This story is going to turn into a mass (6+) crossover soon, but for now it's all South Park.

And I tweaked the story to add Thomas, cause he rocks. But Craig/Garrison is still True Love™. :O



o3. Saturday Afternoon



Cartman was walking down the street, looking for puppies to kick to cheer himself up and take his mind off of his troubles (chief among them was that his pants felt tighter than they'd been yesterday), when he ran into Wendy, who was clutching a Wendy's bag.

"What are you want?"

"Cartman," she said very solemnly, "there's something I just have to tell you." She smoothed out the fast food bag and showed him the logo, looking dead serious. "You see, I am secretly the Wendy's mascot. I dye my hair and use face cream to conceal my real identity. But I am, and always have been, a ginger."

Cartman's world collapsed in on itself. He clutched his ears, afraid his brain would leak out (or more vile truths would leak in) if he didn't. Was this karmic retribution? God's divine punishment for a lifetime of sins, that he should unwittingly sleep with someone who was not only a hippie, but a ginger as well? Tears sprang to Cartman's eyes. He'd caught it, now. Soon his pubes would turn orange. Castration was the only way to stop it from spreading.

He noticed Wendy was laughing so hard her knees were buckling, and sneered. "You think this is FUNNY?!"

"Duh, I was joking," she said.

"Then... why do you have a Wendy's bag on you?"

"Duh, because I just had a Baconator and large fries. I've got the munchies hella bad."

"You're high," Cartman realized. He supposed he should have earlier; when were hippies not high?

Wendy giggled. "You sound so disapproving. What, you're too straight-laced to do drugs?"

Cartman smirked, recalling his hobby as a drug lord. "Pot only does two things: It makes you hungry all the time, and it makes you stupid. I'm already hungry all the time, and I can't afford to be stupid."

"Oh, me too!" Wendy said, ignoring the rest of what Cartman had said. "C'mon, lets go to the 8-Ten and get Oreos!"


"I'm sad

"Because Ike called my poetry bad


"That's brilliant," Henrietta said.

"I wrote it on the way over here," Stan bragged. "It only took me ten minutes."

They were huddled in a corner of the Moray Eel exhibit of Sea World. Henrietta had skipped out on her shift at the spray-on tattoo booth so that they could sneak away to the one part of the park that was always guaranteed to be empty. It was dark, except for the eerie light from the tanks, and Henrietta felt the lighting, along with the robust anguilliform shapes slithering in and out of holes, was the perfect mix of sensualism and hideousness that all goths strove for.

Stan, who'd been an animal lover from an early age, had thought only one thing when he'd first seen the moray eels: Those are some ugly motherfuckers. It was a small price to pay for a make out/grope session with Henrietta.

"You know what you need?" Henrietta said, stroking his lower back. "A tramp stamp."

"Mmm," Stan said in agreement, because he agreed with all the conditions Henrietta set for him, up to and including proving he was a "real" emo by making out with a guy. "Oh," he said, "I wrote a poem for you, too."

"Let's here it."

Stan cleared his throat, "I would sleep forever

"And slumber through an infinitude of night terrors

"For just one dream of you and I

"My sweetest nightmare."

"That," Henrietta said, "is the most romantic thing I have ever heard."

The make out/grope session intensified, but before it was able to lead to where Stan always prayed it would lead to, an intense beam of light was directed at them.

"The hell?" Henrietta grumbled.

"Park security," the man looming over them said, not moving his flashlight to a less retina-damaging position. "Move along, sirs."

"I'm a girl!" Henrietta snapped.

"Oh, excuse me. Move along, misses."

"I'm a boy!" Stan snapped.

The park cop swung his flashlight so that it was directly on Stan's face and squinted at him. "You trying to sass me, ma'am?"

"I am a boy!" Stan insisted. The next thing he knew, he got a face full of pepper spray."


"You're in violation of mocking park security, miss... I'm going to have to take you to park jail."


The whale arena was vacant because it was between shows. Ike sat down on the bleachers and began rummaging through his backpack, and Kyle immediately began to ignore him. Bebe was on the riser by the performing tank, wearing a wet suit and hosing out the buckets used for fish. Kyle climbed the stairs by the side of the tank and waved to get her attention; she looked up, smiled, and made her way over.

"Hey, Kyle, what're you doing here?"

"Chauffeuring," he replied.

"Aw. You didn't come to see me?" she pretended to pout.

"Well, you are the brightest part of my day," he said, recalling the horror it had been so far, with Stan and Ike getting into a slap fight over what to listen to on the radio on the drive over, Nickelback or Mindless Self Indulgence. Bebe smiled, but it fell when she looked over Kyle's shoulder.

"Hey, Babe!" an enthusiastic but far-way voice called.

"Ugh. Your friend is here," Bebe said. Kyle glanced back and saw that Kenny and Clyde were seated in the highest-up seats, eating cotton candy and trying to (in Clyde's case nonchalantly) check Bebe out. Bebe scowled at Kenny's pet name for her.

"They're not really my friends," Kyle said. It was true; Kyle didn't hang out with Kenny anymore, and he'd never really hung out with Clyde. In fact, with the exception of Kyle and Bebe, who were still shackled to Stan and Wendy, respectively, all the South Park students had traded in their circle of friends.

When Craig wasn't hounding his cast members or visiting Garrison in the hospital, he was Thomas' unofficial errand boy, doing his laundry, cleaning his pool, or squeezing his lemonade. Chris stalked Kenny and otherwise kept to himself, performing odd jobs from baby sitting to wire tapping for money. Token, who'd given up fighting stereotypes years ago and become the singer/bass player in a band with that tall goth kid and Red, was also the captain of the football team. Tweek, in a move that shocked everyone, had grown to be the tallest, scrawniest person in high school, and Token was determined to recruit him. While Token was as of yet unsuccessful, he, along with the tall goth who came into Tweeks for coffee frequently, had struck up an easy friendship with Tweek. Pip and Gregory had banded together to form the Anti-British Defamation League. People frequently send them teapots in the mail and chucked fireworks at their houses on the Fourth of July. When Cartman wasn't plotting by himself he spent time with Jimmy and Butters, and sometimes had Kenny provide labor at third world prices. And recently, of course, he'd been enjoying Wendy's company.

And so on.

"So, Kyle," Bebe said. "I'm done with fish duty at three. You want to, I don't know, get something to eat? With me?"

"Oh," Kyle said. "Uh, sorry. I'd love to, but I'm just so busy with the... play? Yeah, the play. Got no time for anything else."

"Oh, okay," Bebe said, he smile adopting a fake equality. Avoiding her eyes, Kyle looked over at Ike, and was shocked to see his younger brother was in the middle of aiming a harpoon.

"IKE! What the hell are you doing?!"

Ike lowering the harpoon and looked over innocently. "I'm trying to get my whaling badge for Jewbilee."

"What? We are going right now!" Kyle shouted, more than a little glad for an excuse to leave.

"Aw-aw-awww," Ike whined.


Clyde had talked Kenny into going to Sea World because he'd hoped the dancing taco was there.

The dancing taco, which Kenny was convinced had been a hallucination of Clyde's, had been a man in a giant taco suit advertising outside the park's Mexican food place. Of course they hadn't seen it, and after a little while of hopefully searching, Clyde had conceded defeat and bought Kenny cotton candy for his trouble.

Kenny knew he ought to be on a bus to Shelbyville by now, but he didn't want to leave without checking out Bebe in her wet suit. He reasoned that as long as Cartman didn't see him, no harm would come from being a few hours late.

"What the hell is up with Kyle?" Clyde mused. "Hot girls are always hitting on him and he never appreciates it."

Kenny shrugged. "He is Jewish."

Clyde sighed a little. He resented Kyle for the ease with which he talked to girls—Clyde was always terrified to do it, not only for his paunch, but for his tendency to slip into his own jargon if he got to comfortable. The result was he either responded in boring one-word answers that turned girls off, or he babbled incoherently, which also turned girls off.

Clyde almost wished he were gay. Then he and Kenny could just screw and he wouldn't be burdened by his virginity anymore.

"Let's go," Kenny said, after Bebe shot a glare at them and resumed washing out the fish buckets. "Fish guts don't do it for me."