#muse; eric: screw yew guys ! i’m going home !

[howdyneighborr]

"I see you finally grew a pair. But did it drop yet?" Craig snickered. What he means is he's surprised at the fact that Cartman has finally decided to grow the hell up and move away from all the shit he had caused in the past. Craig however won't forgive him yet still, but maybe just maybe he'll give him one last chance to stop being such a douchebag as he was when they were children. (From supercreig. I couldn't resist ;.;)

-> @supercreig [moved from @screwyewguys;] [ ask box; open -> x ]

❝Shut the hell up, Craig.❞ Eric folded his heavy arms over his broad chest. His eyes, brown and eerily streaked with pale blue around the left iris, glared up at the taller man. Suspicion slithered over his round face. What did Craig Tucker want with him. Years had passed between them without much more than a ❛Hey, wassup.❜ Yet, right in front of him now stood the biggest douchebag in Park County. And he wanted to talk about Eric's balls? Oh yeah, Cartman knew he had a huge set himself, but Craig needed a fucking wheelbarrow to lug his around, if he instigated this interaction just to try to bully Eric. ❝Should I call you the ambulance now, or give you a chance to apologize? I'm feeling generous today. Speak. What do you want?❞

[howdyneighborr]

"Uh, no you weren't." Eric scoffed, pinching off that silly idea of Stan's before it even had a chance to fully blossom. Wasting money on a hangover-in-a-bottle without a spectacularly wild night out on the town? Cartman liked to pretend he couldn't entertain the idea of belittling himself that way. But he was also fucking dramatic, as anyone and everyone knows. He had found his way to the bottom of a bottle of cheap swill a time or two, or ten. But never when he intended to share the alcohol and the experience. Standards, Stan, he thought, we need to have a conversation about standards. His name was right there in the word for chrissakes.

"Look, I'm the last guy to pander to your self-sabotage. I don't care if you want to drink yourself into a coma. But if you're drinking with me, you aren't getting fucked up on nasty shit like that. And just because your self-respect is all over the floor and back of your hand, that doesn't mean I'm going to lower my standards," he shouted over his shoulder.

His eyes darted around his immediate surroundings, looking for the small cloth that Stan had requested. He assumed with the proximity to the sink, there had to be a fucking towel handy somewhere. While he searched, the fatter man listened to Stan pouring his heart out on top of his already-emptied guts. Eric had a big heart (Fuck you, not just an enlarged heart.) and he didn't always didn't like to admit that, but it was currently breaking for his friend. 

Fuck. Fuck this. Fuck Kyle. And fuck Stan for being so stupid.

Not that Eric had much more room to talk. If anything, he knew those feelings as good as, or better even than, Stan did. Cartman and Kyle had had their fair share of rounds in the ring. Usually between the redhead's stints with the man currently swimming in his own bodily fluids on the floor. Unfortunately. Eric sighed to himself and grabbed the hand towel. He turned around, flourished the piece of fabric, and rested a hand on his hip. "Stan? Know that I'm sooo super-duper coming from a place of love and endearment when I say this, because it's going to hurt." He marched his stubby legs towards the crumpled pile of dude. "Sweetie, baby, honey," Eric cooed condescendingly and threw his arm out, dangling the towel just within Stan's reach. Though, he was going to have to work to get it. "It is your fault. But here's the good news, that means you are in control. Not that fucking asshole."

     @screwyewguys  〢  cont from here .

Stan didn’t expect to be so faded by the time Cartman arrived, either, but the shots got away from him, like they usually did.  His pre-drinking had turned into drinking drinking, and a slight twinge of guilt twisted in his chest over that fact.  But for the most part, he didn’t care.  He had paid for it and was entitled to do what he liked with it.  Whether or not any of his seven bucks ended up in Cartman’s stomach was far from his chief concern.

Still, he relinquished the bottle when Cartman grabbed for it.  Not that he was given much choice—the other man was a little forceful, and Stan was in no place to grip onto anything.  He didn’t complain, though, until Cartman uttered his disgusted about the tequila being awful, cheap shit.  It was true that Randy would be disappointed in him for going so cheap, which was part of why he did it.

He didn’t want to be his father who dressed his booze intake up in some ritzy, cultural bullshit.  Stan wanted to make it clear that he was getting plastered, sloshed, off his face, not doing a wine tasting or whatever that stupid German word was.  He wanted to put everything out on the table, his messiness, his hurt—a miserable cry for help that would never be answered, but which felt good to make, nonetheless, however petulant it was.

“I didn’t wanna spend a lotta money,” he grumbled.  “Once you get far enough into the bottle, it stops mattering whether or not it’s—hey!”

Cartman cut him off by draining the bottle into the sink, and Stan tried to scramble to his feet to stop him, but he didn’t get much farther than onto his knees before the speed and exertion knocked him face-down on the floor.  He put his hand flat against it, trying to slow its tumultuous revolutions.  The world around him flashed violently blue, and for a moment, he forgot where he was and what they were talking about, lost in the anticipation of that usual harsh ejection.  It was upon him in another instant, and he barely pulled his head up in time to stop it from getting in his hair.  It pooled on the kitchen tile and coated the back of his right hand, the alcohol scalding him worse on the way back up than it had going down, and it was revealed just how little he head eaten since he took to the bottle.

“Whoa,” he muttered, followed by a low groan and some quiet explicatives as he leaned away from his mess and wiped his hand off on his dark jeans.  He reached his unsullied hand out to Cartman and beckoned.  “Hand me a towel?”  Just not the towel, please.

“I was gonna finish that, you know.”  He was slightly more clearheaded with some of the tequila out of him (emphasis on slightly), and thoughts came a bit easier to him.  “Maybe not right now,” he added sheepishly, a bald-faced lie he felt obligated to tell on account of the mess he just made.  “But eventually.”

They had gotten off-track, which was mostly Cartman’s fault because Stan would not have gotten sick if the fat bastard left his alcohol alone.  All right, well, he would not have gotten sick as quickly.

“As for Kyle,” he said, shrugging, the name more acidic on his tongue than the bile had been, “I dunno.  He was good before.  He was really good.  I keep waiting for him to go… back…”  It was stupid, he knew that, everyone told him.  The Goth Kids had told him all about how pathetic his obsession with Kyle was already.  That’s not very goth of you.  Do you want to be goth, or do you want dick?  And Stan had half-jokingly and half-truthfully answered, ‘Dick.’

“It’s my fault,” came the strangled admission, tears welling up in storm blue eyes.  “It’s my fault.  He changed when I did.  He got bad when I did.  If I wasn’t so… like I am, then he would have stayed…”  Stan almost said he would have stayed good, but no, he would have stayed at all.  “It’s my fault.”  He exhaled sharply through his nose, expelling a clump of vomit onto the front of his shirt, and fought desperately to retain his coherence.  “So, I can’t give up on him because it’s all me.  If I get better, then he’ll… then he’ll…”  But then Stan trailed off and stared tearfully at the puddle of puke he left, suddenly unsure that his problems had such a simple solution.

[howdyneighborr]

’ We killed eight people and stole a property and nobody cared. ’ - kenny to cartman :3c

@dustified; saw sentence starters -> [ x ]

❝ C’mon, Kenny– You act like we did that stuff on purpose. Well, the grand theft auto wasn’t an accident, but it was totally necessary… And hella fucking sweet, dude. Don’t act like it wasn’t cool as shit. ❞ Eric belly-laughed and kicked his feet up on the dashboard, pressing the toes of his shoes against the frosted glass. ❝ And no one’s going to find out – unless —; we want them to. ❞ He turned his eerie blue-brown stare to the other and a grin curled up his cheeks. Eric bit his lip.

[howdyneighborr]

(@friendscfmine) Christophe: ’ You may not remember me, but I most certainly remember you. ’ (for cartman >:3)

@friendscfmine

A mask of disinterest hardened over Eric's face. What exactly was he supposed to do with that information? A manicured and thin eyebrow arched, cracking the shell of his facade. An ounce of piqued curiosity dribbled down from the metaphorical fissure.

If he supposedly didn't remember this dude (he didn't), then why should Eric care if he remembered him? Maybe one of them owed the other money.

With the prospect of acquiring (or losing) potential wealth, Cartman finally opened his big mouth, ❝I'm a busy man, so can you maybe be fifty percent less cryptic? I don't have all day. Who the fuck are you?❞

[howdyneighborr]

“Dude, seriously. You have to fuckin’ calm the hell down. I hate looking at you when you do that.”

Eric’s mismatched eyes narrowed and the corners of his Cupid’s bow mouth curled away from his teeth in disgust; at the weirdly-topped slice of pizza in his hand, and at Tweek’s overreaction to the harmless question. Jesus, the skinny blonde acted like Cartman had called his mom a stupid slut or something ridiculous—but not completely out of character for him. Blue-brown swirls rolled around in their sockets, but Eric could be a good sport. 

“It’s just hhhnnn pineapple,” he mocked under his breath, in that trademarked nasally whine.

He didn’t have to prove anything, oh–but he would. Just for Tweek. So the little nutjob would stop being so weird and spastic about a fucking pizza. He eyed the chunks of yellow fruit. Seriously, it couldn’t be that bad. He liked pineapple– but did he like hot… cheesy… slimy… mushy– He covered his mouth with a fist and gagged, turning his head away from Tweek. His tongue rolled out of his mouth and he screwed his eyes shut, cartoonish and dramatic. 

“Weak. Gross,” he grumbled to himself. A nauseated shudder shook his spine, but Eric drew in a quick, deep breath through his nostrils and exhaled just as fast. Steadily, he raised the slice up to his lips. It’s just pizza, he reminded himself. “Just the tip…” he whispered.

The fat man opened his mouth and pushed food inside, tearing away a bigger-than-anticipated bite. He fucking got the pineapple in there alright. Hck!! He chewed and tried to keep the contents of his mouth from ejecting. It– Actually wasn’t terrible. Once he forced himself past the hot-vomit smell where the stinky cheese combined with the highly-acid pineapple, he could enjoy the sweetness and the creaminess blending together on his palate. It wasn’t a Thin-Crust Pepperoni Lovers’ Pizza from the Hut—the world’s most superior pizza chain—by any means, but it was definitely… edible?

“Deadass– I think this would be better cold,” he said with his mouth full after taking a second bite. He chewed slowly and waited, silently gauging Tweek's reaction. He braced himself, ready to match the volatility.

▸   @screwyewguys​   ⟶   ❛  (( @ tweek )): “What the hell did you put on that pizza? 😡”  ❜   ╱   (  about pizza , accepting .  )

Tweek hated the way he bristled when Cartman confronted him about the pizza toppings.  He had hoped to be past his fear of the guy by now, to have grown more of a spine, but tremors rocked his entire body at the other man’s severe tone.  Logic dictated that they weren’t kids anymore, and Cartman couldn’t do anything to him, but the less reasonable part of himself, the part that won out more often than not, said, Oh, yes, he can, and in fact, it will be worse now that he’s an adult.  If Cartman was bad as a child and kept Tweek up all night making hats or very nearly getting him involved in murder, there was no telling what he could do now that he had access to all of the resources and wisdom that most people their age did.

But Tweek was grown, too, and he couldn’t just let Cartman walk on him.  “It’s just—hhn—p-pineapple…” he said, distraught that he couldn’t sound less wavering and small.  Maybe it was his mistake for thinking the fatass could and would eat anything you put in front of him, but Tweek had a right to get what he liked as well.  Not everything was about Cartman, and he didn’t often get to have anything other than gas station pizza, unlike the aforementioned fat fuck, who probably had it every other day.

Tweek failed to look as indignant and strong-willed as he would have liked, huge green eyes more so imploring Cartman not to take it away from him, curled in on himself around his slice as if protecting it from a violent gale.  “It’s—it’s one of the only t-toppings that d-d-doesn’t tear my—nng—stomach up…”

[howdyneighborr]

"What the fuck are you saying to me right now?" The incredulity in Eric’s tone rang from his chest. He could feel the heat rising from under his collar, but he maintained control over just how much his body responded to the surmounting anger. He didn’t understand Craig’s poor attempt to verbally eviscerate him. 

“No, I haven’t been to a goddamn mental asylum.” Therapy, yeah. Psychiatrists, sure. But most people he knew had some type of bi-weekly–or monthly, at the very least–appointment to work through their piles and piles of childhood trauma. Craig’s stupid comments were rapidly regressing years of anger management classes. “And don’t call me fat, you limped-dick homo. Apologize for being a huge piece of shit for no reason. How old are you again?” 

His previous threat began to seem less and less like a warning and more like a promise.

"Apologize for what? For your testicles not dropping? Given your attitude, I can only assume that they still have yet to still drop."

Craig couldn't help but laugh again. Despite being a grown adult now, it still amused Craig how very easily Eric would get offended over every little thing and yet he was the one who made a hell lot more enemies than Craig has when they were kids. His mother really had to spoil him that much to the point of hardly even being able to take care of himself, especially if things don't go his way.

Should he mention that he's with the law? Maybe not now. It wouldn't hurt to have a little bit of fun. Plus knowing how much freetime Eric totally has these days, Craig figured he would probably figure it out himself sooner, later, or eventually. If Craig wanted to, he could have had Eric arrested already for all the crimes he had caused, or maybe even have him sent to some mental asylum. Come to think of it...

"Look, I want nothing from you, fatso. I just thought something looked a little different about you. Have you gone to a mental asylum? If so, I would hope you had a great time there and had all the time to reflect on all the shit you've done." Part of him was really hoping Eric had changed if he really had gone to a mental asylum or did his time in prison again. Craig couldn't keep track of all the times Eric may have gone to jail. Infact, being a forensic technician and having his own office as well as lab at the police station, Craig could look through the files of Eric Cartman and see exactly what crimes he has committed that lead to him going to jail if he wanted to. Eric hasn't done anything yet though... Yet... So Craig had no reason to go through Eric criminal records and such.

[howdyneighborr]

Childhood friends; that's what they'd been. Eric didn't even bat an eye when saw the newsreel of "Leopold 'Butters' Stotch, also known by his alias Vic, or Victor Chaos" being led around in handcuffs by SWAT-geared beefcakes. He wasn’t surprised that the names of his parents were first two on the victims list. Although, the revelation of his body count did cause a twitch and an arch in the man's round face. 'Nine people? Jesus Christ, Butters,' he remembered whispering to himself in his quiet apartment. As if there weren't folders of unscrupulous paperwork strewn across his dining room table less than twenty feet away from his back.

He also remembered thinking, 'That's why you gotta be extra nice to the weird kids in school. Or else, you end up on their fucking hit list.' And Eric had always paid Butters a special kindness that he rarely gave anyone else. Many of his youthful friendships had become estranged, either through distance or mutual aggravation. So Eric never reached out to any of the old gang to sniff out any extra, juicy details or even ask after Butters and if anyone had heard from him. He silently kept up with the trial, the developments in the story, the sentencing all while metaphorically shaking his head at how society could create monsters like that. 

Meanwhile, he remained ignorant to the fact that the IRS was closing in on his scheme and sending law enforcement to his own doorstep. His own arrest and trial were much less of a public spectacle, but there were plenty of people getting off on the idea of Eric Cartman finally getting his Just Desserts. Even if not for his most heinous crimes and behavior. Particularly the judge who slapped him with the maximum sentence for what he could be charged with. And then claimed his prison placement on "overcrowding". 

Eric watched Butt– er, Vic trace his stubby nub of graphite across his surreptitious leaf of paper. He learned to stop asking questions months ago. The lesson taught to him by either ending up on the wrong end of a rusty threat or by leaving the conversation more confused than he entered it. Both reactions he could easily see himself experiencing in regards to the blonde psychopath in his bunk. However, just because the fat man ceased making inquiries, that didn't mean they didn't stop popping up in his head. If Butters… If VIC had connections, if he had access to contraband like pencils and paper, Eric could see the potential there. He was just post-shit musing, anyway. He leaned forward and curled his fat fist around the proffered TP.

"Thanks, Beautiful Mind."

He arched his back as he reached around to wipe the shit out of his fat cheeks and flush the disgusting waste away. After a moment of back pain, Eric finally stood and shimmied his state-issued pants back up over his thick legs. The waistband dug uncomfortably into his padded hips, but he had also gotten used to that, too. Complaining about shit here didn't help. And he had thought juvie was bad.

"Yeah, yeah. I missed you, too, Butters. But can you cool it with the serial killer smile? I already have trouble sleeping on these shitty mattresses as it is without thinking about you staring at my unconscious body with that creepy fucking look on your face." He walked over to join Vic on his bed with a whuff as his mass crash landed. His legs were still a bit tingly and he wasn’t ready to make the trek to the top bunk.

"I guess I can agree," he sighed reluctantly in the middle of his thought, "that it's comforting to at least be in this shithole with a familiar face." Eric turned his head a bit to observe the other man, perhaps even with a bit of fondness.

     @screwyewguys  〢  cont from here .

Vic was drawing, laying on his stomach, turned away from the front of the cell so that guards wouldn’t catch him with a number 2 pencil in hand.  Anything with a point was contraband, especially for him, especially after the last incident.  But in a place like this, there were still ways of getting what you wanted, and Vic stored his treasured utensil in a small makeshift sling under his bed where it would not be easily spotted when the mattress was flipped.

Looking at his doodles of kittens, and looking at him and the blissful way he hummed over them, few people would guess that his body count was sixteen.  He’d only been convicted of nine, including both his parents, the first two.

Vic gripped his pencil forcefully and stared at Eric with vacant eyes when the other man spoke to him.  He could feel the implement piercing a flimsy layer of skin, gliding through fat, splintering in the arteries, his friend’s blood glittering like rubies on his hands and face and walls of their cell.  He had been tempted, when he got his first taste of blood, to march right over to Eric’s house and kill him for years of torment inflicted.  He actually did walk all the way there and climbed the fence into the backyard.  It was sleeting, and Victor Chaos stood there, soaked through to his skin but not noticing the cold.

No sooner had he resolved to go inside, he felt a warmth radiating from him—Butters—and realized how many goosebumps dotted his arms.  Eric was his friend, Butters’ friend.  He was Vic now, but some part of him would always be Butters Stotch, and that part would always adore and admire Eric, no matter how much of a huge bully he was.

Besides, if he killed Eric now, the guards would burst in and seize his presently most beloved possession, which he was nowhere near ready to give up.  His kitten drawings were one of the few solaces he had left—well, except for the man on their cell toilet, of course.

“Sure!” he beamed sunnily at his best buddy, all his homicidal impulses dripping off of him like that sleet from back in the day.  He handed Eric the aforementioned scraps, then sat up, tucking the pencil under the mattress for easy retrieval later.  He did not want to put it fully back in its sling yet.

“You know, I’m really glad you’re in here with me, Eric.  I don’t think they usually put people like us together, but I’ve missed you every day since I got put away!”  Vic’s imprisonment had been huge news for the sleepy town of South Park, a violent serial killer in their midst, but somehow, Eric missed the entire thing, the arrest, the trial, all of it.  He did not care for the news much, apparently.

“I thought about writing you a letter, but I didn’t think they’d let me.”  The guards read his mail before sending it out, and honestly, Vic didn’t trust himself not to write something too disturbing to actually be posted.  “But now you’re here, and I can talk to you every day!”

[howdyneighborr]

“What was fucking what? My threat? My murder attempt?” Eric scoffed. Fucking Craig. 

“Dude, you are such a fucking fag. Just look at your pathetic–unfortunately successful–ploy to piss me off. You knew I would come over here and wring your tiny fuckin’ neck. You just didn’t know how to piss me off— Until you did,” he rambled while staring straight ahead. The wrist in Craig’s grip twisted and squirmed, trying to break free with little effort. The thumb of his unrestricted hand dug into the soft side of Craig’s skull, his temple, and massaged in slow and menacing circles. Cartman continued, “And you did a good job at being the absolute biggest and worst piece of shit that I have ever met. For your effort, I thought I would engage you in one of your intricate rituals.” Cartman finally lowered his soft chin and sneered down at Craig, whose head he still had delicately cushioned in the soft cradle of his fleshy thighs. 

“I hate you, too. You are distracting. Intentionally. Like my old cat, Mr. Kitty, or something. Knocking shit over at dinner time or trying to steal my food.” Eric’s free fingers carded absently through Craig’s dark hair, pulling the strands away from the front of the other man’s face. Nothing more than stimulation to calm himself down. Touching Craig meant as much to him as squeezing a glob of slime dumped from a cheap, plastic container or flipping switches on a fidget toy with a bunch of different clicking and clacking settings. Eric needed to keep his hands off of his gaming equipment while his rage spike decrescendoed. And well, since Craig had caused it by being a human turd, he deserved a moment as Cartman’s plaything— totally as a punishment.

“You’re getting your gross, homo cooties all over my bed, too. All over it. All, Craig. ALL!!” The more times he repeated himself, the more he hoped the word annoyed Craig. Really drove that message home. Not that Eric wanted his mattress at the moment, but that wasn’t the point! He didn’t appreciate that he didn’t have the option to use his own stuff. Craig had the huge-est pair of nuts to abuse Cartman’s space and diss his Skillz. The urge to rebalance the scales ebbed, however. Lucky Craig. “You suck at games, bro.” Sweet ball-busting finisher, Eric.

     @screwyewguys  〢  cont from here .

Craig would take no responsibility for Cartman’s temper and could not relate to him getting so worked up about video games at all.  Even when Craig died in video games, he simply clicked his tongue and waited to respawn.  The most upset he had ever gotten was when he had trekked through an RPG for an hour and a half, and it crashed on him, and upon realizing he had not saved in all that time and had to do a difficult fight all over again, he put the controller down and walked away from it.  He came back to it later and easily recovered his lost progress, and in less time than it had taken him on the first go-around.

If Cartman broke any of this things, that would be entirely on him.  Craig got a little snicker out of his friend’s completely predictable outburst, though.

“I do hate you,” he teasingly doubled-down.  He had been saying that his whole life, that he hated Cartman, and people asked him why he hung out with the guy at all if that was the case.  Tweek had even once called him out on not hating, but rather being mildly obsessed with Cartman, and while he wouldn’t go that far, sure, he liked the guy.  It was probably because they were made of the same shit.  Craig didn’t know what the shit was, and they had it mixed around differently inside of them and in different amounts, but it was the same shit, regardless.  They understood it about each other, whatever they had inside of them that tended to repulse almost everyone else, and it forged a mutual respect between the two.

Respect did not equate to civility, though, and they had to occasionally (often) outwardly disrespect each other to keep the other man’s ego in check.  Craig found himself doing it much more often and much more effectively than Cartman most of the time, but it still went both ways.  The ‘faggy’ remark, for example, was attempt at revenge for the disrespect Craig had shown him by taking up the entire bed.  Unfortunately, his actions did him no favors to that end.

When Cartman leaned over and smothered him, Craig pushed back, hands sinking into the other’s soft sides.  Maybe he would not have been as opposed to it if he had been expecting it, but the sudden darkening of his vision and the feeling of being suffocated left him ticked and—well, it was over before he could really get scared or too horribly pissed off.  He was still flushed and breathless, and it was easier to believe the hammering in his chest came from somewhere else, like a place of annoyance, than… whatever was lingering in his gut from the trip Cartman’s hands took up and down him.

“I’m not a fag,” he said.  “You’re the faggy one here.  What the fuck was that just now?”  Craig was half-tempted to jerk away but didn’t, perhaps out of some lingering hope that those stubby fingers would find their way back into his hair again because that felt good—and would have, regardless of who had been doing it, he added to the invisible audience in his head.  There wasn’t any need to overthink it.

“Maybe it’s not that I’m distracting you, though.”  Irritation again gave way to facetiousness, and he smirked impishly, one hand finding Cartman’s wrist, to either hold it or tear it away.  He hadn’t decided yet.  “If you were actually good at the game, you’d be able to play and hold a conversation at the same time.”