Through the Cracks

Once inside his home, the door shut securely behind him, Cartman became acutely aware of how cold he was. His body wasn't working properly; his shaking legs barely supported him. He dragged himself up the stairs to his room and pulled on a pair of pants. With his shoes still on, he collapsed into his bed, cocooned himself in the blanket, and wrapped his arms tightly around his stuffed frog.

Hot chocolate was the only cure. "Mahm," Cartman called out, weakly. His mother did not come running to his side, so he tried a little louder. "Maaahm." Still no answer. "Maaaahm! I need you, goddammit!" Nothing. Fresh tears sprang to the boy's eyes. He wanted warm arms around him and hot chocolate in his belly. "Why is this happening to me, Clyde Frog?" he sobbed, giving the doll a squeeze. "Butters was the one with his uncle licking his poop chute, but those black assholes think I'm gay!" The half of his mouth next to Clyde Frog's face whimpered, "'Forget about it, Eric. Those guys know you're super kewl.'" Much as he loved Clyde Frog, Cartman wished he could hear words like that from someone else. One of the guys.

The pain in his groin was dulling away, but he placed a protective hand there. The day before, his hand happily explored. Now he felt ashamed. I liked touching my dick. Does that make me a fag? I don't like things in my ass. Except maybe that one time I got to fart on Kahl and he put his finger in there… but that was different. That memory never failed to make him smile just a little, to make his mind relax. This thong feels pretty good. I mean, looks good. I mean... He snuggled his face against Clyde Frog's as sleep overtook him.

The sky had gone completely dark before Ms. Cartman returned home. She spotted the damp footprints leading upstairs. "I hope Eric isn't too out of sorts because I wasn't here when he got home. He can be so temperamental sometimes." She put away the groceries she had picked up on the way home, including a case of doughnuts in a variety of shapes, sizes, and flavors. On days when she was called away for unexpected work, she usually came home with some chocolate frosted sympathy. Before going upstairs to check on her son, she remembered put her tip money into her purse. Several rumpled bills were tucked into the strap of her blue satin thong. At least their wallets were well-endowed, she thought, pleased with her take for the evening.

Upstairs, she knocked on her little boy's door. Hearing nothing, she opened the door and saw him deeply sleeping. "My little sweet pea." She wondered at him, not bothered in the least by the covers wound tightly around him or the drool seeping out one corner of his mouth. I hate to disturb him, but I wouldn't want him to miss his din-din. And I wonder how things went with his little boyfriend today? Gently, she slid down the covers and began to rub his shoulder.

The sensation caused Eric to awaken with a start. "No!" He thrashed, believing it was children's hands throwing him to the ground.

"Eric, shhh, it's alright," his mother cooed in his ear until he stilled. "Did you have a visit from the boogie man during nap-times?"

He sat up, looking cross. "No, no. I just came home and went to bed after having such a great day at skewl."

Ms. Cartman suspected that all was not well in the world of Eric, but she remained optimistic. "Did you? What happened with your special little friend today?"

That sore topic. "Well, Butters didn't say what I wanted him to, I got sent to the principal's office for no reason, and all the guys called me a fag. Does that sound like a great day to you?"

"Oh, Poopsie-kins." She ran a hand through his hair, half expecting him to swat her away. He did not. "Those boys need more time to mature before they can understand. And maybe Butters would open up more if you two had some time alone." She continued stroking him as he leaned against her.

Shame from the other boys getting the best of him, the only kind of shame he had ever experienced, still read on his face. From inside him, a lust for revenge began to build, but he continued to wear his piteous mask. He had worn it countless times to conceal his slow burning rage long enough to take down his tormentors. He looked past his mother and into the mirror, where he could see himself, as sweet as candy-coated chili. Bingo. I should get an award for this face. When his eyes landed on his Wellington Bear video camera, he was already forming a new incarnation of his plan. "Mahm, could you take me to Butters's' house? I was thinking maybe I should talk to him, so he knows there are no hard feelings."

Ms. Cartman pulled Eric in close. "Of course, hon. But I'm sure he'll understand if you still have some hard feelings for him. It doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you." She couldn't stand to see him disappointed. "Could I interest you in some waffle s'mores before we go?"

"Uh-huh. And hot chocolate, too?"

"And hot chocolate, too."

With his belly full, Cartman could concentrate on settling the score with Butters. Into his backpack, he stuffed everything he might need to stay the night with Butters: pyjamas, toothbrush, Snacky Cakes, video camera, night vision lens, zip ties, duct tape, Nyquil, tazer, and a few other odds and ends that happened to strike his fancy. "Butters doesn't want to talk? Now he won't have to. Kahl and the guys are going to see for themselves." He checked himself in the mirror once more, perfecting his innocent face before going downstairs. By now, he was practically salivating over exacting revenge and finally having his fun.

Even though Butters didn't always serve Cartman's purpose as planned, he had his bouts of usefulness. One handy trait was that Butters had a guileless expression ripe to be copied. Another of Butters' redeeming qualities was his pliability. No matter how many times he was grounded, he continued to be an affectionate son. And no matter what illicit activities Cartman lured him into, Butters was always open to new and more lurid misadventures. "Sex tape with his uncle tonight, tomorrow, who knows?" He looked himself up and down, letting his imagination go to work. "Washing my balls?" As he grabbed his backpack and turned to leave, something shiny caught his eye. A sparkly strap was visible on one of his hips; his pants were trapped under a layer of fat on his side. "Not yet, gorgeous," Cartman cooed, tucking the thong into his pants. "You'll have your chance to shine." Remembering to display his best impression of that Butters Stotch smile, he came downstairs, where his mother was waiting. Ideations of the wild acts he might capture on film – many of them ones he had accidentally witnessed his mother performing with her visiting gentleman friends – danced through his head as he buckled himself into the car next to her.

They pulled into the Stotches' driveway next to a black SUV that was not normally parked there. While Ms. Cartman gave him a mushy send-off, something about a raw genius zones, he dared to hope that his suspicion was correct. That's not his parents' car. Looks like it's just Butters and his uncle. And Eric makes three. Maybe if they think they're alone, they'll do something really sick and twisted.

"Have a nice time, Snookums," Ms. Cartman finished, giving her son Eskimo kisses before he slid out onto the driveway. He approached the door and raised his closed fist as if to knock, but only shook his arm silently until his mother's car turned onto the street and he was cloaked in darkness. Once hidden from sight, he padded around to the back of the house and reached into his coat pocket where he had hidden the laser pen from his Mission Impossible playset.