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Get Off At The Right Stop

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If there’s anything worse than sixth period algebra, it’s sixth period algebra on a motherfucking Friday, thinks Eric Cartman. It’s fifty-two minutes of boring, mind-numbing torture wedged right between the drudgery of the school week and the sweet salvation of the weekend. The clock on the classroom wall seems to crawl just that much slower when freedom is actually in sight.

Cartman rests his head on his hand, his ears automatically filtering out Mr. Stedman’s droning lecture about simplifying square roots, or whatever shitty topic it is today that Cartman gives no fucks about. His eyes roam around the classroom in search of something to keep himself entertained. He rolls his eyes as he skims over Kenny, who is still bundled in that stupid, orange, mouth-muffling parka of his. The poor bastard is the only student wearing headgear of any kind; hats are technically forbidden at school, but the teachers let Kenny get away with this (along with a lot of other shit)—probably out of pity since the kid’s so fucking poor. Cartman wonders why Kenny doesn’t spare himself the agony of sitting through class by just offing himself. Dude can die with impunity but what does he do? Waste his fucking lives in school. Lame!

Cartman toys with the idea of shooting a few spitballs at his immortal friend, but ultimately decides against it. Kenny’s protective parka makes the effort futile. If only Stan and Kyle shared this period with Cartman! The brunet snickers under his breath as he imagines the stupid Jew pawing clumps of saliva and phlegm out of his faggy ginger hair.

Cartman continues his lazy perusal of his classmates, and it’s only after a few long moments that he realizes he’s stopped to stare at one classmate in particular, even though said classmate isn’t really doing anything entertaining—in fact, he’s doing the opposite: attentively listening to the teacher and jotting down notes like the dumbass dweeb he is. Butters is possibly the only kid in the world who would choose to go by a nickname even more ridiculous than his actual given name. Cartman observes Butters nodding along to Mr. Stedman’s lecture, his hand, scabby from the way he constantly knocks his knuckles together, moving across his notebook almost nonstop. Good, Cartman thinks distantly, I’ll be able to copy off his notes later. Not that Cartman doubted Butters’s note-taking capabilities in the first place—if anything, the blond boy is the one who is always all too eager to share his notes with Cartman, alongside giving a totally unwanted dose of math tutoring to the brunet every afternoon. Cartman only allows it to happen because it’s as ample time as any to dish insults at his little minion. Besides, the look of Mr. Stedman’s shocked expression when Cartman had actually gotten an A- on his last test had been totally worth it.

Cartman is trying to think of a way to catch Butters’s attention so that they can ditch class together when he sees it. That tiny strain in Butters’s body, that furrow in his brow, that little jiggle of his leg. Would you look at that, the little shit needs to use the potty. Cartman had clearly told Butters not to drink so much chocolate milk at lunch, but did the retard listen? Obviously not. And only Butters would display his need so obviously, like some incontinent little fourth-grader. Cartman studiously ignores the notion in his mind that to the untrained eye, it actually isn’t so obvious—Cartman‘s just spent so much time around Butters that he’s learned to read his body language like a Playboy magazine. Cartman decides to make a game out of how long it’ll take for the blond to crack. Discreetly, Cartman fiddles with his phone in his pocket and starts the stopwatch. It reads 07:06.14 when Butters finally raises his hand.

“Do you have a question, Butters?” Mr. Stedman says, turning away from the chalkboard.

“Erm, well, yes I—I was just wonderin’ if I could use the bathroom,” Butters stutters in that weird, slightly Southern lilt of his. Some girls in the back of the classroom giggle, and whether it’s because they think the stupid crack in Butters’s voice is laughable or because they think he’s cute enough to fuck into next Friday, Cartman has no idea, but for some reason he has the sudden urge to slap the smiles off their stupid faces.

Mr. Stedman rolls his eyes. Butters is literally the only student left in the whole school who still bothers to ask permission. “You didn’t have to announce it to the whole class, Butters, this is high school, not kindergarten,” the teacher sighs. “Just go.”

“Why thank you, Mr. Stedman sir!” Butters chirps, shuffling out of his seat. The girls in the back of the classroom start giggling again, and Butters casts them them a confused look, oblivious to the fact that their laughter is at his expense. Several students in the front of the classroom turn their heads to roll their eyes at the bitches’ commotion, including Kenny.  But instead of glaring at the girls as expected, Kenny looks straight at Cartman, pinning him with a knowing stare. Despite the fact that most of his face is obscured from Cartman’s view, Cartman has known Kenny for so long that the latter’s hidden smirk couldn’t be any clearer. Cartman feels his rankles rising.

“The fuck you lookin’ at, fuckface?” Cartman barks at Kenny, effectively distracting everyone from Butters and the giggling girls. Kenny rolls his eyes and says something, but Cartman is too far away to hear the muffled mumbo jumbo properly.

“Eric, do you have something to share with the class?” Mr. Stedman asks impatiently.

“Oh, I wasn’t going to share, but if you insist,” Cartman says wickedly, and he can already see the regret in Stedman’s eyes for having asked, “I would also like to, hrm, use the bathroom. Oh, and in case you were wondering, it’s totally number two. In fact, it’s probably diarrhea.”

“Eric!” Stedman cried, sounding disgusted.  “You don’t have bathroom privileges, young man!” Oh, right. The school still remembered that time Cartman used needing to go the restroom as an excuse to attempting to set fire to the principal’s car.

“Oh really, Mr. Stedman?” Cartman challenges.  As if a bunch of school administrator pussies can stop me.  He strides to the back of the classroom, right next to the stupid girls who were giggling at Butters. “Because all that diarrhea is about this close to coming out of my asshole.” With zero shame, he pulls down his pants and positions his ass right above one of the girls’ desks. “Ohhhhh yeah. I can totally feel it comin’. It’s totally gonna like, explode out of my asshole like a motherfuckin’ rocket. Is that what you want, Mr. Stedman? You want my diarrhea to spray all over your classroom walls? Is that what you do when the students go home, you stay in your classroom and jerk off to the idea of your students shitting all over your motivational posters?”

The girls are now screaming and cowering as far away from Cartman’s asshole as they possibly can, and Cartman takes vindictive pleasure in their discomfort, letting out a few smelly farts for good measure. “That’s it, ladies. You know I used to have HIV, Mr. Stedman? Oh, I bet the press is gonna have a fucking field day when they find out a bunch of sluts got AIDS in your classroom.”

As Stedman and the rest of the class descend into chaos, Cartman forces himself to maintain a serious expression even though he’s guffawing on the inside. He knows there was no need to cause all this commotion just to convince the teacher to let him go to the bathroom (which, for the record, he doesn’t actually need to use), but what can he say?  He’s an asshole who loves mutiny and making people suffer.

The only one in class who appears unaffected is Kenny, who maintains his smirk and eye contact with Cartman. Cartman feels his good humor leaving him again. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters, already bored of his classmates’ antics and tired of Kenny’s gaze. “Screw you guys...”

He removes his ass from the girl’s desk and pulls up his pants, swaggering out of the classroom. The hallways are empty—Butters has probably already made it to the bathroom, oblivious to the chaos he left behind in class.  Cartman makes it all the way to the boys’ room without being disturbed. He loiters outside the door for a few moments, briefly debating whether or not he should go in. He ultimately decides to be benevolent for once and allow Butters to do his business in peace (part of the reason may be due to the traumatic experience in middle school during which Cartman accidentally startled Butters while the latter was peeing, causing him to flail wildly and spray the both of them with urine). In the meantime, Cartman considers the best approach to convincing Butters to ditch the remaining half hour of school and go fuck shit up somewhere else.  Threatening the kid had stopped working in middle school, when Butters had managed to adopt Professor Chaos’s spine in regular day-to-day life. 

Cartman whistles inanely as he waits for Butters to finish, but minutes drag by and no blond comes out of the bathroom.  Impatient, Cartman presses his ear against the door. Wendy walks out of the AP World History classroom in that prissy way of hers and enters the girls’ bathroom, throwing Cartman a look of deep dislike on the way. 

“Creep,” she mutters, glowering condescendingly at the way Cartman is pressed against the door.

“Bitch,” Cartman returns loudly, flipping her the bird.

It’s only when Wendy comes out of the girls’ bathroom (delivering yet another glare at Cartman; sooooo fucking predictable) that Cartman decides something’s fishy here.  It’s a plain and simple fact that boys don’t take as long to use the toilet as girls do—even the faggy boys like Butters...unless Butters is taking one hell of a shit in there.  In which case, Butters better wipe his damn ass because Cartman is tired of waiting.

Cartman is just about ready to barge into the bathroom and drag Butters out when something—call it instinct or whatever—comes over him, and he stalls.  Experience already dictates that he shouldn’t startle Butters mid-business, and yet he finds his own pudgy hands bracing the door gently and pushing it open as silently as he possibly can.  The janitor must have oiled the hinges recently, because it doesn’t even creak.

With one cursory glance, Cartman is able to determine that Butters isn’t standing next to any of the urinals or sinks.   Is he taking a shit after all?  There are four stalls in the school bathroom, and the doors to the first three are obviously open. 

The fourth is very conspicuously shut.

And Cartman can hear Butters inside, panting softly. 

Cartman has no illusions about what Butters is doing.  Cartman isn’t stupid, and he’s also a normal, healthy teenage boy with a penis.  Well...in retrospect, most certainly not a normal teenage boy, and certainly not that healthy either...but the fact that he has a well-functioning adolescent dick is not disputable. He also knows that Butters’s particular kind of heavy breathing at the moment is most certainly not a result of expelling feces through the butthole. 

As if in a trance, Cartman silently sidles across the bathroom floor towards Butters’s stall.  He winces when his shoe scuffs the wall and makes a dull thud, but Butters doesn’t seem to notice because the rhythm of his breathing doesn’t change. 

Cartman positions himself carefully outside the stall so that Butters doesn’t see his feet.  For once, the brunet concedes to himself that perhaps he should lose some weight, because hiding in the shadows would be much easier if he were slimmer.  Still, Butters fails to notice his friend’s bulky feet underneath the door. 

The fuck am I doing? Cartman wonders to himself.  This should be the part where he hightails the fuck outta here before he witnesses something completely gross.  Or, he should be barging into Butters’s stall and dunking that silly, blond, horny head into the toilet to teach the kid a lesson about masturbating in a place as public as school.  Instead, he’s inching towards the crack in the stall door like a motherfucking peeping Tom.  Being the selfish asshole that he is, Cartman isn’t at all hesitant about doing this for the sake of Butters’ privacy; it’s just that voyeurism (on a boy, no less) somehow seems, even out of all the things Cartman’s ever done, like a personal low. 

It’s not like I haven’t seen Butters’s schlong before , Cartman rationalizes.   I’ve even put it in my mouth.  But he quickly shuts down that line of thought.  The combination of the words seeing-Butter’s-schlong-and-putting-it-in-my-mouth is making something stir in pit of Cartman’s belly.

But then, Cartman is struck with the idea of how to spin the situation to his own benefit.  After all, he never did properly get back at Butters for the Britney Spears video incident back in fourth grade, and that was, quite possibly, Cartman’s worst humiliation ever (never mind the fact that Cartman had been the one who started it, what with A.W.E.S.O.M.-O and a thousand prior transgressions inflicted upon Butters’s person).  Anyway, revenge, motherfucker! Granted, years have passed since then, but revenge is a dish best served cold or however the fuck the saying goes.  Careful not to make any sound rustling his clothing, Cartman removes his phone from his pocket.  He closes the clock application he’d opened earlier and turns the camera on. He licks his parched lips, hastily wipes his sweaty fingers on his pants and, with slightly trembling hands, holds his phone up to the crack and starts recording.

The screen of Cartman’s phone provides him with a much better view of Butters’s exposed skin.  And golly, is it exposed .  Butters long ago abandoned the practice of pulling his pants all the way down and shirt all the way up when taking a piss, but apparently he hasn’t abandoned the practice when jerking off in the privacy of a stall.  The boy might as well be naked, save his shoes and socks and the clothing bunched underneath his armpits and around his ankles. Butters is facing away completely from Cartman, so the latter can’t see any dick, but Butters’s fine, round white ass is level with Cartman’s vantage point and only a few inches away.  Only when bombarded with so much of it so close does Cartman realize for the first time how pale Butters’s skin is. It’s probably an unhealthy symptom of all the time he spends confined to his room due to the Stotches’ crackpot parenting, but all Cartman can think of at the moment is how Stephen Stotch managed to breed a soft, tender, delicious-looking piece of meat.  Butters’s paleness, combined with his shock-blond hair and startling blue eye (the left one is milky and unseeing from the ninja star accident, and therefore doesn’t count), makes Butters almost offensively Aryan, if not for the fact that Butters is inoffensiveness incarnate.

“Hey there, Mr. Wiener,” Butters mumbles as he jerks his hand back and forth at a moderately fast pace.  It’s completely hidden from view, but Cartman can hear the soft squelching noises of Butters’s fingers gripping his cock.  “Aren’t’cha awful happy today, little feller?

“Awww, yes, Mister—Mister Butters sir,” Butters replies himself in an indulgent voice, while still making the effort to deepen his voice slightly.  Let it not be said that Butters doesn’t take roleplaying a bit too seriously. “I’m just—ecstatic, today.”

Cartman tries his best to steady his camera.  His body is shaking, but it’s not out of suppressed amusement.  He knows that he should find this funny.  What kind of retard still calls dicks wieners ?  What kind of loser talks to himself while jerking off?  Even worse, what kind of dork talks to his own goddamned penis and gives it an honorific?  In high school?  

This is comedy gold, Cartman, Cartman tells himself. Wait till I put this on the Internet.  South Park’s gonna have a fucking field day and Butters’ll be the ball.  Cartman feels his gut tighten in response to his internal dialogue, and it feels like someone’s lighting a match inside his pants.  What he still doesn’t feel is any urge to laugh.   

“You oughter be ashamed of yourself, Mister Wiener,” Butters says to his penis in his “normal” voice, oblivious to the discomfort he’s causing the friend who’s only a few feet away.  Somehow, Butters always manages to make Cartman suffer the most when he’s actually unaware of the latter’s presence. “You’re makin’ me miss Mr. Stedman’s lecture. Eric’s gonna be mighty angry if I miss the stuff that’s gonna be on the test.”

Cartman can’t help it; he lets out a squeak when he hears his own name uttered in Butters’s gravelly, aroused voice.  He’s horrified with the possibility that Butters might have heard him, and even more horrified that such a girly-sounding sound managed to escape his own lips.  He’s gonna have to edit out that part of the video.

Cartman doesn’t have time to worry about the latter, though, because it seems that Butters had indeed heard him.  The pale blond stiffens and turns his head slightly, eyes alert and ears straining. Cartman stuffs his fist into his mouth and holds his breath. 

Butters’s head is turned at an angle at which Cartman can now see a film of glistening sweat on the boy’s white, mostly unblemished face.  Of their entire age group, Butters had been the most successful at avoiding teenage acne. A few strands of blond hair are stuck to his forehead, and for a few breathtaking seconds Cartman is convinced that he is looking at threads of gold set upon white marble. 

Wh...what the actual fuck.  That...that had to be a trick of the light or something. 

Butters intently listens for disturbances for several seconds longer before turning away, taking the long silence as confirmation that the noise was just a fluke and his privacy remains uninterrupted.  If this were any other situation, Cartman would’ve ripped into Butters for his shitty vigilance, but the brunet concedes that it’s most likely not so easy to snoop for intruders when one is nearly naked with a hard wet cock out and flopping about. 

Cartman’s squeak seemed to have spooked Butters, though, because when the the golden-haired boy resumes jacking his dick, he does it at twice the previous speed, seeming intent upon finishing before he gets interrupted for real.  Cartman stares as Butters’s pearly white buttcheeks clench from the pleasure.

“F-f-fuck that Eric,” Butters growls with surprising aggression, and Cartman actually has to bite down on his own knuckles to keep from making noise.  “Fuck Eric, a-and his math notes, h-h-he can lick all my—all of Butters’ creamy goo for all I care.”

And Cartman—Cartman remembers .  That strangely intoxicating flavor of grape and bleach that is “Butters’ creamy goo”.  Cartman had sipped it out of a jar the last time; now he wonders how it would taste, fresh and warm from the source. 

“You’re a smart little rascal, Butters, you don’t need Stedman’s—motherfucking—help—to teach Eric how to solve an equation, nnngh,” Butters groans, sounding equal parts angry and aroused now.  “Y-you’re—you’re so good at doin’ math, Butters, just like you’re good at chokin’ your fuckin’ chicken."

Cartman can barely believe what he’s hearing.  He’s no stranger to jerking himself off, but whenever he did it, it was no work of art.   Passionate masturbation in it of itself sounds like a hilarious fucking oxymoron, yet here he is, a first-hand witness.  If Cartman didn’t know better, he’d say Butters was deliberately putting on a show. He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised by the display.  After all, if there’s anything Cartman knows about Butters, it’s that Butters never does anything half-heartedly.

Butters’s breathing is growing ragged; he continues to mutter to his own penis, but the garble is becoming unintelligible.  Cartman is somehow reminded of the muffled ramblings of a drunk, but Butters’s is much more concentrated. Purposeful.  Despite himself, Cartman finds himself straining his ears to hear whether Butters utters his name again.  From what he just witnessed, Cartman has no way of telling whether Butters is sexually attracted to him, or if Cartman’s name had slipped out due to circumstance. Prior to today, Cartman hadn’t truly given a fuck; Butters had always been a whiny little fag anyway, and if the blond was attracted to Cartman specifically—well, that only made for an even more loyal minion, and ultimately played to Cartman’s favor. 

But right now, Cartman isn’t satisfied with maybes.  He wants to know.  He is practically restraining himself from making his presence known to Butters, just to see if the latter would blow his load at the sight of him.

Butters parts his legs slightly wider as his hand speeds to a mad pace.  He throws his head back, and Cartman can just barely make out the top of Butters’s forehead and the tips of his gleaming eyelashes. 

Then, Butters’s entire body trembles and spazzes.  The boy quickly turns towards the toilet and ejaculates.  His lips are parted as he lets out a long, pleasured exhale.  For the first time today, Cartman is afforded a view of Butters’s schlong.  It looks like Butters really does “choke his chicken”, because his scabby hand is wrapped so tightly around his cock that it looks painful.  His balls are pulled taut against his body as he spurts a steady stream of white cum. Cartman can’t help but feel that it’s a waste for all that creamy goo to be going down the toilet. 

It takes a few long moments for Butters to fully finish, and Cartman is reminded that this is the same kid who managed, as a fourth grader, to produce enough semen to make an entire business enterprise out of it.  Puberty certainly hasn’t diminished his production capabilities.

Butters stays panting over the toilet bowl after he’s done, waiting for his cock to soften.  His eyes are hooded with content, and there are splotches of red coloring his cheeks.  Any sign of aggression he exhibited while masturbating is completely gone.  Cartman’s grown up enough to know that yes, Butters is more than capable of anger (scarily so), but he just never pegged Butters to be the angry horny type. 

Cartman is getting really tired of how long Butters is taking just standing there.  He wishes the blond would at least just pull his pants up. The self-satisfied expression on Butters’s face is also pissing Cartman off, because it only serves to remind Cartman how much he himself is not satisfied.  The spark of warmth in his pants has turned into a full-blown California wildfire by now, and there’s no way Cartman can alleviate his discomfort without making a some kind of sound that would immediately give his hiding spot away.  The friction of his boxers rubbing against it in his tightly-zipped pants really isn’t helping douse the flames, either. 

The reaction’s entirely biological, Cartman repeats to himself like a mantra.   It’s like watching a porno on the weird side of the Internet.  It makes you laugh out loud and grosses you out but by the end of the day you end up hard.

Eventually, Butters begins cleaning himself up.  He tears off some toilet paper and wipes his hands with it.  Then he tears off some more and starts wiping his dick.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, Mr. Wiener,” Butters says affectionately.  It’s immature and stupid, and it’s making Cartman even more...uncomfortable.   Biological, bio-fucking-logical! he insists to himself.

After what seems like a ridiculously long time spent pampering his softening cock, Butters finally, finally lets his shirt down and pulls up his pants.  He tosses the soiled paper into the toilet and pulls the flush. 

Taking advantage of the noisy sound, Cartman quickly ducks into the third stall and climbs onto the toilet.  He pulls his feet up onto the seat just as Butters exits his stall. Butters walks right past Cartman’s stall without the slightest inkling that someone might be inside it.

Cartman curses under his breath as Butters takes his time washing his hands like a goddamn girl, singing “If You Leave Me Now” all the while.  Butters has been obsessed with that song since elementary school.  Cartman rolls his eyes when Butters’s voice cracks on the high notes and wonders if it would kill the kid to keep his mouth shut for five fuckin’ minutes.

The moment Butters exits the bathroom, Cartman slumps off the toilet and onto the floor in a heavy, undignified heap, no longer bothering to stay quiet.  He reaches out his arm to slam and lock the stall door shut. He’d get out of the goddamn bathroom, but he can’t—on account of the gargantuan (if he may say so himself) bulge pulsing in his pants.  He glances at his phone, which is still recording.  He quickly ends the video.

“Fuuuuuck,” he groans.  “Fuck!” He’s tempted to bash his head against the wall until his boner goes away, or, more preferably, he dies.  He’s uncomfortable and confused and has never envied Kenny’s power more. Unlike Butters, Cartman is not at all happy to see his own wiener, and since he’s not doing anything at all to relieve its tension, Cartman’s pretty sure his wiener isn’t happy to see him, either.

Cartman briefly considers using the next five, ten minutes to let his penis deflate on its own, but that would mean that Butters had inadvertently gotten him hard for absolutely no reason at all and that rubs Cartman the wrong way.  “Fuck this, I do what I want,” he mutters, standing up and unzipping his fly in one rough motion.

He tries to let his imagination wander as he spits in his hand and pulls out his hard cock.  For a few minutes he thinks of Wendy’s tits, only because he knows it would make the bitch mad as fuck if she knew that Eric Cartman was using her as masturbation material.  But he soon grows bored of it, so he instead thinks about the look on Scott Tenorman’s face at the precise moment he realized he was eating his parents. That shit was fucking amazing .  It gets him going again pretty quickly, but then it gets old just as fast.  Discouraged, Cartman looks down at his hand moving back and forth across his dick and is struck by the monotony of the routine.

No way.  No way in fucking hell am I gonna talk to myself like a stupid schizo while I beat it.  That’s Butters’ job.

Butters

Aw, fuck.

Recollections of Butters’s marble white buttocks and gravelly voice come flooding back into Cartman’s mind.  Mentally, he tries to stop it, but Cartman can already feel his hand automatically speeding up, and it actually starts to really feel good .  Then he remembers the newly-recorded video on his phone.  Drunk on sexual frustration, Cartman turns his phone down to the lowest volume and plays it.  He holds his phone up to his ear so that he can hear Butters’s voice. He starts jacking himself to the rhythm of Butters’s heavy breathing.

And then he cums, suddenly and violently, when Butters utters his name. 

“Fuck!” Cartman swears aloud. 

He cannot fucking believe what he just did.  He just orgasmed, at school, in the middle of the school day, to Butters fucking Stotch.  There’s really no way he can spin this tale to make it seem any less faggy, or pathetic.  Horrified, Cartman stares down at the phone in his hand like it’s cursed.

“Cursed,” he breathes.  That’s it, this video is fucking cursed. The government probably installed some weird voodoo tech into people’s phones and is using them to control the population’s libidos. Cartman’s finger hovers over the “Delete” button, prepared to wash his hands of the video once and for all and put this entire episode behind him.

But he’s reminded of why he took the video in the first place.  It there’s one thing about Eric Cartman, it’s that he really hates leaving business unfinished once he’s started it.  Scowling, he removes his finger from the trash can symbol, moving instead to “Edit”.  He cuts out the part of the video where he’d startled Butters with his girlish squeak.  When he shares the final product on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram—PornHub, too, for good measure—Butters’s humiliation will be so complete that the little turd will probably kill himself or something, and then Cartman will truly have his hands clean of the aggravating blond.

But then Cartman envisions everyone—Wendy, Bebe, Jimmy, Clyde, Tweek, Craig, Kenny, Stan, the Jewish bitch, and some middle-aged pedophilic fag eating potato chips in their den—with their eyes glued to their computer screens as they listen to Butters growling Eric’s name—and Cartman doesn’t feel any vindictive pleasure at all.  He feels a wave of vindictive possessiveness.

So he decides not to post the video on the Internet, either. 

Fed up, Cartman jams his phone into his pocket and hastily cleans himself up.  He bangs the stall door open and leaves the bathroom without washing his hands, because he doesn’t have fucking OCD. 

He doesn’t bother returning to Stedman’s class—not that he’d ever intended to.  However, he had intended to ditch with his pathetic blond sidekick by his side.  But Cartman ends up sneaking off school campus all by his lonesome.  He desperately yearns for the company of someone to distract him from his own thoughts, but who besides Butters would—or could—fill that role?

He’s in no mood to throw shit at hobos or anything else.  Cartman goes straight home.


Butters Stotch 2:13pm

Hey Eric, I couldn’t help but notice that u were missing for the second half of algebra today we learned about multiplying and dividing square roots!!!! U still coming over later to study?

Butters Stotch 2:37pm

Just got home :)

Butters Stotch 3:23pm

Mom’s makin cookies :P I know u like choc chip

Butters Stotch 5:02pm

Ure bein awful quiet today

Did something happen?

Butters Stotch 5:15pm

Oh hamburgers are you up to something bad Eric?

Wait don’t tell me nothin about it!!!

I ain’t helping you this time

I really mean it

I really rally men it

*really mean

Butters Stotch 6:28pm

You’re still welcome to come over Eric

Mom’s making dinner and it’ll be ready in 15

Dad’s coming home at 8:30 tho u have to leave by then or I’m grounded

Again :/

Butters Stotch 8:43pm

Ok dad just got back so I guess I’ll see u over the weekend

Butters Stotch 9:53pm

Eric?

 

Cartman groans when his phone pings again at midnight.  Kyle, Stan, Kenny, and Butters combined have sent him enough texts over the course of the afternoon and evening to blow up his phone.  Butters and Kenny are especially bad, since the two of them only got their phones recently (Butters because his dad is insane, Kenny because he’s so fucking poor); they run their text messages like they run their mouths.  Cartman has studiously ignored them all.

With a groan, he rolls over in bed (which he’s barely left since coming home from school) and grabs his phone from the nightstand.  He hopes the latest message isn’t Butters again. Every time Butters’s name shows up on his screen, he’s reminded of the video still sitting innocently in his Camera Roll.  Not that he hasn’t been thinking about it already.

Speak of the devil; it turns out to be Butters after all, who has sent Cartman several jpegs containing all the notes he took in Stedman’s class today.  His handwriting is cramped and slanted, but neat. He’s labeled the notes with three different-colored highlighters. One would never be able to tell that Butters had left in the middle of the lesson to go masturbate. It’s sickening.  Cartman rolls his eyes and is about to toss his phone away when Butters starts typing again..

 

Butters Stotch 12:03am

Sweet dreams eric

 

In a moment of weakness, Cartman feels a pang of pity for the kid and decides not to leave him hanging for the night.

 

Eric Cartman 12:04am

Wat r u, my wife????

 

It’s neither insult nor assurance, and it’s only after he’s hit “Send” that it occurs to Cartman that he should have used literally any other word other than “wife”.  He could’ve said “butler”, or "stalker", or even “slave”. He wants to slap himself.

Butters doesn’t reply, and even though Cartman knows that it’s probably because Stephen Stotch enforces a strict No-Phones-After-Midnight policy on his son, he can’t but feel slightly uneasy.