Things My Boyfriend and I Have Argued About

A/N: Well, I suppose this just goes to show that planning ahead is an utter waste of time. Really and honestly this being late is brought to you by me failing grade eleven (in all probability) and my mother's racist boyfriend. Bah, whatever, it's only a day late, but I did want to post it on Matt and Kyle's birthday, sigh.
The quote for this chapter isn't from the book, because by this point I'd had to return the book to the library (so getting it out again in a few months so it'll seem fresh and witty). It's actually from the original website, which you can get to by just typing in Mil's full name and adding a dot com at the end, simple as that. Really, it's as funny as bash, and that's bash dot org for you retards who aren't up to date on geeky humor.
Dedication: For eksley05, the superbestfriend. Remember: One day we will have Matt and Trey in a basement and they'll totally fall in love with us. We're just that charming.
Warnings: If you're 13 plus, enjoy, if you're 12 or younger, don't let your parents see, eh?
Pairing(s): Kyle/His Job, Stan/His Emotions and Them/Each Other.
Disclaimer: I'm going to begin digging my way into Kyle's bedroom

Part III: In The End
"What on earth...I mean, Sweden's famous for three things: herrings, suicide and pornography. What do you expect me to buy for you, exactly?"
--Mil Millington

It would be a lie to say that the time between when Stan and I got home from my parents' house and the following Monday when the entire media world wanted to hear what I had to say passed without incident. It would be the truth, of course, to say that nothing extremely good or bad happened, though. For the most part I was just constantly reminded of a few things:

1. TSR has or had deep-seated emotional problems. I say 'had' just because on Thursday a rumor was sweeping campus that he had been caught in a Kansas gas station and gunned down by the FBI. The fact is, after going through most of the drawers of his filing cabinets, Christophe and I were unable to determine what the hell we were supposed to do and, oddly enough, we had decided TSR was a kleptomaniac, because half the shit in the drawers was not his. More accurately, half of it belonged to my boss's pretty blonde secretary upon further investigation.

2. Christophe is suspicious as fuck. I knew that from the start - what are the odds of him, of all people, being the member of the Unione that I end up working with? I was ready to write it off as something gay and lame, like destiny, but more and more it had just been seeming...contrived. Part of it was because of his answer when I asked, "So why's it taken you this long to actually become a member? Is it because you have to be a certain age or something?"

He responded by saying, "Et's, ah, a long process, really long, zey 'ave to test you and all zat. Yeah, long process. Zat's what et iz." Like I said: suspiiiiicious.

3. Cartman is an insufferable asshole/douche bag/closet case. Not that anyone didn't know that, but I'm reminded of it a lot. I suppose some people aren't aware of this fact, at least not these days, nothing he's done has been on the news, not since all those pyromania incidents in seventh grade. A good way to illustrate this is to go back to the time we went to Las Vegas a few years back. You really don't know how annoying it is to be in a car with Cartman for two days straight. Give him a fucking tape recorder and you're essentially an accomplice to your own murder. Just listen:

"Day one, a little after eleven in the morning. There's a lot of tension in the air., it's tension. It could be fear, seeing as Kyle's driving, I know I'm afraid for my life. Whoa, Jesus, dude. It should be known that throwing things in confined spaces, such as cars, is not advised. Just something to keep in mind. Kenny is texting his boyfriend. Oh, sorry, Butters. Only we all know it's the same thing, so.

"Day one, half past ten at night. Kenny is either asleep or dead, but it won't matter in the morning. If he is dead I would guess he died from asphyxiation due to the hot air that both Jewboy and his boyfriend have been exuding since their daily fight. Today it was about where we were going to eat dinner, followed up with a small tiff about whether or not to stay somewhere for the night. When will Kyle realize we should just drop Stan and Kenny off on the side of the road and get married in Vegas? Just kidding, I hate you Kyle.

"Day two, almost one in the afternoon. It turns out that Kenny wasn't dead last night but, as I prophesied, it was pretty much the same thing as when he dies. No one noticed or bothered to wake him up. He just got done yelling at us because he missed all of his beloved's text messages. Stan seems to have been contemplating killing his boyfriend for the past ten minutes. Kyle, on the other hand seems to have been contemplating killing all of us for the past ten minutes. I'm happy to see he's ready to join the cause, although it will mean suicide on his part."

4. Kenny is so odd. So...spontaneous. what the fuck inducing. I mean, he's done weird things before, but I walk in to have lunch with him and Wendy on Wednesday and...and they're sitting there with Butters Stotch. I haven't even seen Butters since eighth grade when his parents switched him over to the Catholic school in Fairplay. I knew Kenny still talked to him and all, I never questioned that, he's free to talk to who he wants to. The thing is, Kenny figures if Butters dresses up like a girl again, like he did back in fourth grade, he can totally pass him off as his girlfriend from Canada.

And that's weird, but what's weirder is that Butters is totally okay with the idea.

What the fuck?

5. My family is a lot of things and while they happily aren't telepathic, they might as well be, since they've somehow managed to figure out that what I said at dinner wasn't just offhand sarcasm. My mom called on Friday, telling me how she was just worried sick about me, asking if I thought this serial killer fellow, this THK, was he going to come back to the university and murder everyone? Because if I did, it would be in my best interest to wear colors that blended in with the decor of the Learning Center, so I could hide from him easier.

And I repeat: what the fuck?

6. Everyone in the known universe, meaning Craig's universe, meaning him and Tweek, has made it their mission in life to make my life a living hell. They are succeeding, always will be succeeding, never won't be succeeding, etc. et. al. I don't want to implicate myself in murder, but well. If Craig says one more thing about how me getting a haircut could very well improve my love life or it Tweek, coerced by his boyfriend no doubt, mentions the possibility of kids, well, there may very well be a double homicide case for the police to solve.

Somehow, despite relaying this to them multiple times, the only results are Tweek freaking out, getting easily comforted by Craig - the only person in the known universe able to manage that feat - and then myself being told that Craig knows someone that could totally kill me with a shovel. Right, I'd like to see him try. Fucking douche bag with his empty threats.

I've also been viciously reminded of something about Wendy, but we'll get to that soon enough. Now that you've seen my last days of personal freedom in a nutshell, well, let's see them end.


I fall out of bed gracefully and, for a moment, just lay there in the ground, amidst pop cans and dirty clothing, thinking about my life. After that dramatic time is over I get up, give Stan his warranted glare for the morning - fucker sleeps through everything and anything when he wants to - and head to deal with what woke me up. I grab my cell phone on the way to the door and look at it expecting maybe a missed call and a text or two. Instead...instead I think that maybe my number got mixed up with someone who has a social life. My phone proclaims:

28 Missed Calls, 49 Text Messages.

It occurs to me that not only is there someone knocking on our apartment door, there seems to be someone talking, and not in the 'open up right now or I'll torch the place' kind of way, I mean in the way that a news reporter might talk to a camera, with no one talking back. That's...certainly odd. And yet I'm tired and pissed off that I'm awake so early on a day when I don't have to go into work, classes later sure, but this is a sacred day off, this is not a day where I was to wake up before noon.

So I'm just a little bit alarmed when I open up my door, groggy and bitchy, and find - how about that - a smiling woman I know as a news reporter from Channel 9 accompanied by, what else, a camera and the man behind it. "Hello," she says, like it's not six in the morning, "I'm from Channel 9, would you mind answering a few questions?"

"About...what?" I manage to mumble through my confusion and exhaustion.

She cocks her head to the side and lets out a tiny giggle that she possibly means to be comforting. I wince. "I think you know what I want to talk about, Mr. Broflovski," she says, her smile expanding to make her eyes into near slits. "And, truth be told, we," she says, nodding to the camera man, "would be much pleased to have the story before, excuse my language, those Channel 4 bastards get to you. They're vicious, not like us at all."

"Oh," I say, staring at her. She somehow manages to make her smile even broader. "Um, no thanks." It takes plenty of effort on my part to slam the door as she screams that I'm violating the people's rights to know what in the fuck is going on. I'm mildly scared that she's going to sneak into the apartment through the windows to claw me to death with her French manicure nails, so I lock every entryway I can and then make my way back into the bedroom.

Stan's still fast asleep. I kick him off the bed and drift off while he grumbles something about a good dream involving Brad Pitt. He better fucking mean that Brad Pitt was beating him up Fight Club style. And if he doesn't, he's going to wish he does.


When I finally wake up it's five minutes after noon and I am happy because of it. Stan is in the living room, watching a soap opera. You might think, ah, because it's a Monday afternoon, not much else on, right? Ha, wrong. Stan won't say it, of course, I doubt he even admits it to himself. But he loves those shows, he mopes around when his favorite characters die and gets energized when it turns out they're alive again. So naturally he makes an effort to look bored when I walk out of the bedroom after getting ready, but he's not fooling anyone, he loves that cheesy drama, the first step is admitting it to himself.

"Well, I'm going to class," I say, distinctly, with a little cough. "If, by any chance, any reporters come by or if someone calls you and asks you about me, just say I'm..."

"In class?" he asks, not looking away from the television.

"Dead," I decide. "Just tell them I'm dead. That I've died in a freak accident and no one can ever reach me ever again, not even by séance."

"Will do," he confirms. He, of course, probably does not really realize what he's just agreed to do. But he will think of it once I've left and do a double take far too late.

"Oh, also," I add, "you should vacuum today. Just to - "

"I refuse to vacuum," he says, vehemently, turning to glare at me. "Honestly, I'm not going to do everything you tell me to. If you want someone to vacuum, you do it yourself." And I'm sure you thought he just wasn't listening to me. Nah. Telling people I'm dead? That's probably fun for him, doesn't take much thought. But vacuuming? How dare I even suggest he do such a menial task.

"Well," I reply, sweetly, smiling, "how about I tell you that you will vacuum, or else I'll call up your mom and tell her that we really ought to go over there for dinner sometime. You know, like a certain someone did to me two weeks ago just because I spelt their name wrong on their taxes. Their taxes, the taxes that I did for them, need I remind...them."

"You've known me since preschool," he hisses. "How can you not know how to spell my last name? Look at your last name for fuck's sake, if you can remember how to spell that, how can you not remember how to spell my last name? It's practically a common English word!"

"I'm not arguing about this, I'm not," I say, more to myself than to him. "You are going to vacuum. I am going to come home and you are going to have vacuumed and, yes, you might miss out on who Chandler is dating on your show, but oh well. The apartment will be clean."

"Chandler is from Friends, Kyle," he says, like that's the most serious, most important thing for him to say right now.

"Vacuum," I reply and, with that heartfelt conversation over, I leave.


"Do you ever wish," I ask Wendy in a hushed tone, "that you could go somewhere far, far, far away from everyone else in the entire world and just stay there for a few weeks? Not forever, just a few weeks. And then you could come back and see if things were better and if not..."

"You could then go back and stay there forever, getting away from things like this once and for all," Wendy completes my sentence without even looking at me. "So many times Kyle, so many times. You're forgetting that I've had most of the same experiences as you. We've both beaten up Cartman. We've both dated Stan. We both grew up in South Park. Believe me when I say: I know what you mean."

"Why don't you just move away then?" I squint my eyes at the same thing she's looking at. "I mean, Jesus, Wendy, your parents give you more than enough money. You wouldn't even make as much if you were a prostitute. And they get paid really damn well."

"You know, my dad told me once that that's the exact reason they pay for all my stuff," she tells me, meeting my eyes for a minute and nodding. "Yep. His exact words were, I believe, 'we had a conversation about how much you could make in a month and added a hundred dollars to it, all so you wouldn't be tempted.'" She pauses. "Should I be offended that they thought I would only make seven hundred a month? Because that's what they thought if he was telling the truth. Unless he was counting the bills, I didn't even think of the bills, but those vary month to month, so how could they have guessed at that?"

"I think you should just be happy they give you money in the first place," I offer, amicably.

"I guess I should," she says, slowly, then she looks across the table, "but I just can't when they're doing...that. I just can't be happy about anything at all."

We both watch as Kenny and Butters figure out the exact past of their 'relationship.' So far, as it turns, Kenny's Canadian girlfriend dabbles in the occult, but nothing too serious or crazy, like talking to dead people. She was using tarot cards the predicted she would meet her true love in Colorado, and being a romantic she came here and met Kenny who, in a twist of fate, fell over her suitcase full of cleaning products and almost died. It's a romantic story if I've ever heard of one, now they're just trying to figure out a name.

"Why won't Marjorine work?" I had asked them at one point. They looked at me like I was deeply disturbed.

"Because," Kenny had replied, "that's no fun. That's the best we could do in fourth grade, Kyle. I think we can do better now."

So far they've thought of Kelsey, because it sounds 'like a really Canadian-ish name.' I don't really say anything to them after that; it seems there's absolutely no reasoning with them. I do, however, ask myself a few times, why I decided to actually meet them for lunch before class instead of making the smart decision of just going somewhere far, far away, as I was discussing with Wendy.

Don't get me wrong, though, as much as I feel - well, uneasy at best, about this whole thing, I'm trying to be okay with it. Which means I've talked to Butters once and also that I'm really, really scared to again. And I know what people are thinking, 'But, Kyle, you're the epitome of manliness, and Butters – people call him Butters, so if you're scared to talk to him what hope is there for the human race, you handsome, wonderful, amazing male, whom every man should base their hopes and dreams on.' There should probably be a question mark in there somewhere, but you get my point.

Wendy has to leave because class her class is starting in an hour and she doesn't want to lose nerd points for only being half an hour early. I am not a nerd - well, mostly - so I am physically unable to head to class until I'm going to be five minutes late. This is awkward enough, but then Kenny goes to the bathroom and I'm left sitting with Butters in complete silence for a good minute.

"So," I finally say, "how have, um, you been?"

"I've been alright," he replies with a shrug. You know what's really scary about him now? He sounds fucking normal. I mean, when we were kids he kind of had stuttering problems and all that, like an accent. That's what I always thought, at least, but his next sentence makes me reconsider. "My parents got divorced and all, so I told my dad I wasn't taking his shit any more. Normal stuff." Yeah, maybe the reason Butters was like that as a kid was because we made him that way. "By the way, you haven't seen Cartman recently, have you?"

"Sadly," I mutter under my breath. "He's going to U of C, actually, somehow. I don't know how - wait, did you just call him Cartman?"

"I'm not going to validate him by calling him by his first name," he explains, calmly. No, wait - seriously. No some emotion I've never ever seen, nor expected to see on him. Oh, fuck. He says it confidently.

"Um, good for you," I manage to mumble after a few seconds. "But, uh, yeah. He has classes on Mondays and Wednesdays, every other Friday. Which I only know because Clyde and Token hacked into the grading system to see if he was failing all of his classes or not. And surprisingly, he's not." I don't mention the fact that Clyde totally made fifteen bucks off of me and Token because he was the only one who said he would be passing at least two of his classes. Token said he was failing all of them. I bet it was all a government ruse and Cartman only existed to make my childhood hell.

"That's not surprising," Butters says, narrowing his eyes. "He's smart, he just usually - or at least, he used to usually only use his intelligence for stupid things."

"Butters he's studying European History just because he knows, at some point, they will be getting a lecture about Nazi Germany," I inform him. "Yes, he's smart, but he's a sociopath who gets off on anti-semetic propaganda. There's a fine line between a normal smart person and...and a...Cartman. He's in a category all his own."

Butters seems to consider this, then shrugs. "It doesn't matter anyway, I'm going to kill him when I see him. I feel totally justified in my plans to do so."

I believe I have just suffered my fourth heart attack by the time Kenny comes back to the table and asks Butters if he's ready to go. Before they leave, though, he looks back at me and raises his eyebrows, grinning. I smile back weakly. Yeah. Yeah, I guess I can see why Kenny wants Butters as his Canadian girlfriend.

For a few minutes I just sit there in silence until I realize: shit, I need to tell Cartman.


It is no secret that I hate Cartman. It is no secret that, at times, I have prayed to God - though I don't even think there is one - that he may be struck dead in some haphazard accident or find himself stranded in Israel, though I doubt he would see the irony in that. It is really, honestly, no secret that if I had my way Cartman would probably still be in Somalia right now. You get my point.

Now what is a secret is that I like talking to Cartman. Sometimes. On occasion. And not for more than a few minutes. Because, for all of the growing up he's never done...well, he's done some. He's tolerable at least, if you take him in doses of a few minutes at a time. I'm pretty much deaf to all his insults after all these years and, really, there are some things that no one else seems to comprehend but Cartman. In another, far off - far, far off - distant, paradoxical world where up is down, we might have been friends.

And so, with that in mind, know that I am not going to tell Cartman that Butters wants to kill him. If Butters can manage it, more power to him. But it's plain to me that only Cartman will get how weird this whole confident Butters thing is. Kenny's obviously enjoying it. Wendy's a girl so she'll find some stupid excuse, like he got a girlfriend, to justify it. Stan is Stan so he'll find some stupid excuse, like he got a girlfriend, to justify it. Craig might get it, but he'll run off and try to find out what's happening and just make things weird and awkward for everyone but him. Tweek would either faint on the spot or, worse yet, he'd be inspired and we'd somehow end up with a normal Tweek, which is just wrong.

Cartman has to get it, I'll murder him myself if he doesn't.

I manage to get past the ring of reporters that seem to be surrounding the entire university campus. The scary part is, I have the feeling they're looking for me. Especially since everyone glares at me when I get into the Learning Center. It's not exactly my best entrance ever, either, since I trip over a chair while distracted by the raw animosity emanating from everyone in a ten foot radius. Luckily enough Clyde pulls me out of the lion's den and into the room where he and Token work out of.

"Dude," he says, slowly stepping away from me. "Dude, um. Why are you here?" Normally Clyde either looks indifferent, pissed or ready to cry. At the moment he looks worried, or maybe apprehensive. It's nerve-wracking; he's not allowed a third emotion.

"What this idiot is trying to say," says Token from across the room, "is why are you here when you should be hiding out in Brazil? You're pretty much the most hated man in Boulder at the moment. Once all the major news shows come on tonight, not even the most liberal of liberals will want anything to do with you."

I say, "But...but...why?" in a voice that is, decidedly, not a whine.

"Why?" Clyde hisses in a strained voice. "Why? Because the funding for the university is falling out. Because the school might have to close. Because - because it's all your fault!"

"Someone found out about everything, dude," Token says in a low voice. "I mean, everything. Somehow it's all out. How the university has ties to the Unione Corse and the drug trade. The fact that, yeah, that totally was an Indian burial site the contractors dug up and disregarded. Not to mention that they caught TSR and, um, for whatever reason he says you're the one to blame. Turns out he was wanted for planning murder and drug charges. Three guesses as to who he was planning to murder and the first two don't count."

"You," Clyde mouths at my utter confusion.

"Me?" I whimper in a pitch dogs in Japan can probably hear.

"TSR...he, well he," Token says, struggling with how to explain the whole thing. "He hates everyone. Ever. But you, for whatever reason, struck something in him. He deplores you. I think he once called you the whiniest bitch to ever walk the planet." I wouldn't bet on it, but I have the distinct feeling that, in some way, Token is actually enjoying telling me this.

"But he never - I don't get why though, why he would want to kill me," I tell them, eyes wide. "I didn't think TSR liked me, he doesn't like anyone except for maybe that blonde secretary and his kids. But I didn't think he hated me. Not enough to kill me. I don't think I ever really did anything to him. Oh my God. Oh my God, wait, I spilt coffee in his office the first day here."

"Really he was planning on taking most of us out," Clyde explains to me in a soft voice. "It's just that, I guess, in his plan he specifically stated you. Like you were enemy number one or something. And let's face it, Kyle, we're talking about Terry Scott Russell, he didn't need to have anything all that personal against you. Chances are you were just the unlucky son of a bitch who did something wrong just as he was about to snap."

"That's why I was always nice to him," Token adds, "just in case this sort of thing actually happened. I hear he specifically said he wouldn't shoot us techies. Good man, that TSR."

"How do you know all this shit?" I moan, weighted down by it all.

"It's on the news, dude," Clyde says, sounding apologetic. "That's why we thought you weren't going to show up today. They're out to talk to you. The police will probably be showing up soon. Whoever informed them - they're saying it was one of the French mafia guys - somehow knew about everything. And TSR is vouching that you're behind it all. I don't want to believe it, but as far as they're reporting, Kyle, you are in some serious shit."

"He's telling the truth," Token confirms when I look at him. "It's really best that you get out of here, go home and maybe stay there for a few years until this all blows over. Whoever this Unione Corse guy is, he'll be using this to ensure he isn't put in jail for his involvement. And TSR is probably doing the same thing, although you serving time will be a bonus for him no doubt."

"But I didn't even do anything!" I cry, pulling at my hair. "The contractor said TSR authorized the whole thing, that I wasn't going to be involved no matter what. And my boss told me TSR used to work with the French mafia so I have to - I have to kill him. I have to fucking murder Christophe." Clyde and Token are looking at me like I'm crazy. "The Unione Corse guy I was working with - he's the only one who could have done all this."

"Christophe," Clyde says, "why does that sound so familiar?" For a second I think they somehow remember the war, but then Token makes an odd connection.

"The guy at the coffee shop," he says, suddenly. "The one Craig and Tweek go to every morning. The guy that works there, his name is Christophe. Craig's on pretty good terms with him, says Tweek's scared to death of him though. You don't think it's the same guy, do you?"

I try to picture Christophe working in a coffee shop. "He has the whole condescending douche bag attitude down," I concede, "but, well, just, God no."

"Look," Clyde says, "like I told you, I believe you. Now," he adds after I glare at him. "What I'm saying tell him what I'm saying."

"He's saying," Token sighs, "that you seriously need to get out of here. Like, now. No killing of French people. Nothing like that, just go home and stay there. Unless the police come. Then you should probably, really leave."

"Okay," I say, going to leave the room, "right after I find Cartman." I decide to ignore them yelling after me.

I, oddly enough, find Cartman in my office. He nonchalantly greets me and I do the same.

"So I hear you're wanted for a multitude of crimes," he says, cheerfully. "I didn't think you were going to show up, so I took the liberty of using one of the computers in here. I knew you wouldn't mind." I shrug and make a non-committal noise without thinking much, sitting down in the chair next to him. "Uh, Kyle? You're kind of supposed to bitch at me now," he says after a moment, sounding uncomfortable.

"And, see, here's the thing," I say, slowly, "I would be. By all accounts, I should be. But right now all my hate is concentrated on killing a French guy and mostly I'm just worried about whether or not I'll get caught for that. There was something I wanted to tell you but I have no idea what that was. I just had to get the fuck away from Clyde and Token."

"So you came to talk to me?" he asks, skeptically.

"It makes no sense to me either," I reply. "Except, oh yeah, guess who was with Kenny at lunch."

"Butters," Cartman says, simply. I manage to scoff before he continues, "I'm Kenny's friend too, Jewboy. I probably know more about what's going on that you do."

"I hate you so, so much," I say, indifferently to the wall.

"I know," he says with a sigh. "But if you go to jail things will be way too boring around here. So you should go home or something. Not hang out here, where everyone's waiting for you to show up to class. Because it's way more interesting to pick you up at the school you're royally screwing over than at home."

"You don't want to hang out with me?" I ask, feigning dejection. "I know you hate me and all, it's mutual, but we could sell heroin from the Unione Corse together, check out the dead bodies at that burial site. Your definition of a good day."

"Uh, hey guys, having a good time?" Craig saunters - I kid you not - into the room, Tweek following him nervously.

"Awesome," Cartman replies, flatly.

"You know us, so much fun when we're together," I add in monotone. Then I remember, "Does a guy named Christophe work at the coffee shop you guys go to?"

"Yeah," Craig says, nodding. "He's so fucking cool dude. He's ace at lying. Totally had Tweek believing he'd murder him if he didn't finish his third cup of coffee. Said it was against his religious principals. Naturally I threatened to return the favor, but he was totally lying straight-faced the entire time. Wasn't he, Tweek?"

"Yeah," Tweek says with a small smile. "Sometimes he almost m-makes me have a heart attack." There's silence. "But he's really funny," he adds, quickly, twitching under all our stares.

"He wouldn't be...he wouldn't be really tall and brunet and French, by any chance," I say, tentatively, "would he?"

"I would." Christophe is standing in the doorway, much like he was just a week ago. He laughs weakly. "I guess, ah. Hmm. I guess I saw zis coming in ze near future." Craig is looking between us, confused as hell, totally ready to say something he thinks is witty but that no one else wants to hear in an loud voice. He's not unlike Dane Cook in that respect.

"Oh, well, that's good," I say, "that's very good, Christophe. In fact, that is awesome. Because you must have known that you were going to have to explain the fuck out of this situation." He opens his mouth to say something. "Ha, you wish. Craig get the fuck out. That means you too, Tweek. Cartman, feel free to stay if you want the cops to be searching for your body parts for the better part of the next month."

It's probably not even a second later that I'm alone with Christophe. I must be more pissed off than I know.

"Explain," I command him. Yes, command. In another life I see myself ruling a foreign country with an iron fist. Russia, I think. Very possibly as Peter the Great. Not that I've thought about it before or anything. It's just an educated guess formulated from a few sleepless nights when I was really bored and had some hours to kill.

"Ze zing iz," he says, reaching back towards the door handle, for comfort, I suppose, "all of zis iz my fault. Not all of et, let me rephrase. I am not a member of ze Unione Corse and I am never going to be."

"Yes, I figured that one out on my own. It seemed rather obvious, unless they're in the habit of working in coffee shops part-time," I say drily. "Don't tell me things I already know, got it?"

He nods, quickly and looks around nervously, before relaxing against the door slightly. "I was supposed to get a job 'ere. Zat's why I was looking for Terry, zey told me to come 'ere and talk to 'im about getting a job."

"There aren't any openings though," I say, sharply. "You aren't even a student here."

"Eh, well, actually," he says to the ground.

"Ah, you are," I say, closing my eyes for a moment. "I didn't even - I just assumed. Fuck."

"So mostly zis could be considered your - " I glare at him. "Like I said, all of zis, et's my fault. I just - I zought et would be fun, you know?" He laughs for a second time, which means I now have the right, in my opinion, to punch him twice. "I do not know. Et's just, I figured I would tell you at ze end of ze first day."

"Only you didn't," I say, "and so it makes me wonder - a few things actually. First off, why? Second off, holy fucking shit, why? And third, why do you know so much about the French mafia - or was all of that just made up? And finally, finally, Christophe, because I really doubt it was you now, why the fuck is there an actual member of the Unione Corse out there who knows everything about what's going on here?"

"Ah, well," Christophe murmurs, looking up at the ceiling, "let's see. Why, I do not know. 'oly fucking sheet why, when you put et zat way...I suppose because et was fun. I do not like et 'ere, I 'ave lived 'ere most of my life. I liked being around you, zat's why. I can answer your last two questions quite easily. I 'ave a bruzzer, and 'e, unlike moi, iz a member of ze Unione Corse."

"Oh right, that totally explains why he's out telling everyone everything," I hiss. "Tell me, Christophe. Is it hereditary? You two being douche bags? Are your parents douche bags too? Does it go back generations? Because if it does I might be able to understand this. Then it wouldn't all be your fault. You wouldn't be a douche bag by choice."

"We," he begins, then pauses and thinks for a moment. "I am not a douche bag. My bruzzer, I can see why you would zink of 'im as such. Jordy just 'as a bit of a need for attention. Et's, really, ze reason 'e joined ze Unione in ze first place. Et's a psychological need as ze first child, to prove 'imself."

"You learned that yesterday in your Psych class, didn't you?" I ask with a sign.

"Non," he replies, glaring at me. "I learned et last week."

"God, they wouldn't even let you in the fucking mafia if you wanted to join," I mutter. "Okay, let me get this straight. You come here, looking for TSR to give you a job." He nods. "I am going to assume TSR wanted to give you my job. As it turns he hated me and wanted to kill me. Regardless, you come here and I, having no reason to think otherwise make the assumption - because my boss had just told me he was going to send in someone from the Unione Corse - that it was you. However, you,, end up lying to me and convincing me that you're the guy I'm supposed to be talking to. And I'm going out a limb here, but the person I was supposed to be talking to was your brother."

"I believe you people say somezing stupid like 'Bingo?'" he says with a smile.

"Only when we're revealing stupid plot points," I agree. "So, then, your brother can't be happy with this."

Christophe holds up a hand. "If I may," he says, "no, 'e was not at first. But zen I told 'im zat if 'e told me what I should be telling you, zen I would tell 'im what I found out was going on around 'ere. Admittedly, I kind of wondered why 'e wanted to know. And it quickly became obvious zat 'e wanted to know so zat 'e could tell people 'oo would pay 'im for ze information...and put 'im on the television. It was actually sort of fun to see 'im on ze news, telling zem - okay, I will shut up now, oui?"

"If you have any sense of self-preservation, you will," I tell him through a forced smile. "Goddammit. Why couldn't you have just asked me to hang out or something? Your brother is making my life suck far more than usual. And so, by default, I blame you. I blame you and my boss and that stupid fucking contractor. And most of all TSR. Fuck, I fucking hate him." I end my tirade gracefully, kicking at one of the computer modems and tripping backwards. The screen goes black instantly and I groan, "Just what I needed." I sit down in one of the computer chairs, just to calm down. Also partly because I can hear Stan in my head, he would be telling me to do this to calm down, so I listen to him.

Stress is making me go insane.

"Christophe?" I voice, quietly. "Can you talk about something I don't give a fuck about for a minute? To get my mind of this shit, you know. Something stupid. Like what you're going to the university for."

Christophe makes a sort of indignant...squawking noise. I choose to ignore it. After a few seconds he sighs dramatically and sits down in the chair next to me. "Cardiology," he mumbles. "Well, in all truz, eventually I want to be a surgeon, and, so, really, I 'ave to take every medical class ever. Like psych. But definitely cardiology."

"Really?" I ask, somewhat interested, if only because it's something other than my imminent doom to think about.

"Et's a possibility," he says with a shrug. "But as Craig 'as said countless times, one never really knows wiz moi. Now, what about you?"

"Oh man, I should really get home," I say in answer, shooting out of my seat. Unfortunately Christophe stands up as well and I am reminded of my initial reaction to him. Unione Corse or no, he still looks like he could kill me, easy. It's disconcerting, is what it is. "Undeclared," I finally manage to squeak out, losing all dignity in the process.

"Oh," Christophe says, sounding surprised. "I would have figured you - well, you..."

"Yes, me," I agree, grimacing. "Look, it's just - well, maybe not at this exact moment, but I'm really happy with my life right now. And if I declare a major I'm going to end up with a degree soon. I almost thought about going into law just because that would take a while, but I hate law and Cartman would make jokes about it until he died. I don't want a degree because then I'll get out of this hellhole and get a better job. Probably better than Stan's. And maybe we'll move somewhere else. And I'll never see anyone again. And then maybe Stan will get a classic case of resentment for me getting a new job, better than his, and making us move. And then he'll either break up with me or murder me, stuff me into a duffel bag - "

"Kyle?" Christophe says with a small cough. I blink and look at him. "I, um, I get et."

"But I wasn't done saying what Stan might do to me," I inform him, incredulous.

"Oui, but still, I get et," he replies, not meeting my eyes. "I zink, 'onestly, et would be best for you to get 'ome. And since zere are reporters everywhere, ah, et might do you some good to leave zrough one of ze back entrances, oui?"

Over-loaded with information and worry, I reply, "Oui," without even really knowing why.


I figure now would be a good point to address one thing before we get into the final throes of my story. My cell phone has been on silent since I went to bed last night. Therefore, I am pointedly ignoring my nearly one hundred missed calls at this point. A few hours later, while in the car with Stan driving here, I will check to see who has the audacity, the nerve, the balls, if you will, to call me that many times.

As it will turn out, my mother does.

Oh, sure, in retrospect, that much is obvious. And, yes, there are a few calls from Wendy in there. One from my boss, but he apparently knew what was good for him and didn't call again. But you have to understand, at this point, when I'm leaving the university, I am not thinking about my family. Which just goes against the morals that I'm supposed to hold as a human being. But I'm an American first, before I'm a human being, dammit, and that means the before my family comes: me, my significant other and material goods of any kind. Very possibly monetary resources as well.

Basically, family is the last thing on my mind and the next to last thing is who's calling my cell phone. So if anyone asks: Why didn't you call your mom? Or: But isn't your dad a lawyer, Kyle? They will find themselves wishing they hadn't. Self-preservation, folks, remember, it's what keeps you and Christophe from really pissing me off.


When I get home it looks as if Stan has not moved from the spot he was when I left. Most people would think that he might have gotten up to eat. But I know better, Stan very possibly could have stayed there the entire time just to spite me. He cares about me like that.

"Did you vacuum?" I ask, in the most even tone I can manage.

"Does it look like I did?" he replies. I look around while he smiles calmly at me.

"Did you vacuum?" I repeat.

"Does it look like I did?" he replies once more. "Look, we can do this all day, or you can admit something. You can admit that you have no idea whether I've vacuumed or not, which of course means, the apartment was not so dirty as that you had to make me vacuum and either way it makes no difference. If I did vacuum, then, well, I did. But the fact is, you can't tell if I did or not. Admit it."

You may at this point be wondering if my apartment is a sort of alternate reality. If perhaps in this reality my biggest problem is whether or not Stan vacuumed. You may be saying, Kyle this is getting old, break up with the asshole, go back to being best friends with him and then sort your shit the fuck out. Well, I will then ask you to kindly shut up and explain something to you.

First off, we live in apartment 304. Henry Townshend lives in 302 and we are very assured that his is the only alternate reality apartment in the building. That's another story though, but I am hoping he'll finally get out of there today or tomorrow so that maybe the news can focus on whatever weird story he's sure to have. It would at least get them away from the U of C Catastrophe, as the geniuses at Fox News have been calling it.

Second, I'm arguing with Stan about vacuuming because maybe, just maybe, I don't want to think about what we should really be discussing. That and I did tell him to vacuum, so he better have fucking done it if he knows what's good for him.

"Stan," I say - and if he says that I whined it desperately he's a vicious liar - grabbing the remote and turning the television off, "you haven't by chance watched the news in the past few hours, have you?" He looks at me like I've just asked if he's set the apartment on fire while I was gone - meaning his basic message is 'uh, no, and that should be obvious.' I groan inwardly, at least if he had seen the news I wouldn't have to explain the state of affairs to him. "Okay, well, then I guess I'll have to tell you why the police are going to be showing up sometime soon."

Stan sighs heavily and then turns to look at me where I'm standing behind the couch. Then he averts his eyes and says to the lava lamp, "Kyle, you know, I don't think I want to know. I think that, over the years I have come to terms with something. I wouldn't say trouble follows you. Not so much as it stalks you with the fervor of an obsessed fangirl, drags you away from time to time and fucks you up thoroughly until it leaves you alone for a week or so before coming after you again. And so, whatever's going on right now, I don't want to know. Because I know it's not your fault, and whoever's fault it is, well, I'll help you hide the bodies if you want me to, especially if it's Cartman."

"Stan," I say with a sharp laugh, "Cartman could not pull this off in his wildest dreams."

He winces, "That bad, huh?" I nod. "Alright, look, you said something about the police?" he asks. Only I don't hear the last word very well, because someone chooses that moment to knock at the door. I nearly duck and cover. It sounds as if they chose that moment to use a machine gun on our door, really. I must look a lot paler than usual because Stan says, "Well, I'm going to take a wild guess, but that sounds like the sort of knock a self-righteous policeman would use. I'll be right back."

Perhaps it is because Stan has dealt with the police before. Maybe it's because he grew up with his dad who, all respect to Mr. Marsh, is about as smart as a member of the police force. I would wager, though, that it's the fact that, unlike all my other friends, Stan has common sense and uses it to rationalize things. I do too. Sometimes. When I'm not angry about something. Regardless, Stan manages to coerce the two policemen at the door into letting him drive me down to the station. I think they even talk a little bit about how the Broncos are doing.

"So," he says once the door is closed, "You're wanted for aiding the French mafia, possible drug trafficking, the defamation of an Indian burial site, or at least giving the orders to do so, and they want to know if you know the whereabouts of your boss and the contractor who dug up the bodies."

I make an exasperated noise and throw myself on the couch deciding that I was wrong, the apartment is an alternate reality and I'm totally okay with never leaving it - ever. Stan sits next to me, not saying anything, waiting, because he knows full well I'll cave and say something first. "How do you put up with this shit?" I mutter, finally, into a pillow.

"I've been putting up with this shit since preschool," he says, simply. "Very rarely am I the perpetrator in these sorts of things. I won't deny that some things have been my fault, but for the most part it's been you or Cartman or Kenny who gets into these situations. I'm used to it. I won't say I'm happy with it, but, well, I sort of am."

I look at him sharply, "You're happy that every other month shit like this happens? You do realize that only a month ago Cartman was convinced that bombing the White House would end global warming and I forced you to drive me there to stop him, don't you?"

"I do," he agrees, slowly, "but here's the thing. If I really, really didn't want to have to deal with this crap, I wouldn't. But I don't mind it, so I do. Because in all honesty, Kyle, I would so much rather put up with all this fucked up, sitcom-esque bullshit that comes along with dating you, than have a normal, stable relationship. I can't even imagine how boring that would be."

"So you date me for the excitement," I say with a sniff.

"No, stupid," he replies, smiling at me, "I date you because I love you. And I put up with the - 'excitement,' really, is that what you want to call it - the, fine, the excitement because of that. I was thinking you would figure that out at some point, but I forgot you're Kyle Broflovski, who, as smart as he is, needs common sense spelled out for him every now and again."

"God, I was so wrong," I croak out. "You're nothing like Tom Cruise."

Stan shudders. "Damn straight, now come on," he stands up and puts his hand out for me to grab it, "I'm taking you to the police station, you're giving your statement and there's nothing you can do about it, because I did so vacuum, and so you owe me for that."

I grab onto his hand and let him pull me up. And if it takes us a few minutes longer to get out to the car than it should, well, that's that. But at least by that point I'm smiling like only Stan can make me do.


And really, that's pretty much it. I don't know where my boss is or where the contractor is. CNN says they're halfway to Albania by now. CNN probably knows more than I do. You have to see by now: none of this was really my fault. And if even a tiny, little bit was, or is, well then, I'm really sorry, but what was I supposed to do?

When, one day, I'm a guest on Ellen or Oprah or Jon Stewart, they'll ask me things like 'What was going on in your mind when this happened?' They'll probably want to know why I didn't do something, tell someone like the police or just quit and find a different job. But I'll say to them, 'What would you have done?' And maybe they'll be sure that they would have quit or run to the nearest police station. But as Stan says, you can take someone out of South Park, but you can't take the South Park out of them. I'm used to this sort of shit, I'm used to dealing with it, I'm not used to just backing down or even having the good option to do so. And maybe once I explain that, Maury or Jerry or Regis and Kelly will say, 'When you put it that way...'

Point is, that's what happened. Point is, today's my birthday and I didn't even realize it until someone said the date before they put a tape recorder in front of me and told me to spill. The point is, Stan's out there waiting for me and he has been for the past few hours so I really think I ought to be going. I have things to do. Among them, convincing everyone that I really, honestly, am not at fault here is pretty high on the list. I have to call my parents and tell them what's going on as well, before my mom chokes on her own stereotypical worry. Probably I'll quit my job in the Learning Center and look for a new one somewhere out of the way. Take a week or so off of school, if they haven't already expelled me without my knowledge. Those sorts of things.

I know a lot of this was just things my boyfriend and I have argued about, and I know, when this whole statement is presented in court and all that, no one's going to care about that shit. But, hey, fuck if I care. It's my story and I think I'm entitled to some personal liberties in the way that I tell it, considering I'm the only one who can really do so, after all.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go confront a certain Stanley Marsh about the fact that he never said happy birthday to me, the bastard. And after that?

Well, come on, by now you must know: I have no idea, but I sure as hell know I'm going to enjoy myself and that Stan will too.

A/N: I am sooooo well aware that Butters may, in fact, seem OOC in this fic. But, holy oh my god, I realized, dudes: Butters is so fucking awesome. Put him in therapy for a few years, have his parents divorced and not so focused on him, give him a chance to start fresh. Especially at a Catholic school, those places force you to be badass. Somehow, at like twenty-one, I could see Butters wanting to murder Cartman and feeling no remorse whatsoever about that fact. If you feel it's impossible, bitch and flame me in your review, because we all know fanfiction is super srs business. And if anyone takes this version of Butters from me, I will gut them.
So let me know what you think at least now in the end? I'll appreciate it forever, far more than those annoying favorites and alerts without reviews. Whatever the case, thanks for reading as always and see you around.