Chapter Track: Flagpole Sitta – Harvey Danger

Warning: There is going to be a het subplot, and some heavier topics are going to be discussed. If you can't handle reading about severe mental illness, abuse, and an abortion, you should probably find something else to read.

Craig Tucker's morning routine hasn't changed since he hit puberty. His alarm blares at six forty-five in the morning. He presses snooze once. This will wake him up five minutes later, upon which he will check if his guinea pigs – Zim and Gir – need more water or food (if they do, he will proceed accordingly), he dresses himself, brushes his greasy hair, tugs his hat over his head, shoves his headphones in his ears, and heads out to the bus stop.

Normally, on days when he is not hungover in his basement with the three assholes he's resorted to hanging around, Craig stands at the bus stop alone in the mornings. He's always surrounded by a gaggle of people he knows, but that he no longer speaks to. He's been marked, in a way. He's smelly, he's angry, his parents are poor – it all reeks of trouble to those unwilling to look beyond the surface (And that includes everybody that he fucking knows, even the dipshits he hangs out with).

This morning is different, because he is hungover, and he is in his basement, and he is with the three assholes that he's resorted to hanging out with. It's Monday morning, and he has a feeling that he's going to get an earful from his parents about what the fuck he was doing on Sunday night, not coming with them to church (which he ditched to get fucked up in his basement with Kenny and company) and not reappearing until he feels like doing so (which will probably be an hour or so after school has ended, so he has time to get high before getting yelled at). The thing about his fucking parents, though, is that no matter how much they shout, no matter how much 'concern' they express over his extended absences – at heart, they don't actually care. They just need something to be angry at, and it's usually him.

Craig's head is swimming. He's feels like utter shit. If his parents didn't work early in the morning, he'd need to shake himself out of it fast, but they're thankfully alone, locked in Craig's basement.

The novelty, nineteen fifties diner-style neon clock above the couch on which Kenny and Bebe are still asleep chirps to alert them that it is seven thirty.


They're already late for school. Craig can't afford to skip any more classes. Principal Victoria 'intervened' with Mr. Mackey last week. They'd told him that if he was caught missing any more of his work, he'd have to be expelled. He thinks it's a scare tactic, but he doesn't know what the fuck he'll do if he does get kicked out.

Across the room, Bebe and Kenny are mostly naked and sandwiched together. The only piece of clothing that can be boasted between the two of them is Bebe's lacy zebra-print bra.

"Good morning, sunshine," greets an all-too-familiar and smug little voice from the opposite direction – the third asshole he allowed into his home, and graciously supplied with weed.

"I hate you," Craig responds. He doesn't bother turning back to look at the perpetrator. There's only one kid that he hangs around whose balls haven't even dropped yet, and that's Ike. On top of the fact that he seems to always be getting shitfaced with Craig and still manages to maintain a 4.0 grade average after having skipped another couple of grades, the smarmy bastard doesn't get hungover.

Ike sighs dramatically and says, "Look, jackass, I made you some coffee, so why don't you clean the sand out of your vagina and be goddamn thankful?" He chooses this as his moment to appear over Craig's place on the loveseat and offer a mug of crappy, over-brewed shit. But at least it's something.

"Ungrateful twat," expresses Ike.

"Pretentious ten-year-old," Craig says back, lifting himself into a sitting position, only so he doesn't spill hot coffee down the front of his t-shirt.

"Twelve. Learn to count, dickshit," Ike responds.

Craig opts to leave this one alone. Ike, not unlike his pompous, holier-than-thou prick of a brother, can argue a point well beyond its expiration date, and both of them know that Craig is too hungover to comprehend bickering at a point this early in the day. He tips back a swig of coffee and says, "Get those two off of my fucking couch. We have school."

Craig ascends the basement stairs to Ike's cackle of, "Since when have you cared about going to school, Goody Two Shoes?"

The way he smells, you'd think Craig had fallen asleep in a smoldering pyre of weed. Either that, or a garbage heap. He's cool with smelling a little ripe, but he draws the line at smelling like he's rolled around in a dumpster.

Zim and Gir remain asleep, hidden under their plastic igloo, when Craig stumbles into his bedroom. He shakes out a couple of pills from the jumbo bottle of generic ibuprofen that sits beside the guinea pigs' cage and dry swallows them, while searching for a t-shirt on his floor that looks like it might be clean. Craig eschews his weed-soaked tee and tosses on top the vague pile of dirty laundry beside his door. After nudging the debris on his floor around, he finds a shirt and lifts it by its short sleeves to smell under the arms. It at least smells cleaner than the one he had on, and so he swaps his clothes out, finds his favorite hat draped over his lamp, and yanks it over his hair.

When he returns downstairs, Kenny and Bebe are redressed in their clothing from the night before, looking equally haggard, if not worse off than Craig feels. Bebe's mascara and eyeliner from last night form dark circles under her eyes, and Kenny – Kenny tends to always look like general hell on hungover mornings.

When Bebe unlocks her car outside, Craig says, "Maybe you shouldn't be driving," mostly because she looks super fucked up and a little bit like Courtney Love.

"None of you asswipes have licenses," Bebe complains back, which is true.

"Yeah, but Ike is sober," retaliates Craig, sticking his thumb back at the cheery asshole trailing behind them.

"Ike is ten," Bebe says.

"Twelve," corrects Ike.

"Do you know how to drive, shorty?" asks Kenny.

Ike brightens, "Fuck yeah, I do. I took Kyle's car out once and did doughnuts in the school parking lot."

"You've driven once," clarifies Kenny.

"Yeah, but it counts," Ike squares his shoulders.

If he wasn't hungover, he'd just bike to school to avoid bullshit like this. But then, when Craig pauses on the idea for a moment, he realizes that his bicycle is an expensive motherfucker and not at all meant to be ridden to school. It's a Corratec, and the one other thing besides his guinea pigs that is his baby. He'd never risk it getting stolen, not at a shady place like Park County High.

Kenny and Bebe exchange a look. Craig decides that although he started this one, he'd rather nap in the backseat while they figure shit out. It's a sunny morning, so when it comes to the safer driver, he thinks that he'd go for a sober twelve-year-old over hungover Bebe. There isn't any actual danger of getting into a traffic accident in South Park, in any case. The town is too shitty and small and safe. The only dangers out this way are wild animals. Every fucker around is a happy, average prick, content to be secluded in their innocuous, quiet mountain town.

All he wants to do is get the fuck out of here. He's wanted it for as long as he could remember. Even as a kid, it was all that Craig could fantasize about: leaving. Once he does, you can guarantee he'll flip this hellhole the bird and never fucking come back again. He doesn't care about a single fucking thing here.

He's tried to get out before, of course. Unfortunately, the whole running-away-and-hitchhiking thing ended in tragedy, with Craig stranded in the middle of Utah with no option but to call his parents to come get him. Needless to say, they were pissed. Craig doesn't mind pissing off his folks. No, in fact, he pisses them off most of the time. It is merely that after the Utah Incident, they were pissed on a whole new level than any that Craig had ever witnessed before.

He vowed never to run away again, no matter how tempting the idea, and so here he is, stuck. He's stuck in South Park, and his only escape option for the time being is getting fucked up with these three.

When they join Craig, piling into the car, Ike is the one with the keys in his grip. Bebe sits beside him in the passenger's seat, Craig assumes because she wants to ensure to the best of her hungover ability that Ike won't crash her car into a tree. Craig yanks his hat further down over his ears when Kenny climbs into the back beside him.


"Craig," Kenny pokes him.

An inadvertent chuckle escapes him before he can contain it, and he shoves Kenny away with a, "Shit. Fuck off, you asshole."

Tragically, nobody is ever as hungover as Craig is.

Possibly the only benefit of living in such a small town is that everything is nearby, and though Kenny pesters Craig throughout the drive to Park County High, it is thankfully short.

"I'll see you at lunch, yeah?" Craig says. He shares few classes with the people that he hangs out with, and in the ones he does share with them, it's often with Ike.

"Yeah, I have a feeling that I'm gonna need to be super high to handle today," Kenny remarks, scratching a hand through his shaggy hair. He says this mostly every morning, and Craig doesn't blame him. High school is the pits. He swears, the only place on the planet worse than high school is middle school, if only for the onset of puberty that forces one to live at his most ugly and awkward for three years. He's still ugly and awkward, but at least it's on a humane level.

Kenny leans over and pulls Bebe into him by the waist. Craig rolls his eyes when they smash their mouths together. Those two are the grossest kissers, but oddly, they have the courtesy to keep it to themselves the majority of the time. Craig doesn't understand the dynamic between them. They're not 'together' on a 'Facebook Official' level, and they both fuck other people when the fancy strikes, but Kenny and Bebe mostly seem to be just into each other. They're both hot messes and both sexually insatiable, so nobody finds this to be a surprise.

"Get a room," says Ike.

"What are you, six? Who the fuck even says that anymore?" Kenny complains, going in for a second kiss. Ike looks offended. He always does when somebody points out when he accidentally says something that sounds young. He's told them all on multiple occasions that he fancies himself an old soul, trapped in the body of a kid. Craig is inclined to believe that it's actually an old brain trapped inside that kid, complete with dumbass-child soul.

Craig leaves before they can drag him into the mix. That, and he really fucking needs to get to class. At this point, he'll only be twenty or so minutes late, and that doesn't count as skipping, though it will earn him a detention, he's sure.

Craig tugs on the braided strings of his hat to pull it further down over his eyebrows before he slogs into the American History classroom. Clyde lifts his hand to wave, but pauses, and it sinks back down before he can. A pang of pain spears through Craig, and he frowns before taking his desk in the back of the classroom.

"How kind of you to join us, Craig," Mr. Garrison says snidely, "I'll see you after class, as usual."

Craig flips him off. Mr. Garrison ignores this, and moves on.

He doesn't know why he's here. He doesn't know what he's doing. Craig doesn't know what he's doing most of them time, really, and he sure as hell doesn't understand the point of this. All that's given in this class is some glossed-over, whitewashed version of history that makes everybody's ancestors sound vaguely less douchey. It's not real history. Anybody with Google fucking knows that.

Craig spends his time in this class sleeping off the remains of his hangover. The coffee and pain killers helped, but there's still that underlying nausea that makes him wonder why he keeps getting fucked up at stupid times. He resolves to drink only on weekends (a resolve that will last exactly until somebody pisses him off again. And let the record show that Craig is pissed off by basically everybody and everything).

Out of necessity, Craig managed to create a state of sleep in which he could nap and hear teachers speaking at the same time, almost like an echo in his brain. It's a trained sort of school-sleep that began around sophomore year, when he realized that no matter what he did, he couldn't please fucking anybody else, so he may as well just please himself. This state of sleep annoys Garrison to no end –

"Craig, are you fucking paying attention?"

"Yes," he states sleepily, not bothering to even open his eyes.

He doesn't open his eyes at all, in fact, until the bell rings, jolting him out of his comfortably slouched position and in action. Before he can sneak out the door, though, Garrison grabs his backpack and holds him back.

"And exactly where do you think you're going?" he demands.

"Class," replies Craig.

"You've got detention today, you hear? One more time and I'm kicking you out of class, Craig," Garrison warns.

"Yeah, okay," Craig says, even though he kind of cares. He needs to graduate, if only to have an avenue out of South Park.

Having to legitimately give a shit about his attending his classes is becoming detrimental to his mental health, he fucking swears. The urge to smoke a joint with Kenny during lunch becomes almost overwhelming as he dumps his books into his locker and collects his junk for English. English is a class that he cares even less about than American History, probably because he's terrible at it. The only thing that he seems to be good at is gym class, and who the fuck cares if you're good at gym? Nobody's supposed to be good at gym. It's like some unspoken high school law.

He is thankfully timely in his arrival to English class, enough so that he snags a seat near the window and can drift off. Their teacher is one of those happy-go-lucky, hippie types that lets them sit where they want, even if Stan and Kyle won't shut the fuck up, and even if Cartman situates himself so that he's at the perfect angle to throw paper footballs at the back of Butters' head.

Some days, Craig wishes that he could pull his hat down further over his ears. But he can't, so he's stuck hearing all of these idiots whisper about inane shit throughout the entire class. It's not that he cares about hearing what they're taught, necessarily, but more that Craig doesn't want to hear anything. He'd rather that they all be silent and read the textbook. But no, the artsy English teacher had said on the first day of the year that she "didn't want to have the textbook be their teacher, because that was her job." Instead, they must be interactive. She has spent the entirety of the few weeks that they've been here trying to get Craig to participate, without actually threatening to take away points of any kind off of his grade.

In short, Ms. Babcock is annoying, but she isn't a viable threat.

The bell rings, and Craig starts to doodle on the corner of his notebook. He's terrible at drawing everything but bicycles. He knows how that sounds – like he's some sort of self-righteous hipster shithead like Kyle or that Bridon kid in the grade below theirs. He isn't, though. He just likes bikes. He liked to draw them when he was a kid, too, not that anybody appreciated the artwork.

"You're a little bit tardy, Mr. –?" he hears Ms. Babcock announce in a sing-song voice.

Craig glances up. He can't help but feel a little proud that he isn't the one that she's scolding. Instead, it's –



Is that –

It can't be.

But it is. It's Tweek motherfucking Tweak.

Tweek Tweak hasn't been seen or heard from since the tail end of their sophomore year. They're seniors, now. And he's returned to join them, apparently.

He doesn't look the same as the Tweek that left them. He'd been small and easily frightened. He'd had no friends and seemed to like it that way, since Tweek hadn't even let the kinder of the weird kids (Butters, mostly) talk to him.

The guy looks fucking scary, now. He's got at least a foot on the height he was when he left. Craig can't tell if he's filled out in the middle, because he wears a huge, ratty-looking trench coat that makes too much noise as he walks in, like he's hiding a bunch of shit in the inside pockets. He's still trembling like he's on a constant vibrate setting, but it isn't like he used to, not really – especially since his face isn't that same constant expression of worry. It's blank, devoid of any of the typical emotions that they'd all come to associate with Tweek.

"Tweek Tweak," he answers. His voice is deeper, too. Softer, even.

What the flying fuck? Nobody knows where this kid ended up. Craig always assumed that he'd ended up quarantining himself in his bedroom and getting homeschooled there, having food brought to him like an invalid. In any case, he's returned looking like a criminal.

Looking kind of…cool, actually. Craig doesn't exactly have room to speak on the 'looking like a criminal' front. He's greasy and pierced and several different levels of an asshole.

"Tell us about yourself, Mr. Tweak," she says brightly.

Tweek spares a lackadaisical gaze for the seated students and says, "I like art." They wait for him to say something more, but he doesn't.

"Why don't you take a seat, um, next to Mr. Tucker back there?" suggests their Ms. Babcock.

That conniving skank. She thinks that she can get Craig to have more friends, and this is one of the ways that she tries implementing her meddling nature. The new kids always sit next to him. Fuck. Craig puts his feet up onto his chair and sets his chin on his knees, pulling at his hat and glowering. He hates them all. All. Every. Last. One.

Tweek doesn't make any indication that sitting next to Craig bothers him. He simply traipses back and sets his books down, slouching low into his chair in an un-Tweek-like fashion. He doesn't say anything, and Craig doesn't know that he wants anything to be said. He was kind of a dick to Tweek throughout middle school, and up until the time that Tweek vanished off the face of the planet.

Okay, fuck, fine. Craig was a total, all-out prick to Tweek. He was to most people, though. It's not like he'd singled Tweek out that much. It's just that Tweek had made it easy to get picked on. He was all short and shrieky and high-pitched and scared of everything that moved. Hell, he'd been scared of things that didn't move, too. Still – Craig estimates that he'd bullied the fuck out of Butters just as much. He'd gotten bored of teasing people, though. The shine wore off, right around the time that Craig had caught Butters crying in the upstairs boys' bathroom.

Ms. Babcock launches into the lesson, something about whatever part they were supposed to annotate in The Color Purple over the weekend, when Craig had been too busy getting high and fucked up with Kenny and Company.

There's this fucking noise that somebody's making, and it's driving Craig crazy. It's like a faintly clicking pen, but when he surveys the other students, nobody's moving except for Kyle and Stan, who are passing notes and leaning in close, almost like lovers would.

He thinks it's coming from Tweek.

Upon closer inspection, he can't say where on Tweek the clicking noise is coming from. He's sitting almost perfectly still, except for his trembling. Man, he looks so much older close up. His hair is longer, like a mane, and shiny with grease, just like Craig's probably is under his hat (he doesn't even bother looking in the mirror, these days. It's a disappointment every time). Craig remembers Tweek's parents making him keep his hair unfashionably short in middle school because he'd tear it out when he got stressed, which was most of the time. His face seems longer, too, somehow. Maybe it's because his face is so blank.

He's clicking his teeth. There's slight movement in his jaw. You wouldn't notice it unless you're up really close –

Tweek turns his head and stares directly at Craig with wide, light eyes.

"Can I fucking help you?" he asks.

Craig scowls, "Quit clicking."

"What, this?" Tweek sticks his tongue out. Through his tongue, there is a shiny silver bar. He clicks it against his teeth antagonistically.

"Are you five? Cut that shit out," Craig grinds out.

This encourages Tweek instead of intimidating him, as Craig had hoped. He just keeps fucking clicking that thing, faster, now that Craig has asked him to stop twice.

So, Craig follows through with the only reasonable solution.

He punches Tweek in the face.

The classroom goes dead silent. Somebody gasps – he thinks it's Millie, maybe. Tweek's head snapped back from the impact of it. Craig expects Tweek to cower, or shout, or any of the things that he used to do before, but he doesn't. Instead, he pops his neck and wipes at his bleeding nose.

And then, he punches back. This is no mere punch, however. Tweek surges up from his seat and yanks Craig out of his, shoving him back onto the ground. Craig's hat fortunately softens to blow when it cracks against the classroom floor, but it doesn't make him any less fucking pissed that some twitchy little shithead punched him in the face.

Craig can't get up, though. Tweek is straddled on top of him, and he punches Craig again. Craig struggles and tears himself up. He growls low in his throat and pushes Tweek, yanking on his hair, because it's the only tactic that he can think of in his state. Tweek hisses through his teeth and reaches for Craig's head. Craig dodges, kneeing Tweek in the gut.

"Boys! Separate yourselves this instant!" insists Ms. Babcock behind them. Blood is flying. It always does when Craig gets into a fight. He knows how to use his fists and use them well. It's been that way for a long time, out of what Craig feels is necessity more than anything.

Tweek throws Craig's hat across the room.

"Bad move, bitch," Craig spits, and he flies on top of Tweek, crushing him down against the floor.

"Dude, this is fucking sweet," Cartman says behind them. The asshole has his phone out. Craig bets that the fight will be on Youtube before school even lets out. One day, he swears he's going to crush that fucking phone. Cartman has filmed almost all of his fucking fights. It's tiresome, to say the least.

Tweek cuffs Craig in the nose.

"Fuck," he cries out. His temporary pause gives Tweek the advantage, and he uses it to flip Craig on his back again. Craig complains, "Hey, asshole, piercings are off limits."

"Sorry," Tweek sarcastically says, and he throws his fist into Craig's face again, "I fight dirty."

In the next moment, they're torn from each other by two security guards. Craig shouts and swears, giving Tweek's long hair one last yank with a, "I'll get you, bitch!"

"Like fuck you will," and Tweek manages to throw out his body and kicks Craig right in the stomach, before they're dragged off.

This is how they end up seated side by side in Mr. Mackey's office, both holding tissues underneath their noses. Craig pulls the Kleenex away only to try and adjust his septum ring back into place. He winces at the sting and mutters, "Fuck."

It isn't until Mr. Mackey enters the office carrying both of their files (Craig's looks like a novel, whereas Tweek's is basically nonexistent) and sits across from them that Craig realizes the gravity of the situation. He's about to get his ass suspended. Again. He can't fucking afford to do that. He's treading a line so thin that he could fall at any moment, and this is sure to push him into expulsion.

"Mmkay," Mackey hums to himself as he looks over the paperwork in front of him. He sets his elbows on his desk and folds his fingers together, surveying them both, "Well, boys, I've got to say I'm pretty disappointed in you. This is your first day back, Mr. Tweak, and this is the second incident that you've had today. As for you, Mr. Tucker – this is looking like enough material for expulsion."

Craig's heart sinks low in his chest. He doesn't know where he's supposed to go if he gets kicked out of here. He doesn't have a car, and the next nearest high school is in Buena Vista, forty-five minutes out from here.

"But maybe if we can clear up what happened here, we can come up with a less severe solution, mmkay?"

"It was my fault!" exclaims Tweek.

Both Craig and Mr. Mackey's heads swing to him.

"I'm sorry," Tweek says, and he sounds fucking sincere, of all the things, "I punched Craig first." Which he definitely didn't, but okay. Craig tries not to look as surprised as he feels, because – fuck yes – of course he'll take an opportunity like this one to wiggle his way out of trouble.

"It says here that Craig threw the first punch," Mr. Mackey says, holding up one of those stupid-ass witness account papers.

"They must not have been watching, then," Tweek reasons. He folds his arms over his bloodied trench coat, shuffling and making that sound like his pockets are full of too much junk. Tweek adds, "Craig was just defending himself. I'm sorry."

"You do realize that you'll be suspended for this, mmkay Tweek?" asks Mr. Mackey.

"Yeah, whatever," Tweek responds, which is the opposite of what one should say after getting hauled into the counselor's office by a beefy school security guard, but Craig doesn't want to argue against his sheer dumb luck.

"I still have to suspend you too, Mr. Tucker," Mr. Mackey adds. He begins filling out the paperwork, humming to himself under his breath.

Craig tosses a confused look to Tweek. In return, Tweek removes the tissue out from under his nose, sticks out his tongue, and starts clicking his tongue ring against his teeth.

What a dick.

They are forced to sit idly by as Mackey rings up both of their parents. As expected, Craig's parents sound like they're speaking through gritted teeth and are one step away from rage. Tweek's parent's, on the other hand, sound like nothing of the sort.

"Of course, Mr. Mackey. We're very sorry. Tweek, baby, we talked about how to handle these things. Your teachers are all aware of the situation – you don't need to ask to excuse yourself."

"I know, mom," Tweek says back at the speakerphone, sounding thoroughly admonished. To be fair, Craig hasn't faintest idea if he's acting or not.

"I'll be there in a few minutes to pick him up," Mrs. Tweak says. She sounds a little weary, and Craig wonders if he should feel bad for starting shit with her son.

They're sent out together to wait for their parents in the tiny waiting area, with their suspension paperwork in hand. Craig plops down in a chair, expecting Tweek to sit as far away from him as possible – but he doesn't. He sits directly next to Craig. He extracts something from one of the outside pockets of his trench coat and drops it in Craig's lap.

It's his hat.

Craig's brows raise of their own accord. He tugs his hat down over his hair, now tangled with blood. They stay silent for a few minutes, before Craig asks, "Why did you lie?"

"You looked sad," Tweek replies.

"I looked sad," echoes Craig.

Tweek clarifies, "You looked like you were about to piss yourself, actually."

"Man, you're fucking weird," Craig says.

"Preaching to the choir, asshole," responds Tweek.

They fall back into silence. Tweek starts clicking his piercing against his teeth again, sneaking occasional glances at Craig, as if documenting how long it will take to piss him off again.

Tweek clears his throat and says, "Did Bebe's tits like, expand to three times their size while I was gone?" He makes a squishing motion in front of his own, much-flatter-than-Bebe's chest and remarks, "I bet she could suffocate a guy with those things."

Craig feels his mouth hanging open and forces it to close before he asks, "Did you just bring up Bebe's boobs."

"They're nice," Tweek defends, "That's all I'm saying."

Craig is having trouble comprehending this. Last time he saw this kid, he would have marked him "Virgin Forever." He was essentially sexless, and he never once spoke of people he found attractive. Now Craig wonders if Tweek kept his attractions silent because he didn't want to be teased. Maybe he saw what being loud about one's crushes (like Butters) got you in return (getting the shit kicked out of you).

"They're nicer with her shirt off," Craig contributes.

"Bullshit," Tweek says, "I had you pegged as liking cock – you've seen Bebe's tits?" He opens up his trench coat and reaches inside, extracting a case of Tic Tacs. He dumps a couple in his mouth and offers it to Craig, who declines.

"Bebe is just like, super horny when she's high," Craig explains, "She's like the girl version of Kenny. I bet that's why they fuck so much, you know. 'Cause it's like they're having sex with themselves or some shit."

"Jesus, I'd never fuck myself," remarks Tweek, "I'm too crazy. Plus I like dark hair, mostly. I guess Bebe's rack overrides that or something. I bet if I was a girl, I'd have a killer set of tits."

"Do you just say whatever you're thinking?" Craig finds himself asking.

"Pretty much," Tweek responds, "Like, I'd totally stick my dick in you. How's that?"


"I know, you're straight or whatever. It's a compliment, trust me," Tweek says, and he starts clicking again.

Craig isn't sure if there's something that he should say. He's never been told that in his life. He doesn't think he's ever been hit on, unless you count the combined powers of Bebe and Kenny when they're high off of their asses. Finally, he decides upon saying, "I'm not straight." He hasn't confessed this to anybody, not really. He hasn't ever felt the need, mostly because he hates people too much to become attracted to one of them. Kenny sort of knows, but that's really only because they've had their hands down each other's pants – for which neither of them was sober, just for the record. Craig finds Kenny a little gross, if he's being honest.

"I don't know what I am," Craig adds, another thing that he hasn't bothered say to anyone.

Through the windows beside the door to the counselor's office, Craig can see Mrs. Tweak rushing forward in a snappy set of bubblegum pink high heels. Tweek stands, pulling his messenger bag onto his shoulder. He says, "That's cool. Sexuality is weird, man," and when Mrs. Tweak comes into the office, he greets, "Hi, mommy."

What a fucking weird kid.