A/N: Well, hi, there. I'm gonna try not to ramble too much because this fic is already a bunch of rambling. Argh. And that summary sucks. I'll change it later...

Okay, um, so, this is a multichapter. Bad move on my part. XD I didn't really think I needed any more, what with all the ones I haven't updated. Well, here I am, doing it again.

I started this on Valentine's Day, though I had thought of the title before then. What had happened was, I just wanted to call something Houseflies. I didn't know what it would be at all. No ideas. Just the title. Then, on V-Day, I visited my dad's friend's house. My dad's friend is one of the few equivalents to Clyde I have in my life - only, he's the oldest. He lives alone and he spends a lot of time on Facebook, watching Blu-Ray DVDs and, with the stories my dad tells of him, he's a Clyde. So, I just imagined Clyde living in an apartment like his, but he couldn't really live without Craig. Which sounds pretty gay, considering this is NOT a Cryde, but I love them as roommates like homygod you don't even know. It's not a new idea, for them to be rooming, but I needed something to get this Craig-and-Clyde crack off my chest. Well, it's not necessarily crack. There's canon in this, if you squint. You know I always try to stick to what makes sense. EXCEPT FOR ONE IMPORTANT THING.

The Facebook thing... like I said, I started this on V-Day, which is much before You Have 0 Friends existed. So, now I had to work around that universe. Um. Let's just say I completely eliminated it. No memories or anything of that happening. It really makes no sense, almost, because this clearly takes place in 2010. So, welcome to the world of Houseflies, it's totally fucked up! :D

This is just a slice of life introduction. Not that the rest of it won't be slice-of-lifey, I did want this to have a home-y feeling, that a bunch of us could relate to. Plot comes next chapter. And if not, the chapter after that. The last line of the fic should imply plot. XD Even if it doesn't. You'll know.

Anyway, CREEK AND STOLOVAN, ALL IN ONE. PARTY TIME. Okay, okay, that was rambly anyway. Whoops. Well, enjoy, and I'd marry you if you contributed some feedback in a review! Thanks! :3

By the way, if you know where the whole "What's New, Pussycat" on repeat thing comes from, marry me.

i. the philosophy of cheeseburgers

Clyde Donovan just got a facebook! :D

Basic Information

Sex: Male
Birthday: April 10th
Hometown: South Park, CO
Relationship Status: Single
Looking for: Friendship
Political Views: i don't even know
Religious Views: Catholic... i think

Personal Information

Activities: playing PS3, PSP, xbox, chillin with my playboy mags
Interests: again... playing PS3, PSP, xbox, chillin with my playboy mags... and eating mexican food :)
Favorite Music: cobra starship, gorillaz, bloodhound gang, lady gaga
Favorite TV Shows: terrance & phillip forever
Favorite Movies: asses of fire, lord of the rings, harold & kumar go to white castle, ghostbusters
Favorite Books: umm... i don't read books
Favorite Quotations: "principles, like my biceps, are muy bonito." -juandissimo, fairly oddparents
"it's clobberin' time!" -the thing, fantastic 4
"son of a building block, it's woody!" -mr. potato head, toy story
"nobody tosses a dwarf." -gimli, lord of the rings
About Me: voted number 1 cutest boy in my 4th grade class. :)

Clyde ceased his typing for a moment. He was just about to fill out the 'contact information' section, when he heard a sound of rapid brushing, gradually getting louder and louder as it approached from behind. Soon enough, the brushing was at maximum volume as it leaned over and brushed straight into his ear, gazing at the bright computer screen.

Toothpaste foaming at the mouth, Craig spoke through the bubbles and abundantly minty taste. "You joined Facebook?"

Clyde cracked his knuckles and stretched out his arms, reclining back in his chair. Keeping his eyes on the screen, he simply responded, "Yup."

Craig was brushing his upper canines almost violently, though his brushing sequence slowed down as he popped the toothbrush out of his mouth. White foam flung into Clyde's hair, unbeknownst to either of them. "You know," Craig said, smacking his lips, "you're like two years late." He swung his toothbrush as he spoke as if to conduct the sound of his speech. He stuck his toothbrush back in his mouth and continued to brush his tongue lazily. He slightly gagged and spat what was left of his toothpaste into Clyde's drink, which was a radioactive green and could easily be mistaken for some sort of spearmint mouthwash or a fourth grader's science experiment. Now with the bluish-white foam sitting at the top, it was beginning to look like the latter. Clyde didn't notice.

"I know," Clyde said. "But it seems like all the social gatherings," he wiggled his fingers, "are planned through Facebook."

Craig's eyes scanned the screen, analyzing everything that Clyde decided was okay to put in his Facebook profile. "Is your profile designed specially so you don't get laid, ever?"

Clyde frowned. Craig decided that he kind of looked like a sad clown when he did that. It just looked weird.

Craig spat the final amount of toothpaste into Clyde's drink again. "Have fun," he plainly said, as he walked back to the bathroom in his bare feet to continue his Monday morning routine.

Clyde needed to begin getting ready for work, too, because he was sure that lounging around in an old Led Zeppelin shirt ridden with tears and holes with dirty sweatpants to match (or, as he called them, his "pajayjays"), wasn't earning him a paycheck. He saved his final profile information and turned around to call back to Craig in genuine amazement, "Dude! It knows who I know!" He reached for his nuclear drink, Gatorade, a flavor called "lime rain," and took a sip. He coughed.

Craig and Clyde were roommates. Manly men living together, doing manly man things like not decorating their house because only chicks liked having their houses pretty. Their apartment had white walls and a brownish couch and one round table with two folding chairs, and their kitchen was more like a closet with a fridge and a dysfunctional stove inside of it. The right fridge door was masculinized with magnets of political jokes regarding George W. Bush, and the left side was made over with hundreds of small word magnets, forming intelligent sentences like, "thyself world high of peanut is year," and, "my chicken frequently kiss crayons way."

Craig was satisfied sleeping on the pull-out couch while Clyde occupied the apartment's only bedroom. The walls of the bedroom were white as well, although there was a single poster above Clyde's bed, that was arguably Craig's only contribution to the apartment's décor (or lack thereof). A poster that displayed a paragraph written about the most functional word in the English language, "shit." "Shit" is printed exactly forty-six times on the poster. If it weren't for the word "shit," Craig would rather speak any other language than English. Clyde often thought about how he may like to have his childhood poster hanging up on the wall - it was a picture of some hot android chick, name and origin unknown, and Clyde adored it with every bone in his body. Craig saw the poster, eleven years ago, and bluntly stated, "That is so not going in our future apartment." And alas, the poster never did make it to their present apartment.

The bastard had planned this all along...

Besides the poster, there was one small television atop a dresser and the closet doors were mirrors; there was also a short nightstand that only served a purpose for the lamp that was worth like ten bucks. It was sufficient. They lived in a place that could only be described as sufficient. And manly. The shower curtain with brightly colored fishes and bubbles printed on it was irrelevant. (Clyde thought it was cute. And it was half price. How could anyone argue with that?)

Now that Clyde had caught a glimpse of the time, he was introduced to the first con of having a Facebook account: it's time consuming.

He rushed down their relatively short hall and burst through the bathroom door to retrieve combs, manly hand lotion and other toiletries, but was cut off with a "Dude, taking a piss here—!" which was followed by Clyde's nervous and frantic, "Sorry, sorry!" and closed the door again.

He was still getting used to the whole roommate thing.

Breakfast! Clyde recalled, that's another thing you can do in the morning!

Another thing about living in the Tucker-Donovan household was that no one cooked. They ordered take-out at least three times a week (from their local Italian, Chinese and Greek restaurants, in no particular sequence) and lived off microwave meals the other four days of the week. It wasn't that they couldn't cook - Craig wasn't that bad with pasta and eggs and stuff - it was just the time and energy they didn't have that made microwave meals and take-out a God-given gift.

Clyde fumbled around the kitchen(-closet) for a quick breakfast to keep him going for the day. Cold cereal was a last resort more often than not, but Clyde wasn't taking chances with that chunky-looking milk and the box of Fruity Pebbles that he very well suspected were now Fruity Sand.

What was quicker than cold cereal? What other crap could they possibly have? Quicker than cereal, yet just as sugary, if not even more sugary—Pop-Tarts! Of course! They always had a box of the simplest pastry of all mankind stored somewhere in their little cabinets. It wasn't particularly Clyde's favorite flavor, only because when they went manly-man grocery shopping together, they didn't really want to spend time arguing about flavors, so it was Rock, Paper, Scissors for whoever got to choose the flavor for the week, and Craig had won (no matter how many times Clyde insisted that rock can beat paper's ass any day, and the paper was a pussy) so Clyde had to settle for that wildberry one with the purple and blue frosting.

When Clyde heard the bathroom door swing open, he knew he had to speed it up, so he wondered which method of toasting his Pop-Tarts was faster - toaster or microwave? Since toasting Pop-Tarts seemed to be such a hard task with his head focused on dressing and showering, he actually turned the box to read the complex set of directions. Thanking the Pastry Gods, he put a single Pop-Tart in the microwave, on high, for three whole seconds.

He was just following what the box said.

The three seconds that passed before he opened the microwave actually felt like three seconds. But when he picked up the Pop-Tart, and stuck it in his mouth as he ran towards the bathroom, he realized how the temperature of the Pop-Tart had hardly changed. Bumping Craig in the shoulder, he muttered, "I think I missed a step." He slammed the bathroom door behind him.

Craig stopped in his tracks, cocking an eyebrow. "How do you miss a step toasting Pop-Tarts?"

Clyde, with the Pop-Tart dangling from his mouth for its own dear life, stripped himself to hop into their decent shower. Although it was at least a little flamboyant by the bright fishes on the curtain, several tiles were missing from their wall and floor.

When Clyde turned on the water, it was ice cold. His mouth gaped open when it hit him, and it hit him hard. His Pop-Tart was no more, rapidly getting soggy in the water, but Clyde couldn't care less about the Pop-Tart. He needed to wash off his shell of Sunday laziness. And no matter how many times the Axe body wash commercial told him it would wake him up and make him more alert, or at least splash a metaphorical bucket of cold water in his face, he never seemed to be able to pay attention to anything during the day. So, he rubbed it all over himself in hopes of it at least making him smell pretty good as a substitute for having a short attention span.

Craig, on the other hand, was practically positive he had a naturally good smell. Almost positive. He couldn't really smell himself unless he manually applied it, but he was sure because no one ever really told him he smelled bad. He can only assume from that, that he smelled like a god. A god with fantastic breath. A god standing by the front door of the apartment in his plain work clothes, a black T-shirt and manly Levi's jeans. A god who is very annoyed that his job doesn't allow him to wear the chullo on his head during work hours, so he wears it with the strings tied loosely around his neck with the hat lying against his upper back. The god is growing impatient with Clyde. The god is tapping his foot, tap tap tap tap tap, as if it's going to make Clyde's Pop-Tart shower any faster. It's not like either of them were in a rush. Perhaps Craig just needed something to be angry about.

Clyde stumbled out of the shower with great attempt to not knock over his pack of adhesive bacon strip bandages from its spot on the sink. The bacon strip bandages were the least of his worries when he ended up dragging the shower curtain straight off its rod and practically crawled out of the bathroom on all fours, completely wet and in the nude with nothing but a shower curtain covering his most precious parts. He stopped crawling for a moment. He started to go in reverse, to retrieve the towel he'd left on the floor; he stuck one foot in the bathroom and dragged out the towel, along with the dark blue circular rug (also the property of Craig, he remembered). He tossed the towel over his body, and continued to crawl into his room with the shower curtain beneath him. It took him much longer than he would have hoped to finally get into his room and close the door. A piece of the shower curtain peeked out of the corner of the closed door. Clyde opened his door a crack, and pulled the piece back into his room with him.

Craig decided he kind of didn't need to see any of that.

He also decided that Clyde was the reason they were always late in the morning.

Craig parted with the wall he was leaning against and knocked on the door of Clyde's bedroom with the back of his middle finger. "I'm driving."

Clyde, struggling to get his head through his small argyle sweater vest, emitted short noises of effort in his dressing process. On both sides of the door between them, there was silence. A soft grunt or two.

Silence. Silence.

"... 'Kay."

Acceptable response. For now.

Craig had to walk a couple of blocks from their apartment building to find their two-door car, parked outside someone else's house. She was a white Hyundai, named Tits, and she, too, was only sufficient enough to keep them comfortable on cold nights when all they could depend on were the drive-throughs of White Castle and Dunkin' Donuts. Empty boxes that were once the homes of fish nibblers and delicious cheeseburgers littered the backseats, and the floors beneath the front seats still reeked of spilled coffee, and whatever other unidentifiable liquids they've spilled.

The cup holders also served as ash trays. This proved to be a problem when they actually needed to hold cups, resulting in their various spilled liquids. Green Marlboro packs were stuffed in corners, scattered along the floors, flattened by their sneakers. The smell of tobacco contributed to the atmosphere, all of coffee and trash.

Even though Craig hated Tits, he appreciated the convenience she provided for him in life. He appreciated her ability to hold food and crap like that; but he didn't like the way Tits looked or the way she would stall when he turned her on, and he didn't even like her hubcaps. Clyde had asked him, "How can you hate Tits, after all we've been through with her?"

Craig just didn't like Tits.

Craig plugged his iPod into the designated connection to Tits, which was another part of the "waiting for Clyde to get his lazy ass dressed so we can get to work" routine. If he had a car ride without music, he was sure that he would die. Probably because, if there was no music blasting at max volume, then Clyde would probably bring up some uncomfortable subject about body parts or fried chicken or porn or something.

"So, dude, like... this chick I work with, right? She was talking about... um... participating in this walk for breast cancer awareness, so she wanted to know if we wanted to like participate and do a good deed, I guess."

"I don't do cancer walks. The last time I did, that spazzy blond kid was with me—"

"Tweek? You talk about him a lot."

"I do not, don't interrupt me. So, yeah, and the fucker beat me 'cause I told him if he didn't run enough laps, he was going to get fined. He believed me."

"I just got a shitload of porn."

Craig decided to never, ever, ever have a car ride without music again.

Craig shuddered at the memory of that conversation and carried on with blasting Lady Gaga at max volume. He also decided to light a cigarette, considering Clyde would take awhile.

So, Clyde had decided to nix the geeky sweater vest, only because he completely forgot that it was Monday, and Mondays were the days he worked at GameStop, and not at the shoe store, which he bothered to look presentable for. His walk to the car was, of course, filled with deeply philosophical thoughts about his life - Clyde had a busy life, and he knew it. He had to get up in the morning. Take a piss. Take a shower. Play Xbox. Go to work and class occasionally. Okay, so he went to work a lot (maybe not class), but that didn't stop him from playing Xbox and taking a piss where ever he pleased. Okay, so maybe he didn't take a piss where ever he pleased, but he knew radioactive green Gatorade didn't treat his bladder well.

The voice of Lady Gaga lead Clyde to Tits easily, and he called shotgun as if he had any other option, just in time for Telephone.

Clyde, nor Craig, for that matter, couldn't listen to Telephone without singing along loudly with the windows open, and they proceeded to do just that.

"Hello, hello, baby, you called I can't hear a thing - I have got no service in the club you see, see, what-what-what did you say? Oh, you're breaking up on me—"

At this point, either of them could give less of a rat's ass who considered them obnoxious for blasting the song so loud, bobbing their heads like idiots and Craig practically pushing the speed limit just getting out of their neighborhood.

Because Craig's job was a lot closer than Clyde's, he dropped himself off first. He worked on a street that had gotten busy after the thirty-ninth rebuilding of South Park. A lot of the offices and shit and whatnot were moved to bigger buildings downtown, and this particular street became more crowded with stores and restaurants. The area had its key indie designer boutique, a couple Chinese food places, a pizzeria or two, and an ice cream shop. The rest of it, Craig didn't bother remembering.

Craig parked the car in front of his stop and practically dreaded letting Clyde have the car for twenty minutes. "Drive her carefully, crackerjack," he said, securing the chullo strings around his neck (but still not too tight). He regretted to remind himself how much he hated tying the strings of his chullo around his neck; he feared the hat would fall off, but his internal alarms would go off far too early for him to even let that happen. God forbid the strings go loose and the hat falls slowly down his back and onto the floor without him noticing - to hell with that, he would catch it like the badass ninja that he's not.

He worked at a restaurant. He guessed it was pretty okay. It was pretty okay that he worked at an American-based restaurant called 57's. It was heavily themed on the American culture of the 1950's, complete with a jukebox, and plasma-screen televisions. Not to mention vintage posters, and free Wi-Fi connection. It didn't feel very 1950's-y to him, but the place was bright colored in red, white and blue, and the seats were blindingly shiny. He liked the environment a lot better than the mundane cleaning of animal cages - something he would never do again. Another thing that easily canceled out the feeling of an actual 1950's environment was the painting that greeted him and every customer every time they walked in. At the entrance of the restaurant, the painting Boulevard of Broken Dreams hung proudly. It was painted in 1984, but the actors were from the 50's, so that didn't matter, right?

He wasn't so good with history.

When Craig wasn't bussing tables or listening to people's life problems at the bar, he'd be running for Disgruntled Employee of the Month, or, when not even doing that, he'd turn off his disgruntled attitude and wait tables with a reputation of being "that cool waiter who takes your order without writing it down." Craig's lefty handwriting was eminently illegible, so he took the liberty in learning how to memorize people's orders. He knew chicks dug it when he'd look at them like he's undressing them with his eyes while she ordered her Caesar salad with all its specific and thorough details; ranch dressing in a cup on the side, no croutons, and low on the cheese. Craig remembered it. He'd have to - he'd get a big tip, and he always did. And no, he would argue, it is not the same thing as being a Raisins girl, even if he did fake his smiles and play the "I'm Interested" game with talkative customers.

There was a guy Craig worked with, whose name was Joe. In fact, to Craig, his name wasn't even Joe. It was Fucking Joe. Fucking Joe was always there before Craig when the place opened, rinsing a dish, as if it looked like he was doing any real work. Craig didn't blame him, yeah, he did that shit all the time, but did Fucking Joe have to do it with such class?

"Craaaaaig, man," Fucking Joe spoke, "late, much?"

And Craig wasn't so sure why he hated Fucking Joe so much.

Perhaps he just needed someone to hate.

Maybe it was because Fucking Joe was kinda fat.

"Yeah. Roommate, you know. Can't take a shower without making it complicated," Craig replied. "Wasted a Pop-Tart, too."

Fucking Joe practically dropped the dish. "God, not a Pop-Tart!" Yeah, you would say that, tubby. "What kind?"

"The blue and purple kind."

"Oh. In that case, it wasn't quite wasted." Fuck you, Fucking Joe, those are my favorite kind.

Craig put on the flimsy apron and loaded his stash of straws and other crap. His utility apron. It sounded a lot cooler than what it actually was.

A couple of old folks made small talk at a booth beneath one of the huge flatscreen televisions. Craig had no guilt in interrupting their conversation. He never did.

"Hey, what's up, I'm Craig. Can I start you guys off with something to drink today?"

Craig left his iPod in the car.

And that was okay.

"Rah-rah, AH-AH-AHHH, ro-mah, ro-MAH-MAH-MAH, ga-ga, OOH LA-LA—"

Clyde belted out familiar chants as he earned glances from weirded out drivers, and thumbs up from some others. He reached for his phone, sitting in the passenger seat. He wanted to check his application download status: approximately 70% completed. He was downloading the infamous Facebook application. He smiled down at his phone with a seemingly evil nature. At least he tried.

Eyes on the road, Donovan!

He could have sworn Lady Gaga was talking to him.

He swerved slightly and let out a short, frightened gasp as a horn echoed behind him. "Shit," he muttered, holding a death grip on the steering wheel. He decided that when he goes to court after a car accident, he'll blame Lady Gaga for the whole thing. He knew that she had that kind of power, and he'd definitely be in the clear if he got her into it. Either that, or he'd get sued up the ass. He preferred the former, and he couldn't imagine what worse things could go up his ass besides the law.

When he got to the South Park Mall, his application had already finished downloading. He strolled through the parking lot with his eyes on his Droid and ever so happily accepted friend requests from people he wasn't even sure he knew - but, hey, if they had one or two mutual friends, it was all good. Accepted. Another friend to add to his sea of popularity...

... Which, he regretted to remember, has very much died down over the years. He was even glad to have like five Facebook friends at the moment. But people didn't get Facebook friends that fast...

Did they?

Nah.

He walked into GameStop, still messing around with his phone. He'd practically bumped into the security scanners, to which Clyde's co-worker, Joe, laughed about.

This Joe was very different from Fucking Joe. There was a lot less "fucking" and a lot less weight to make fun of. This Joe was lanky and tall. He had dark, curly hair that he kept gelled, and a moustache that you could barely call a moustache. It was invisible from certain angles, though very visible from others. And he would not get rid of it.

Clyde refrained from flipping off 'Stache Joe, as he very, very much did not want to let go of his phone. Bad choice, he realized, when he bumped into a shelf of game guides and elegantly knocked over thick, shrink-wrapped books of cheats. "Sssh-abootie," he murmured again under his breath, and glanced upward at a giggling 'Stache Joe. "What are you laughing at?"

"You, son," 'Stache Joe said. "Why you late?"

"Because!" Clyde exclaimed, and held his Droid in 'Stache Joe's face. "This."

'Stache Joe stroked his own face. He smiled and said, "Yo, you deadass just joined Facebook?"

"Yeah," said Clyde. "I'm already off to a good start."

"Oh, word?" 'Stache Joe said. "How many friends you got?"

"Uhh." Clyde looked back down at his phone and viewed his own profile. "Five."

"You like, two years late."

"I know. That's what Craig said," Clyde told him. He kept his eyes dead set on the phone, and staring down at it with all the seriousness he could muster, he briefly considered putting it away and organizing some games or something, like he was paid to do. The phone dinged happily with the notification of another friend request. "Ooh!" he squealed, "Jimmy requested me."

'Stache Joe merely blinked. "You're mad whack."

Clyde wasn't so sure what that meant. "Thank you."

"What's new, pussycat? Wooooah, woooah!"

"God, not this song, AGAIN!"

Craig tugged at his hair in frustration. Five times. Five times already. Five times he heard this song. Actually, he didn't know how many times it was anymore. He lost count after the third time. He wasn't even sure when the song ended, because it was always the same. First he thought, hey, this song is longer and more annoying than I thought. But now, he was sure. He was sure someone was doing this to him on purpose. If he heard Tom Jones' What's New, Pussycat one more time, he swore he was going to shoot Fucking Joe in the face and feed his body to flocks of hungry pigeons. He was going to flip a table and break which ever jukebox someone was abusing to reign torture upon the entire restaurant. He knew that whoever was behind this had to be some sort of evil, genius sadist. It'd also have to be someone with change to spare for the jukeboxes. He would take their coins and feed it to the pigeons as well. Anything to get this shit to stop.

In the midst of his violent fantasies, he found himself holding two hot plates. "Table thirteen," he was told, and subconsciously, he brought the plates to the table. From what he could see without looking up, one of the two guys' stomachs was large enough to fit over the edge of the table, while the other was thin and could barely fill the booth.

"Here you go, guys," Craig said flatly.

He then looked up to two, rosy red faces, bloated with laughter. The skinny one had his hand on the jukebox buttons, ready to push D3, the combination for What's New, Pussycat.

Craig pointed a finger at the kid. "You!" he cried.

Kenny laughed. "Don't you love this song, Craig?"

Cartman's face was buried in his thick arms, jerking up and down with inaudible, hysterical laughs. He perked up, tears in his eyes. "Oh, man! The look on everyone's face after the fourth play! Jesus, the sweet, sweet looks on their tortured faces..." He wiped a tear. "I can't breathe. Christ on the third rail, I cannot breathe."

Craig's face was expressing the same, unimpressed blankness he's had since the day of his birth. This was not funny. His headache was not funny. His inability to remember orders today was not funny. The old woman behind him, calling for a waiter was not funny. "I'll be with you in a moment, ma'am," he said to her, through his teeth. He turned back to Fat Albert and Mushmouth, with the tips of his eyebrows practically touching. "You two are the reasons I've been wanting to kill myself for the past half hour."

"Oh, ohhh!" Cartman raised his hands. "Be my guest, Craig! By all means! Those quarters do go into your paycheck, after all." He leaned back coolly. Craig squinted and wanted to murder him. He wanted to slice his huge belly open and remove each and every chunk of his anatomy, one by one, and make him eat it. Because, he probably would do it without his help, anyway. He'd do whatever was in his power to ruin his life just as Cartman did for him - well, at least ruin his body. He couldn't even bear to look at Cartman's face anymore.

And he'd kill Kenny, too, if only he could stay dead.

"Swear. To God," Craig seethed, "if you play that song one more time..."

Dead silence.

A heap of relief fell over the restaurant.

"... What's new, pussycat? Wooooah, wooooah!"

Craig's fists flew into the table. "Goddammit!"

"Nah-ah-ahh, Craig," Cartman said, holding a quesadilla with one hand and wagging his finger with the other. "Care and kindness for the customers."

Craig pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

"Excuse me, sir? Sir?"

"Oh, look at that, Craig, you have business to take care of," Cartman said. He shooed him away with his free hand.

"Yeah, I'm coming," Craig said, and he left the table.

Kenny's hand reached for a french fry, and Cartman reached for the same one. Their hands touched, but it was a static shock of, "Bitch, that is my fucking french fry." They stared each other in the eyes for a quick moment before Cartman claimed the fry for himself. Kenny almost wanted to cry. Almost. But there were other fries in the stack.

"Where you sleeping tonight?" Cartman asked, with his mouth full. Full of Kenny's french fry.

"Where ever I crash."

"That's what you always say, fag."

"Because it's true."

Cartman chuckled. "I knew you'd end up like this."

"End up like what?"

"Like homeless, dick." He dipped another fry into ketchup, and mustard, and the ketchup again, and devoured it.

"I'm not homeless," Kenny argued lamely. He liked to consider himself the opposite. He had many homes. He lived in a different place every day. He was very lucky to have the homes he did. Stan's, Kyle's, his brother's, Token's sometimes, his brother's again, some chick he doesn't know. He never settled in one place. He was a traveler. Not homeless.

"Man, you don't have a fuckin' address. I'm pretty sure that's fuckin' homeless," Cartman said, shrugging and dipping his quesadilla into the sour cream, guacamole, and sour cream again.

"All my shit is addressed to my mom's."

"But do you stay there?"

"Well, I—"

"Do you stay there?"

"Listen—"

"Do. You. Stay there?"

"No, fuck you, dude!"

They reached for the same french fry again, and the second time their hands brushed, it was more of a static shock of, "Do you really want to go over this again?" They repeated the question in each other's eyes. Their hands twitched in unison, and the other grabbed it.

Cartman let him have it.

Shift was over at 4:30 for Clyde, and if he was hungry, he would waste no time driving to 57's. He'd normally go home to take a nap; otherwise Craig would accuse him of having the nature of a clingy boyfriend if he visited Craig at his job every day. He just liked the egg creams at 57's, and their burgers were mean mofos. He really wanted a cheeseburger. No time was wasted.

Well, maybe a little. He might have missed a green light or two just to sing some extra Lady Gaga lyrics, but that was it. Okay, so maybe he Facebooked a little, too.

Clyde Donovan is driving to 57's!

He thought all six of his friends needed to know.

He parallel parked Tits about a block away from the restaurant, due to the several trucks blocking off other spaces (parallel parking; one of the higher challenges in his life). He sashayed on into the restaurant upon hearing What's New, Pussycat. He knew where Craig was if he hadn't been waiting tables; he sat down enthusiastically on a shiny, red, spinny seat at the bar, one of his favorite parts of 57's (besides the suggestive vintage posters and photos of Marilyn Monroe). Craig was already there, pulling the good old washing-a-clean-dish trick.

"'Sup, man?" Clyde said.

Craig was about ready to cry. And Craig never cried. "Two hours," he said softly. "Two hours. Of... this."

Clyde blinked. "What?" Craig said nothing. He stared at the wall behind Clyde. Clyde looked behind him, expecting there to be a person or an entertaining occurrence, but no. Clyde tapped a beat on the table and began to mutter words. "I love you, yes, I do, you and your pussycat nose..."

"Of THAT!" Craig was screaming now. Clyde felt small. "Of this... ffuuuuhh—" Children walked by. "Freaking song."

"What, this one?" Yeah, what else? "I like this song."

"You like it once," Craig corrected, scrubbing the dish even harder. "You cannot. Cannot. Like it for two hours." He stopped. He gazed to his right, snapped back, and spoke to Clyde again. "You need something?"

"Yeah, burger?" Clyde requested, flipping out his Droid.

"Full price today, dickhead," Craig said, putting down the dish in front of Clyde. Clyde glared into the plate as Craig walked off. He could see his reflection in it, it was so damned clean. He felt a moment of self-pity, as the plate made him look kind of ugly, and nonetheless fat. He shouldn't have ordered a cheeseburger. How many calories is that, like, a billion? What would he do when he was bigger? Cartman's size, even? Who would be Clyde then?

"Hey, man, need the plate."

A voice broke his train of thought. Fortunately for him, at least. A larger, Filipino guy, nametagged "Joe," eyed him and the plate he needed. This is Fucking Joe?

"Oh, yeah. Sorry, dude."

"S'alright." Joe took the plate, and brushed Craig's shoulder as he came back with a single burger on a plate. He slid it carelessly on the table, along with a glass bottle of black cherry 57's soda.

"Burger's full price, drink's on me," he said calmly, rubbing his temples, eyes fluttering closed.

"Thanks, man." Clyde took a swig of the dark red drink, smacking his lips as the glass rim separated from his mouth. "Hey, Tom Jones finally shut up."

"We unplugged the jukeboxes," Craig said. "I cannot believe we didn't think of that before."

Clyde did nothing but shrug. He bit into his burger. The restaurant was quiet, but Craig's tired head was throbbing with repeats of the dreaded pussycat.

"Sing me a song," Craig demanded. Anything to get it out of his head.

Clyde swallowed. "Uh," he mustered intelligently, licking pieces of food between his teeth. "Hello, hello, baby, you called, I can't hear a thing... I have got no service in the club you see, see..."

"What, what, what did you say? Oh, you're breaking up on me..." Craig continued in a monotone, lacking rhythm, tiredly and almost reluctantly. He trailed off, and when Clyde continued the song, he didn't sing along. His fist was pressed against the side of his face as he gazed to the right again.

There was a truck. A couple of trucks, with boxes of who-knows-what. But, he did know who was schlepping them. Back and forth, for the past ten minutes, that spazzy blond kid who Craig did not talk about a lot, was moving boxes in and out of the coffee shop, one store away. There was a florist in between Tweek Bros. Coffee and 57's; Paul's Flowers.

To the shop and back, over and over and over, Tweek's pretty little arms were locked tightly onto a box that looked too big for him to hold. His small figure could have crumbled at any moment, schlepping those boxes of who-knows-what. Every time he went back for another box, still in his visor and apron, he looked relieved to let his arms loose for just a moment, until he was given another box heavier than the last. His legs always buckled as he held them. Why wouldn't anyone help him? There was one guy handing him boxes, but no one was going between the truck and the shop as much as Tweek - at least not in Craig's field of view, but Tweek was visibly sweating.

Craig released his fist from his face and trudged out of the restaurant. He stopped Tweek in his tracks and touched the box. "Hey, man, can I help you with that?"

Tweek let out a breath of relief. "Oh, Jesus, yes! Please, I, I mean I wouldn't want to cause any trouble for you, but I don't know how much more of this I can take," he said, taking off his visor and running his fingers through his near-yellow mess of hair. "Thanks so much..."

... Only that's what Craig imagined himself doing.

He could have sworn he done it. But, he was still just looking at Tweek, or checking him out, per se, though he preferred not to use such terms. And his cheek was starting to hurt, as well as his ears; Clyde was still singing Telephone.

And now, for Craig, everything hurt. Including his heart, which he also preferred not to say. Was it the heart, really? Or was it just the mind?

He hated getting philosophical.

But, he couldn't help himself at the moment.

Without looking at Clyde, he spoke. "Did you ever wonder," he said, "what, or... how... humans are programmed to respond to things?"

One of Clyde's cheek's was full. He swallowed again. "What?"

Tweek had stopped to talk to someone. Craig wouldn't dare look away. "I mean, like... as humans, aren't we supposed to... we're programmed to respond to stimulants. Kind of like animals. Like birds. Birds are programmed to respond to..." He stopped. "... Are you following me?"

"Uh, no, not really," said Clyde.

"Oh, that's okay. Just let me talk. Don't interrupt, I swear to God I'll confiscate your burger and charge you for ten sodas, deal?"

Clyde nodded.

"Okay. So... birds. Birds are programmed to respond to bright colors of feathers, or the songs of the birds of the opposite sex, 'cause they gotta get laid and lay some eggs eventually. We, as humans, you know, are not totally different from animals... I mean, evolution, man. We're monkeys. We're programmed to respond to certain stimulations, no matter what... like a certain type of person." He looked at Tweek, and the way he was so animated when he spoke. Craig sat up straighter and began to move his hands with his speech. "Blond with brown eyes, for example," he continued, "facial features, body type, even the sound of a voice or a smell or something. So, you're programmed to respond to the stimulant much like you respond to... to..." He glanced around for a moment, in hopes of coming to a sensible comparison. He looked at Clyde, then his eyes moved downward. "... A cheeseburger. The face, the smell, you respond by salivating, like, you want that cheeseburger, man. The cheeseburger looks delicious, and attractive, with its melty cheese, fresh beef and buns." Clyde was beginning to enjoy the burger even more; an unthinkable feat. "And you know it looks good, so you try it. You chew on it. And sometimes, it just doesn't taste so great... you know what I mean?"

Clyde didn't know what he meant, but he nodded anyway. That burger was delicious, but he agreed with Craig no matter what.

Clyde's phone dinged.

"Ooh!" he said, setting his half-burger down. "I think I got a friend request. From..." he opened the message. "Bebe? Dude, Bebe just—"

Craig took his phone and threw it over his shoulder.

"D-Dude, that was my—"

"I am talking," Craig said. "Anyway... You get to know your cheeseburger. You analyze the layers and condiments of the cheeseburger, what really makes that cheeseburger the cheeseburger you want. But cheeseburgers are fattening, no doubt, and besides the fact that they're fattening, they don't always taste so good. It's possible that although a cheeseburger may look good on the outside, its insides and components don't always apply to what you look for beyond the surface of your cheeseburger. So you may not finish your cheeseburger. You may hate a cheeseburger. And if you're lucky, you've got yourself a good cheeseburger - great on the outside and the inside. And you finish that cheeseburger. You make love to the cheeseburger, because it's your cheeseburger, and you love that cheeseburger like no other cheeseburger you'd ever encountered." He stopped. "Did that make sense?"

"All I heard was cheeseburger," Clyde said, shaking his head.

"Expected," said Craig. "Well, what I'm saying is that cheeseburgers, um, people, may look good on the outside, but that doesn't mean it, or, they are necessarily good people. Or good for you. Cheeseburgers aren't very good for you." He kept his eyes on Tweek, who now seemed to be holding light bags. Craig was glad that Tweek got to rest his strength. But God, did he wish he helped him. God, the things he wished he could have done. "Also," he said, "Cheeseburgers can look gross. They can be huge and ugly and dripping with all these fatty liquids. But then you should not underestimate the cheeseburger. It's more likely to taste better if it's layered with all these complicated things that make it up." He looked around the room again. Each time he looked away from Tweek, it was refreshing to look back. But then he looked farther to his right. A boy, not much older than Craig or Clyde, with his face in a book, glasses horn-rimmed and at the tip of his nose. The boy pushed them up as he reached for a small candy from a tin, and placed it in his mouth.

"Look at that cheeseburger," Craig said, pointing to the kid.

"What cheeseburger?"

"That cheeseburger."

"I don't see a cheeseburger."

Craig rolled his eyes. "That dude!" he hiss-whispered. "Does he look like an appealing cheeseburger to you?"

"Well, with his face in the book, I can't really tell or not..."

"Does he?"

"Well, ah, no, I wouldn't say so, I don't think..."

"But, if he doesn't look like a good cheeseburger on the outside, does that necessarily mean that he isn't a tasty cheeseburger?"

"Are we speaking sexually or metaphorically?"

"Metaphorically, I have been for the past five minutes."

"Well, I wouldn't judge him by how he looks..." Clyde said. He kept his vision fixed on the dark-haired kid. His hair very badly needed to be washed, and Clyde was a little close to asking him if he could taste one of those little candies he was snacking on. "He can't help how he looks."

"Neither can a cheeseburger," said Craig, picking up Clyde's cheeseburger between his fingers. "... Ew." He dropped it.

Craig looked back outside. The trucks were gone. So was Tweek.

"Whatever, dude," Craig said. "Have fun with your cheeseburger."

It was three in the morning. And there was a light on in the kitchen.

All that was going through Craig's mind was, "Dammit, Clyde."

The faint, flickering light from the refrigerator poked at Craig's eyes rudely. He pulled the blanket over his head and groaned.

Clyde's eyes felt stabbed from the sudden light. His eyes were red and exhausted, squinting into the fridge like an endless vortex of wonderful, glorious food. Only, he wished he could call it glorious. They were a bit lacking. Nothing had changed since that morning, not even the fact that Clyde felt the need to eat again. Maybe it was the accomplishment of actually getting himself from his bedroom to the kitchen, in the dark, that made him want to reward himself with food.

The fridge did him no justice, so he opened the cabinet. He narrowed his eyes and turned on the night vision that he didn't have. But, he was sure he did have food vision. He was able to process the last package of Easy Mac, glowing a godly light in the night.

He set up the container in the macaroni the way he memorized: Water filled to the line, put in microwave for three minutes on high.

When his three minute nap was up, the Easy Mac was boiling and watery. Hey, he thought, maybe it'll change when I put the cheese in. So, he poured the pack of powdered cheese into his macaroni soup and stirred thoroughly until smooth and creamy (said the instructions).

It was still soup. It didn't smell, nor taste, nor feel, like the Easy Mac he knows and loves. A flaming tube of macaroni trailing off his tongue, he muttered, "I think I missed a step."

Craig was already leaning on the kitchen doorway, arms crossed along his bare chest. "How do you miss a step cooking Easy Mac." Declarative, not interrogative. "It's Easy Mac."

Clyde hung his head in shame, and didn't say another word. Craig threw out the tainted Easy Mac and made Clyde a Celeste frozen pizza, the way it was supposed to be made. He put the perfectly cooked pizza onto a paper plate and put it on the table for Clyde to eat in peace. "Your majesty's pizza," Craig said.

Clyde smiled. "Thank you," he said softly, and sat in the folding chair. He then hesitated.

"What is it."

"There are sausages on this."

"So?"

"Sausages taste funny."

"Take them off."

"But it's hot."

"Wait for it to cool off."

"That'll take too long."

"Oh my fucking God."

Craig found it in his heart to remove each and every sausage for Clyde. He held the small, round sausages in his left hand, his palm getting coated in red sauce. He checked the pizza for any extra sausages, but Clyde confirmed that it was clear. ("They look like bloody turds," Clyde had quietly claimed, but Craig didn't laugh.) He heaved open the window with his right hand and, in one shot, chucked all the sausages beyond their territory.

"You're welcome."

It was four in the morning. And there was a light on in the bathroom.

All that was going through Craig's mind was, "Dammit, Clyde."

Okay, so, Craig didn't blame Clyde for having to go to the bathroom at 4 AM, but did he have to make so much noise? Now, Craig was glad Clyde didn't eat the sausages on the pizza. Because, this could have been much, much worse than it already was. Craig gripped the pillow and prayed to some God that he wouldn't have to get dragged into this again.

Clyde was half-asleep on the toilet. One arm was on the sink, and both of his eyelids felt heavier than shit.

Pun unintended.

He reached for the toilet paper, and he swore, he solemnly swore that he could do this without getting into some sort of trouble with himself, and he swore that he saw a jellybean.

It was, in fact, a chocolate-butterscotch jellybean, on the toilet paper roll. That's what it looked like. It was unmistakable. He didn't understand how anyone could have argued with him, because that's what it was. The only solid argument he could think of, was that jellybeans do not crawl.

He shrieked.

Pants around his ankles, for the second time in twenty-four hours, he ran out of the bathroom, ass exposed.

Craig shut his eyes tighter and prayed to whatever God that was on his side right now that he was dreaming and he would not open his eyes and see Clyde's ass.

Unfortunately, no God was on his side tonight.

"What happened this time."

"There's—there's a—crawling. Crawling jellybean."

"Crawling jellybean?"

Craig was very concerned that he knew exactly what Clyde was talking about. He brought Clyde to the bathroom with him (Clyde pulling up his pants in the process) and searched for the "crawling jellybean."

"Where did you see it?" Craig asked.

"On the... the toilet paper roll."

"Wait..." Craig spread his arms out, to shield Clyde. "Wait... Wait—IT'S ON THE FLOOR! I SEE IT! YOU LITTLE MOTHERFUCKER—!"

Clyde screamed again.

Craig attempted to murder the little bitch with his bare hands. "NO! NO! YOU, COME BACK, YOU WHORE."

Clyde was already out the door.

"YOU THINK YOU'RE BAD? YOU THINK YOU'RE COOL, MOTHERFUCKER? STOP MOVING. NO—NO, FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU." The roach already crawled between some cracks, and was nowhere to be seen. Craig scared it away. He knew he did.

Clyde had ran to the front of the apartment. He decided that if he had to escape, he'd best be closest to the door.

Craig emerged from the bathroom, brushing himself off. "I killed it," he said.

"Really?" Clyde said. "It's gone?"

"Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep."

Clyde frowned. His arms were open.

Craig was halfway into bed. "What."

The other smiled bashfully, and waved his arms slightly. "Bro hug?"

"What."

"Bro hug?" he repeated. "We're bros."

"Clyde, man, you really need to sleep—"

Clyde took him in his arms anyway. He squeezed tight, like a bro would. Craig didn't hug back. Clyde hugged even harder, and Craig surrendered him a pat on the back. Then his arms rose, and eventually, he experienced a hug. Hugs were okay. Hugs made everything seem okay.

Everything is okay.

but i'm too tired to go to sleep tonight, and i'm too weak to follow dreams tonight
for the first time in a long time, i can say
that i want to try to get better and, overcome each moment
in my own way.
i so want to get back on track... and i'll do whatever it takes,
even if it kills me.
-even if it kills me by motion city soundtrack