A/N: So, between LTP and my next "serious" SP fic (plus my big bang fic! Google 'South Park big bang' if that's news), here's this one. It's not from Henrietta's POV, only the prologue is - the rest of the fic is from Stan's POV. I'm going to post the first chapter immediately after this prologue, to give a better sense of what the actual story will be like. The pairings are Stan/Kyle, Cartman/Wendy, Kenny/Butters, Token/Clyde and Craig/Tweek.
At first, the idea of being pregnant with the Antichrist was a kind of consolation. If she had to go through this bullshit and end up with an even fatter ass than the one she'd barely managed to slim down to a size twelve, at least her baby would like, put an end to the complacent lives of all the phony conformist assholes who currently populated the earth.
Then Damien, who couldn't really be trusted but seemed to be telling the truth, informed her that the kid he'd knocked her up with wasn't even the fucking Antichrist.
"I'm the Antichrist," he said. "I suppose if the little bastard were to grow up and kill me, he would inherit the title. So, here." He gave her a white envelope. She opened it and scowled at the contents: five new-looking one hundred dollar bills.
"What the hell is this?" Henrietta asked.
"Money for an abortion, genius." He was smoking a cigarette and drinking a Diet Coke out of one of those old-fashioned glass bottles, looking at her like she was exceptionally slow, which used to be kind of hot.
"Is this even real money?" The idea of an abortion depressed her, though she didn't want a fucking kid, either.
"It's real in a sense," Damien said. "Real enough for Planned Parenthood."
"What if I told you I'm keeping it?" She was almost afraid of him but not quite. If he wanted to hang out on earth, he couldn't kill or maim, at least not without a decree from his father, who was more interested in hosting wine and cheese parties with his boyfriend than world domination.
Damien drank the last of his Coke and rolled his eyes. They were hanging out in the parking lot of the Village Inn, and Wren was watching them through the front window, still hunched over his coffee in their usual booth. Henrietta kept catching sight of his hair flip from the corner of her eye.
"If you want to keep it, that's your problem," Damien said. "But I'm not going to keep giving you envelopes full of money, so. Take that into consideration."
"Excuse me?" She wasn't sure why she was surprised. All of her online friends had been so jealous when she started going out with the actual Son of Satan – the ones who believed her, anyway – and Wren and Ferris had been jealous, too, but Damien had never really treated her like a girlfriend, and half the time he'd seemed more interested in bumming cigarettes than fucking her.
"Look, I'm not gonna be around that much anymore," Damien said.
"Oh, what a coincidence."
"It's got nothing to do with you and your – situation," Damien said. He squinted at something in the distance, probably thinking about how hot he looked. He was the vainest motherfucker she'd ever met, and it sucked to be one of the people who understood why, because she wanted to drop her panties for him even now, sort of. "I met someone," Damien said.
Henrietta snorted. "Someone? Some chick?" She tried to appear indifferent. Damien shook his head.
"He's more like a catamite," he said. "Turns out I'm into that. Fucking you helped me understand that, so thanks."
"A cat – a boy?"
"Technically he's our age," Damien said. "It's complicated."
"Uh? How so?"
"Well, he's dead," Damien said. "He's downstairs, in my neighborhood. Anyway, it's pretty serious, so I'm not really planning on coming up top again, like. Ever."
"Not even for cigarettes?" Henrietta was decimated, trying to figure out how she was going to report this to Wren, who already thought she was a fool. It was easy for him to say – he was just another gay South Park boy. There were eight thousand of them for every girl, and now, apparently, Damien had gotten gay with kids, too.
"I'm going to quit smoking," Damien said. He threw the cigarette down and ground it under his boot. "Pip doesn't like it."
"Pip? That's his fucking name? Oh, Jesus – is this – Pip Pirrup? Bradley's friend who died?"
"We met in South Park," Damien said. "Years ago. If he was friends with your brother, well, that's unfortunate, but it's irrelevant now. Alright, you've got your money. Thanks for the smoke. I'll be seeing you. Or, not, actually, but you know what I mean."
"Excuse me, no!" she said, feeling the weight of her own futility as he started to walk away. "You can't just – what the fuck is wrong with everybody? You're like the tenth or eleventh South Park fucker who woke up one day and decided he'd rather just fuck his buddies. What the hell is going on? Am I on crack?" She wanted to drop down to her knees and sob into the pavement, but no way was he going to get the pleasure of seeing that. Damien turned back and gave her a heavy-lidded stare.
"I don't know what to tell you," he said. "But there's definitely one advantage. All the unprotected sex you want and none of this pregnancy nonsense."
"This pregnancy nonsense? Fuck you! This is your child!" She gestured to her stomach, though she wasn't showing yet.
"You're being very conformist right now, Henrietta," he said, and he smirked. "But hey, cheer up. While you're pregnant with my kid, I'm pretty sure you'll have actual powers. So have fun with that for a few weeks, get the abortion, then get on with your life."
Before she could tell him to go fuck himself he disappeared into thin air, leaving behind the smell of motor oil and gun powder that she'd once loved.
Back inside the Village Inn, she tried to hold it together as she walked to the table where Wren waited, his posture horrible. She was glad that it was only him here and not the other two bastards, but it was still hard to meet his eyes when she sat down, and not just because hers were watering.
"Fucking typical," Wren said, scooting across the half-moon booth to sit close to her.
"Whatever," Henrietta said. She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with a coffee-stained napkin. "It's not like I thought he would help me. Fucking – conformist – chauvinist – male – asshole."
"Seriously," Wren said. "Fuck him. He's such a sorry fucking excuse for the son of Satan. What a disappointment. Like everything, Jesus." He gave her a fresh napkin, and she cursed when she saw the ugly black residue of her eye makeup on the first one. "What's that?" Wren asked, nodding to the envelope on the table.
"Five hundred dollars," Henrietta said, her voice steadying a little. "It's counterfeit, though, I think. That asshole wouldn't even put the energy into robbing someone for me."
"What's that supposed to be, like, child support?"
"No, Wren." She rolled her eyes. "He wants me to get, you know. Rid of it."
"Oh." Wren stared down at the envelope nervously, as if an abortion was happening within it. For someone so obsessed with death and despair, he could be really fucking naive and sentimental, which was actually why Henrietta preferred his company to that of the others, if only so she could seem dark and world weary in comparison.
"You know why, too?" she said, scoffing, and she blew her nose into a napkin, not caring that she was being disgusting. "He wants me to kill it so that it can't kill him. If my baby grew up it would totally kill his ass and be a way better Antichrist. That's what he's afraid of. Fucking coward. Oh, and guess what? He won't be on earth for a while, because he's found himself a dead boyfriend."
Wren stared as if waiting for the punchline, and did his slow blink thing.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" he said.
"I wish." Henrietta crumpled the napkin and threw it down. "I guess he caught the South Park disease."
She felt bad after saying that, even though Wren pretended not to be gay for some reason or other. It had always been obvious to her that he was, even when they were kids, whereas the jock assholes at Henrietta's high school had all started pairing up and fucking each other sometime around sophomore year, presumably because they could do it without condoms or consequences.
"Well, maybe he'll get his boyfriend pregnant, too," Wren said. "Since he's got, like, a demon dick or whatever."
"It was a normal dick," Henrietta said. "At least, it looked normal, and felt, well, better than the others I've had, but not—"
"God, okay," Wren said, shuddering. "Don't tell me about his dick."
"You're the one who brought it up."
"Whatever, Henry, fuck. What are you going to do?"
She sat staring down at her hands on the table, chipping some of the already half-gone black nail polish from them. Damien had been her first love, in a way, though of course she didn't believe in love or monogamous relationships or any of that fairy tale bullshit. He hadn't been her first lay, but he'd been the first guy she'd been with who was good at fucking. She'd never even had an orgasm before him, and the ones he gave her had made her stupid and weak, the kind of dumb cheerleading squad pollyanna who believed a guy when he said that half-demon sperm couldn't impregnate human women. Now he had the fucking nerve to claim that he must have been misinformed, probably just lying to cover his ass. It was always hard to tell, with him.
"He told me I'd have powers while I'm pregnant," she said to Wren, who was staring at her mournfully.
"What kind of powers?"
"I don't know. He probably just said that to fuck with me."
"Try to do that fire in the palm thing," Wren said. "Like the way he lights his cigarettes."
Henrietta opened her palm and they both stared down at it. She envisioned fire, moved her fingers a little, narrowed her eyes. Nothing happened. Wren sighed.
"I know one thing he said was true," Henrietta said. "I know he wants me to get rid of this kid. That's why he was acting all cool and like it wasn't a big deal. He doesn't want me to know that he fucked up and he's scared that this kid could grow up and hurt him. Maybe he really didn't know he could get a girl pregnant."
"Fuck what he wants," Wren said. "What do you want?"
"I'll tell you what I want," Henrietta said, making her hands into fists on the tabletop. "I want to have this kid and raise it to be some bad ass demon warrior who will smite his ass into a fucking pile of ashes. Pip's, too. Though I guess he's already dead."
"Yeah," Wren said, brightening. He never dared to smile when Ferris was around to make fun of him for it, but Henrietta could bring it out of him sometimes. "That'd be fucking killer, Henry. You could be the mother of the Antichrist. You could like, rule the world."
"All the assholes at school who make fun of us would be our slaves," she said, bringing her hand down to her stomach, though it was much too soon to feel any baby-related stirrings. "Shit, you know what else would be awesome?"
"If we found a spell for male pregnancy and made all those dickholes at school know how it feels."
"Oh, my God." Wren's eyes went wide. "How fucking sweet would it be if Craig Tucker's little crack addict boyfriend got pregnant?" Craig was Wren's most adamant tormentor, next to Eric Cartman, who tormented everyone adamantly.
"How sweet would it be if Craig Tucker got pregnant?" Henrietta said, grinning for the first time in maybe, like, a year. Wren laughed and held his hand over his mouth.
Henrietta had only been joking about world domination and male pregnancy, and even, to some extent, keeping the baby, but when they got back to her house Wren went right for the spell books, paging through them and looking for male pregnancy spells.
"You get acne when you're pregnant, right?" Wren said.
"I don't know," Henrietta said, touching her cheek. Her breakouts had finally calmed in the past few years. As if pregnancy wasn't enough of a pain in the ass humiliation. "Find anything in there?" she asked, her rage renewed.
"No," Wren said. "I was just thinking about how great it would be if Craig broke out and gained fifty pounds and – oh my God. What if they all got tits, too? Big, leaking tits."
"If that happened," Henrietta said, "I would sell my fucking soul." She thought of Kyle Broflovski, who traipsed around the school in Stan Marsh's junior high football jerseys in order to communicate to the student body in no uncertain terms that Stan was fucking him on a regular basis. Kyle was always bitchily correcting her in Honors Lit class when he disagreed with her interpretations of poems, as if he'd written them himself and was personally offended. Stan had been Henrietta's childhood crush, and she knew that deep down he still hated life as much and as profoundly as she did, and that he was a sensitive boy who this world full of hollow-eyed conformists did not deserve. Kyle Broflovski certainly didn't deserve him, and it enraged her every time she saw Stan smiling down at bony, not-even-cute Kyle like he was under some kind of succubus' spell. She imagined Kyle getting fat, saddled with E cups and hysterical with hormones.
"Hey, look," Wren said after they had both been quiet for a while, Wren flipping the pages of the spell books while Henrietta fantasized about Stan being too grossed out by pregnant Kyle to continue fucking him. "I think I found something."
"Seriously?" Henrietta scooted over on the bed to make room for him, and he laid the book across their thighs. He had it open to a spell from a rare book they'd pooled their money to buy last year. Ferris had claimed he would contribute, but he didn't really believe in magic the way that Wren and Henrietta did, and had reneged on his offer after they paid for the book, suddenly claiming to think the whole thing was stupid.
"This is Latin," Wren said, like Henrietta didn't know that. She was on vocational track, but only because she hated school and planned on dropping out as soon as she'd saved up enough money for a car. Wren was in AP classes and always did his homework, even while claiming that he believed the world was a pointless waste of space that would inevitably sink into the black hole of humanity's filth.
"It's not for male pregnancy specifically," Wren said. "But you can tailor the spell to your needs. We could just add some fertility stuff to the potion. The spell is called The Equalizer, and it was invented by a witch who wanted the men in her town to bleed for a week like she did every month. It says here that it worked, but they didn't grow vaginas or anything, they just bled out their asses."
"Sweet," Henrietta said.
"It's worth a try," Wren said, shrugging. "If it's true that you really do have powers while you're pregnant with his kid, this could actually work, and if it doesn't we're only out some powdered horn of ox and chicken blood. All this other stuff is easy to find."
"So it's just a potion?" Henrietta said, pulling the book closer, though she couldn't read the words. "How do we get them to drink it?"
"We could dump some into the punch bowl at the next party Bebe Stevens throws," Wren said. "Those things are so crowded, and everybody gets so wasted – I bet nobody would even notice if we showed up."
"Yeah," Henrietta said, cringing at the thought of setting foot in one of those lame ass parties where all the little sheep at her school drank Coors Light and screwed each other in dark corners. "But what if girls drank it?"
"It says here that the witch tried to drink some so that it would have the opposite effect on her, you know, no more medieval-style sanitary products, but it did nothing. And who fucking cares what happens to the girls? You hate them, too."
"It's true," Henrietta said, tugging on her bottom lip. She thought of the girls who attended Bebe's parties – Wendy Testaburger, class president and foremost ass kisser of every teacher in school, who pretended to be all about feminism and self respect, even though everyone knew she'd let that bigoted misogynist fuck Eric Cartman eat her out on the class trip to the Grand Canyon two years back. Rebecca "Red" Hale went to those things, too, and she was the most insufferable, J. Crew-wearing asshole in the tri-county area, also captain of the cheerleading squad. Bebe was the only one Henrietta could stand, but just barely. She smoked cigarettes, drove a pick up truck, and had once complained to Henrietta, in the girls bathroom at school, that every hot guy in the senior class was turning gay, and that if she didn't get laid soon she was going to have to resort to the humiliation of fucking juniors.
"Let's do it," Henrietta said, and Wren smiled for the second time that day, which made her smile, too.
"Should we tell Ferris?" Wren asked.
"Fuck no," she said. Ferris had dropped out of school back in September when a teacher caught him smoking in the boys room and tried to discipline him. He'd been an asshole to Henrietta ever since she'd started sleeping with Damien, and he'd always been an asshole to Wren. "And don't tell him I'm pregnant, either," Henrietta said.
"You're going to keep it?" Wren said. She groaned.
"At least until some motherfuckers on the football team get pregnant, yeah."