Pairing(s): Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak
Warnings: language, violence, slash
Disclaimers: I do not own South Park and everyone in it. I am not that imaginative, and I don't have enough nerve to use Jesus as a character. (Yes, I'm catholic.) These come from the fucked up minds of Trey Parker and Matt Stone. I also do not own that 'Teen Pop Sensation' that is Hannah Montana that is only mentioned once, so you should not worry. She is from Disney and I hold no hatred towards her, but since this story is to be narrated by Craig, he hates her. I also do not own the planets in our solar system. I have a phobia of night skies (Unless there are buildings or tall trees around me, that's fine) and the sea at night. It fucking kills me. These, however, are made by God.
Summary: There are a lot of things Craig hates, but none could compare to his hatred towards Tweek. He bullies him everyday and can't wait to have him gone for good. But even the hardest of hearts have a soft side for everybody. When will Craig find his for the Spaz? He wouldn't know, and he wouldn't care.
Author's Notes: Never thought you'd see a fic with Craig hating Tweek, did you? I'm sure I haven't! But little Tweekie lets him bully him. Want to know why? You'll see! Want to know why Craig hates Tweek? You'll see! It's stated in the first chapter, but the real reason, as he will find out, will be said in later chapters. One clue: The title. Go on and speculate! I still have no clue as to how to end this though. Will it become a CrEek? Will it won't? Well then, we'll all just have to wait. Maybe suggest some things too, will you? And don't forget to READ AND REVIEW, although I'm not forcing you to. Just encouraging. It will be greatly appreciated. This is my first South Park fanfiction, so if it isn't good, I apologize. This is a multi-chapter fic, by the way, but of course I think I've implicated that. See end notes for Further Author's Notes.
Chapter One: Consuming Thoughts that Kill Me
There are countless of things that I really hate. One of them is the whole idea of girls. Stereotypically speaking. Sure, some of them are hot and really dig me. I enjoy flirting as much as Clyde and Kenny do. It's the population of complete sluts who gossip non-stop and are mall-obsessed that tick me off. Especially "The List" issue 7 years ago in Fourth Grade. I mean—putting Clyde on top just to date him for free shoes? Bullshit.
And there's Wendy: the epitome of bitches. She eventually spilled the real list to Stan. Turns out I was the one on the top and Clyde was part of the bottom five. Didn't scar my ego, though Clyde's did. He stopped talking to me after that, but got over it the following week.
Another thing I hate is cake. It's like bread you slapped whipped cream, fruits and sugar on. That's disgusting. I especially hate cheesecakes. The cheddar cheese mom buys from the grocery store is bad enough as it is.
And don't get me started on Hannah Montana.
However, when you put all the things I hate together, it wouldn't compare to my abhorrence, my malevolence, my disdain to that one person I gag upon hearing his name.
It's like my hatred to all else is Pluto, and my loathe to him is Jupiter.
Well, with all that spazzing and twitching how could he not annoy you? And he shakes all the time like he's on crack, for god's sake! His paranoia drives me crazy! And so I bully him a lot—verbally and physically. And if I know any better, I'd say people are having a mental countdown of when I'd go stark raving mad and just kill him off.
I'm not that stupid. I'm still young enough for my parents to ground me for eternity.
All good things must wait.
Having said that, I should clarify: no, I have no problem with killing the spaz. The sooner he's gone, the happier my days will be. If only he was this little vulnerable worm so I could just squish it and grind its insides on the coarse concrete. I would die the happiest person in the world. Because the worst thing that has ever happened in my shitloaded life is meeting him.
And thinking of him is the worst way to start the morning especially when I'm nowhere near to being a morning person.
I slam my fist against some kid's locker—I need something to get his fucking name out of my head.
"Goddamnit!" I yell in the hallway as I stomp towards my locker. Oh yeah, like that would help.
And like a blessing from above, I find Clyde and Token standing at the area of my locker.
"Sleeping Beauty didn't like her prince?" Clyde asks with a wide grin.
I snort, fussing with the combination lock. "If that prince your talking about is that fucktard, I would have pranced around with flowers in my hair, his chopped up body in a basket." I furiously swing open my locker and grab my books. Fortunately, that thought calms me—the idea of chopping him up to bite size pieces. Finally, I now know how to murder him.
"Ew, man, that's sick." Token comments. A smirk graces my lips and I roll my eyes. Please, as if he didn't like Spaz. "Offer something better and crazier, because that is as sick as it can get and I love it."
"Yeah, I'm sure you're on top of the world," he says grinning.
"Not yet, I'm not," I say, leaning my back to the lockers. A group of girls giggle, glancing at us from time to time. I look at Clyde checking them out and I playfully punch his arm.
Clyde is a ladies man—and by ladies man, I mean he's their fucking sex machine. Besides Kenny, but no one can beat Kenny. He went out with all the girls in our batch and isn't afraid of going for us guys next. Clyde's straight and hasn't been with all the girls, but he's getting there. He won't let some kiddy list get to him—we're in eleventh grade now.
But what I hate in Clyde is that he doesn't fail to inform me explicitly of his night escapade with some whore. Like I would want to know what she screams or how amazing she is at giving blowjobs or how their fuck differs from the fuck some time ago or all the other shit. Even Kenny doesn't do that. But I'm pretty sure he enjoys it when he hears such story.
And so Clyde isn't around to hang out often. Sometimes it's just Token and I. But Token usually does his own thing—he wouldn't say what exactly. I've grown with that thinking of him: aloof, indifferent and comments on everything everybody does. Must have gotten the Rich Kid bug. Although he doesn't act all High and Mighty with his money, but he's pretty much stingy with it. He wouldn't even let me loan one dollar for a Strawberry Smoothie!
So most of the time, I'm on my own. I don't mind, though. I always find something to do. And I'm thankful for that. Because every time I'm alone, I think. I think about things that matter and things that don't. And usually, it all ends up in thinking about…Spaz. Ugh, I could just vomit now.
"Hey, babe," Clyde addressed to the girl currently gazing at him. She flips her hair to show off her bare shoulders. (She's wearing an off-shoulder top that looks disgusting.) "Hey, Clyde."
"Call me!" He says to her, winking. She giggles.
"Seriously, Clyde, you just had a fuck 2 nights ago." Token tells him with a disapproving look.
"And I'm not even breaking a sweat!" He chimes.
"Jesus Christ," I mumble, obviously amused at my cheerful friend.
"Goddamnit, Kenny!" I hear Stan yell somewhere at my left. I turn to look and watch their little show.
"Geez, Kenny, when you said you'd go after guys, you really meant it!" Kyle laughs.
Stan and those guys have kept a strong bond. I'm not sure how they met, and I think I don't care much but they're really curious—tolerancewise. Day after day, they would throw insults at each other, break into a Jew-VS-Fatass fight, and get each other in trouble and still they choose to hang out with each other. I just don't get it. And I don't plan to—I hate their group for countless of reasons. I think they got that message way back with the Pan Flute uproar.
"Kyle, he just grabbed my ass!" Stan screams at his friend who, now, is throwing hysterics.
"You're such a fag, Stan." Cartman comments, closing his locker door.
"Oh, and Ken isn't?!"
"Relax, babe!" Kenny laughs, slapping Stan's back.
Stan's the pussy in the group and quite a boring character. I bet Wendy went out with him back in elementary because he was a Football Jock. He still is now, but ever since Kenny had sex with her and said he was 10 times a better fucker than Stan, his world crashed and he dumped her. I think Wendy just tossed her hair and walked away without a care. I would say I feel sorry for Stan but—you guessed it!—I don't. So boo-hoo his messed up love life.
I don't know what to say about Kyle besides the obvious facts: he's a Jew, he's got cool hair now, and he's turned into a smart ass. You know that stage in life when you begin to feel conscious of your appearance? It was in Seventh Grade: when Kyle heard the pictorial for the yearbook will be some day the following week, he styled his hair like crazy. When he came to school the next day, he wasn't wearing his hat and he was beaming. His hair wasn't like some sick broccoli anymore—I can't even describe how it looked like. All I can say is that it was definitely better. And with the smart ass thing—his bitch mom hates him going out to parties or coming home late unless school-related or watching TV and fun crap. She'd rather he does his homework and, if he doesn't, read all his school books in advance. If he doesn't turn out Valedictorian, I don't know what his mom will do. He's missing out on a lot and that's just sad for him.
Cartman…is Cartman. Now fatter and more idiotic as ever. I hate him the most.
Kenny—ah, you know how Kenny is from my compare and contrast with him and Clyde. He doesn't hide his face anymore—I don't know why he used to, seeing that he's pretty hot. He's such a slut though, but that isn't much a surprise. Hot guys must make the most of their reputation—even I have a rep. Kicking Spaz's ass. Fuck, here we go again.
"Look at that, Clyde! Your hero's really going over the edge!" I tell him as I snicker. I had to say something to not think of that freak.
"He's insane." Token says.
"He's amazing!" Clyde exclaims. I laugh harder.
But all happiness drains away as a certain blond catches my eye. I tighten my fist and I scowl. He's fucking there. Carefully opening his locker door and taking out his morning books.
"Hey, Craig it's—oh," Token cuts himself off of whatever he was going to tell me.
Even Stan's group stares at him, then glance at me and I know they're giving themselves guesses of what I would do to the freak.
He closes his door, brushes his thumb down the numbers of his lock, drinks from his thermos then, hugging his books and papers, walks towards my direction. I smirk and stretch my leg forward at the right time and he trips, his books and papers flying everywhere and his face flat on the floor.
"That's the closest you can get to making out, klutz! Suck off the floor clean, fucktard!" I exclaim. Laughter resonates the hallway. He slowly rises to his knees and shakes violently, gathering his materials here and there.
I watch him and scowl again. He's taking too long. "Get out of my sight, spaz!"
He squeaks and hurries off, books and papers close to his chest. I smile in triumph. That's how it's like all the time. There were better mornings—when I engage in a fist fight. Of course it wouldn't be much of a fight if I'm the only one playing. He lets me hurt him—what a freak! But that's what makes me feel so good. Because he's a weak little freak constantly having to go to the school clinic which makes me see less of him. I'm not like the other guys who approach their victims to knock their head off, no.
Spaz asks for it. I whole-heartedly give it to him.
The school bell rings and everyone scurries off to their classes. And before I take off, I hear Stan mumbling: "Man, what a jerk."
He really is a fag.
To start off, I've hated Spaz ever since the fight in Fourth grade. He almost fucking destroyed my left eye and he tackled me back at the hospital when clearly any more fighting would result to something worse. He's such an idiot. And when I succeeded pinning him down to clobber him, a nurse comes in and fucking screams at me like I started the whole thing! I accused spaz, the bitch didn't believe me and stabbed me with a sedative!
I hated him after that. But that hate grew every time I laid eyes on his pathetic scrawny body, his shit excuse of hair, and his fucking spasms. And what is the deal about his lamely buttoned shirts? Is he trying to turn girls on? He's nothing close to attractive—maybe if I'm nice enough I'd give him a huge frikkin mirror and yell everything that's wrong with him. Plus his coffee intake. He's parents are idiots for thinking that'd help him out. Maybe I should raid his house when they're eating dinner and tell them to get their brains checked because obviously they're the cause of their son's misery.
Hm…I could do that. I'll go ask Token if I should. Oh, to hell with Token—he doesn't care what I do to the freak. And Clyde would rather that I go shower punches on the guy.
"Hey, Craig," Token says after putting his books back in his locker. Another boring day done to make way for another.
"Yeah?" I answer, tugging the side of my blue hat. It's become my trademark, besides my finger flipping, ever since I started wearing it, and since it isn't stretchable like Stan's or Cartman's and Kyle just happened to fix his hair up (or should I say down?) so his hat still fits him perfectly, it's starting to feel uncomfortable. I never knew you could grow out of a hat, and I don't wish to—this is my favorite hat. Oh well, I look better with my bangs showing anyway.
"I need to do something back home. Can't hang. Sorry." He replies.
"Nah, s'kay." I tell him. I watch him walk away. Great, no distraction from thinking of spaz. "Aww, fuck!" I yell, banging my head on the locker behind me because, as if I was telling some kids a bedtime story, I remember and narrate to myself what happened 7 years ago.
Author's Notes: Craig hates Tweek, yet he thinks about him all the time. Haha. Anyway, made Token the 'indifferent' one, since Craig's the bully here. Oh, and I didn't write Craig's school day experience, because it's nothing interesting. Don't worry, I'll be writing 'the next day' fully because something's going to happen in the morning. Oh, must not spoil it for you. Also, I'm not sure if it's in Fourth or Third Grade: the fight I mean. So I made it Fourth Grade. Craig's in Eleventh right now—or whatever is equivalent to 2nd Year of High School. I don't live in the US. We don't have Middle School.