you leave my mom out of this!"

Butters raised a fist. "You leave Lexus out of this!" They began fighting on top of Butter's bed.

"OW!"

"OW!"

"OW! OW, Jesus goddammit, that hurts, Butters, quit it." They sat on the bed side by side, breathing heavily. Cartman's lower lip was starting to swell, while Butters had a cut near the eye. "You're right. We shouldn't fight about this."

"Good."

". . . .They're both skanky hos. OW! OW, Butters, goddammit!"

Butters quit pounding Cartman. What was the point? Cartman looked over at him.

"You know, if you're going to pass as a girl, we're gonna need a lot of makeup on those bruises."

"WHAT?"

"I mean, I just want my wings, the last thing I need is some domestic violence cop coming over and . . ."

"What is wrong with you? Why do you need to bring a girl with you?"

"Be-CAUSE," Cartman explained, speaking very slowly and carefully so Butters got it this time, "that is the only way to get a Raisins girl to let you alone! Get it? They're not going to hang around trying to flirt with a guy who's got his girlfriend there; it'll just backfire. They'll come, they'll take the order, see there's a girl there, be very polite, get the wings, leave me alone, end of story."

"But why me?" Butters insisted. "Why all this trouble? Eric, why can't you just get a real girl to go?"

Cartman turned to him. "Really. You think a real girl would go anywhere with me," he said quietly.

Butters looked Cartman over. He looked like a bigger mess than usual. His hair was ruffled, he had a bruised cheek and a fat lip, he was red and sweating, and his sweater had rolled up, showing an unsightly bulge. Butters was stuck. He hated lying, even white lies, but this seemed like a good time for one. The trouble was, he couldn't think of anything remotely believable. And Cartman seemed to be reading his mind.

"Yeah. The only guy the girls didn't invite to their whore party. To a whore party! The only guy in South Park that when a girl kisses him, she quits liking him! I've tried everything, Butters, cool clothes, hair dye, but it does NOT work to decorate it if you can't hide it."

He sounded like one of those faggy Goth kids, Butters thought.

"And don't say that I sound like one of those faggy Goth kids. Even black's not that slimming."

Butters knew he would regret this later, but he couldn't help it; he felt sorry for Cartman.

"P-please don't feel bad, Eric, I'm sure someone'll love you."

"Someone does love me. I love food and it loves me right back."

"I can't help it, Eric, I just feel terrible for you an'—"

"You want to make me feel better, Butters?"

"Well, yeah, sure I do."

"Then shut the fuck up and put on a dress."