Fic post: Drabbles for South Park Prom
Back in November there was a designated weekend for South Park Prom. I'm ... not really sure what that was, but I took drabble requests for it! You can find them below the cuts:
“He won’t go out with you unless you buy new shoes?” Kenny is gaping at Stan, like he can’t believe it.
With a glance at his feet, Stan says, “Well, he says he wants to go out for dinner at a nice place. Also he says these smell.”
“Smell, nothing,” says Kenny, “if he thinks your Converses are putrid he should check out Cartman’s bathroom.”
“Dude, that’s why he won’t even go into Cartman’s bathroom.”
They pass H&M; Cherry Creek is buzzing with Christmas shoppers. “Do you ever get tired of being with someone so high-maintenance?”
Stan answers immediately: “Never.”
- - - - -
“Hey girl,” Craig shouted as Tweek tiptoed over the blanket of wet pine needles, “just coming to gloat at me, or are you ditching prom, too?”
Tweek said nothing until he was seated on the ground next to Craig, zipping his anorak over a tux. “Henry ditched me!”
“Poor Tweek, I told you not to trust that fat bitch. Did she think you were too into that conformist shit?”
“No. She said I wasn’t into it enough!”
“It’s okay.” Craig placed a warm hand on one of Tweek’s. “So long as we’re miserable together.”
“Yeah.” Tweek blushed. “I’d like that.”
- - - - -
“What do you do over the summer term?”
Stanley had been meaning to ask this for weeks now, but every time he came close he found himself distracted: by formal meals, by unfortunate reams of Latin inscription translations, by a boy who worked at the library, reshelving volumes. Stan had been spending more time in the medieval annals lately. Something about the snug fit of a new pair of black trousers; Stanley had little patience for Coggeshall. Kyle was always going on about how he thought Richard I was “obviously an old queen” and perhaps Stanley could learn something from all those nineteenth-century tomes. “He left his wife for years on end! It’s obvious enough to me.” This was what he got for telling Kyle he’d suddenly developed an interest in Plantagenets. All of this had diverted Stanley from his inquiry, but now that he’d finally tracked Kyle down in his rooms, treating his hair with henna, Stanley could dispense with the question.
“I’m really serious, though,” he repeated, “if I have to go back and live at home I think I’ll just die.”
“You won’t die.” Kyle was sitting on the bed, a towel furled around his shoulders, catching pink droplets running down the back of his neck. “Unfortunately we’re heading immediately to New York to see my cousins, then catching a train down to Florida to see my grandmother.”
“How’s that unfortunate?” It seemed like a well enough deal to Stanley.
“You know, it’s just horrific there in the summer, everything soaking wet, my T-shirts always soak through with sweat.”
Just the idea brought Stanley’s cock to attention.
“And my cousin’s insufferable,” Kyle continued, “and my brother’s an absolute cod, and my mother will be going on and on about the marginal majority-”
“All right,” Stanley agreed, “I’m sorry, it sounds dreadful.”
“It could be worse.” Kyle began to towel off the ends of his hair. “At least I’ll get the beach.”
“If I end up at home I’ll be done for. My father’s liable to murder me, or at least he won’t stop sending me assertively worded letters about how psychoanalysis can be very curative, and my sister’s bound to have that baby sometime, and there are few places I’d like to be less than anywhere near home when that happens.”
“How old is she, again?”
“She’s 23,” said Stanley.
“My mother had me at 36,” said Kyle.
“Mmhmmm.” Stanley nodded. He very well knew.
“Well, listen.” All the lamps in Kyle’s room were on, painting the walls a kind of sepia tone that hurt Stanley’s eyes. “We’ll be back early on, by July for certain, and then there’s good time left - what if you came down to London to stay with us?” Kyle shot Stanley a meaningful look, as if he were offering untold riches and couldn’t fathom why Stanley hadn’t fallen to his knees in gratitude
But Stanley was in shock. “Me?” he asked. “Come to the city. But - where?”
“We’ve got extra space,” said Kyle, “you really should see the house, you know, it’s splendid, and - well. If you wished, you could always, you know … stay in my room.”
The air suddenly had become quick thick. Stanley swallowed. “How many beds in your room?” he asked.
Kyle tossed his sopping towel to the floor and, fiercely, began to blush. “Only the one.”
- - - - -
Stan hovered over the break table, slowly stirring his coffee. “I don’t like how the photographer is looking at you.”
“It’s strictly business,” said Kyle, “I mean, he’s the photographer.”
“It’s strictly business until the shoot’s over and suddenly he’s leaving anal beads in our mailbox.”
“What!” Kyle nearly spit out his tea. “Anal beads, are you insane?”
“No! Well, maybe a little. But, no! I just see how he’s looking at you, like you’re just some piece of meat he can - manhandle!”
“Manhandle?” Kyle tossed the dregs of his tea as Stan, scalding him. “Break’s over.” Kyle walked away.
- - - - -
Electrocution took a lot out of a guy, and Kenny had worked up an appetite. Stumbling back into the ballroom, he headed for the buffet table, shrimp cocktail in a giant ice sculpture shaped like a bucking bronco. Four shrimps in and-
“Kenny, dude, where have you been?” Kyle was nervously readjusting the collar on his navy tuxedo.
“Nowhere,” Kenny said through a mouthful of shrimp, “not important.”
“Because there was a power outage, it was freaky-”
Rolling his eyes, Kenny gestured to the buffet table. “Shrimp?”
“That’s not kosher. God, it’s like you don’t know anything about me.”
- - - - -
“This is Miss Beazley,” Kyle said, removing the lanky dummy from its cushioned box, golden curls hanging limply in its face. Kyle combed them away from her eyes. “Say hello, Stan.”
Stan’s mouth tensed. “Uh. Hi?”
“Hi, Stanley.” The doll’s arm inched toward Stan, knocking against his fingers. Kyle spoke in a stilted falsetto. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“This is really weird,” Stan said, knocking the dummy’s hand away. “Dude, if this is some kind of fucked-up sex thing, you know I’m cool-”
“Whatever are you talking about?” The doll’s plastic lashes fluttered in a seductive blink.
- - - - -
Token was a venture capitalist and Craig was a litigator. Kyle and Bebe were both stay-at-home mothers. Butters was a sous chef at Denver’s second most acclaimed steakhouse.
Clyde had won the lottery.
“Yeah.” He twirled the swizzle stick in his blood mary, “I’m on the board of multiple organizations. Denver Art Museum? I brought that Van Gogh show to town.”
“You don’t say,” said Craig. Craig was on his fifth wife.
“Yeah, I’m a real mover and shaker in the board of trustees world.”
“Wow, your life must be pretty empty.”
Craig and Clyde fucked in a broom closet.
- - - - -
“Hey, Park Country class of 2007! Who’s ready to get jiggy with it?” Kenny took a sip of whiskey from his flask. Four songs into his set and this was already exhausting.
“I have a request,” Craig Tucker shouted, “how about we leave the family rap nostalgia for the 2010s?”
Kenny ignored such haters. Haters be tripping. This was his night. Nothing could bring him down.
“Hey, some people whose names start with ‘Stan’ and ‘Kyle,’ let’s try to keep this dance floor PG13-rated!” Kenny shouted over “Hey There Delilah.”
The next tune, Avril’s “Girlfriend,” was all ready to go.
- - - - -
“It’s going to be drafty today, darling, so wear a sweater.”
Christophe looks up from the Post to see Gregory at the other end of the table, hears jam spreading against sourdough toast-
“Sweaters snag,” Chris replies, “they leave fibers.”
“Hmm.” Gregory sets down the knife and begins to tighten the lid on the jam jar. “Very well, when you put it that way. Just, promise me you’ll be sensible.”
The newspaper is folded in two, set down on the table next to Christophe’s breakfast of soft-boiled eggs and soldiers. “I promise.”
Gregory cracks half a smile. “Good to know.”
“He won’t go out with you unless you buy new shoes?” Kenny is gaping at Stan, like he can’t believe it.
With a glance at his feet, Stan says, “Well, he says he wants to go out for dinner at a nice place. Also he says these smell.”
“Smell, nothing,” says Kenny, “if he thinks your Converses are putrid he should check out Cartman’s bathroom.”
“Dude, that’s why he won’t even go into Cartman’s bathroom.”
They pass H&M; Cherry Creek is buzzing with Christmas shoppers. “Do you ever get tired of being with someone so high-maintenance?”
Stan answers immediately: “Never.”
- - - - -
“Hey girl,” Craig shouted as Tweek tiptoed over the blanket of wet pine needles, “just coming to gloat at me, or are you ditching prom, too?”
Tweek said nothing until he was seated on the ground next to Craig, zipping his anorak over a tux. “Henry ditched me!”
“Poor Tweek, I told you not to trust that fat bitch. Did she think you were too into that conformist shit?”
“No. She said I wasn’t into it enough!”
“It’s okay.” Craig placed a warm hand on one of Tweek’s. “So long as we’re miserable together.”
“Yeah.” Tweek blushed. “I’d like that.”
- - - - -
“What do you do over the summer term?”
Stanley had been meaning to ask this for weeks now, but every time he came close he found himself distracted: by formal meals, by unfortunate reams of Latin inscription translations, by a boy who worked at the library, reshelving volumes. Stan had been spending more time in the medieval annals lately. Something about the snug fit of a new pair of black trousers; Stanley had little patience for Coggeshall. Kyle was always going on about how he thought Richard I was “obviously an old queen” and perhaps Stanley could learn something from all those nineteenth-century tomes. “He left his wife for years on end! It’s obvious enough to me.” This was what he got for telling Kyle he’d suddenly developed an interest in Plantagenets. All of this had diverted Stanley from his inquiry, but now that he’d finally tracked Kyle down in his rooms, treating his hair with henna, Stanley could dispense with the question.
“I’m really serious, though,” he repeated, “if I have to go back and live at home I think I’ll just die.”
“You won’t die.” Kyle was sitting on the bed, a towel furled around his shoulders, catching pink droplets running down the back of his neck. “Unfortunately we’re heading immediately to New York to see my cousins, then catching a train down to Florida to see my grandmother.”
“How’s that unfortunate?” It seemed like a well enough deal to Stanley.
“You know, it’s just horrific there in the summer, everything soaking wet, my T-shirts always soak through with sweat.”
Just the idea brought Stanley’s cock to attention.
“And my cousin’s insufferable,” Kyle continued, “and my brother’s an absolute cod, and my mother will be going on and on about the marginal majority-”
“All right,” Stanley agreed, “I’m sorry, it sounds dreadful.”
“It could be worse.” Kyle began to towel off the ends of his hair. “At least I’ll get the beach.”
“If I end up at home I’ll be done for. My father’s liable to murder me, or at least he won’t stop sending me assertively worded letters about how psychoanalysis can be very curative, and my sister’s bound to have that baby sometime, and there are few places I’d like to be less than anywhere near home when that happens.”
“How old is she, again?”
“She’s 23,” said Stanley.
“My mother had me at 36,” said Kyle.
“Mmhmmm.” Stanley nodded. He very well knew.
“Well, listen.” All the lamps in Kyle’s room were on, painting the walls a kind of sepia tone that hurt Stanley’s eyes. “We’ll be back early on, by July for certain, and then there’s good time left - what if you came down to London to stay with us?” Kyle shot Stanley a meaningful look, as if he were offering untold riches and couldn’t fathom why Stanley hadn’t fallen to his knees in gratitude
But Stanley was in shock. “Me?” he asked. “Come to the city. But - where?”
“We’ve got extra space,” said Kyle, “you really should see the house, you know, it’s splendid, and - well. If you wished, you could always, you know … stay in my room.”
The air suddenly had become quick thick. Stanley swallowed. “How many beds in your room?” he asked.
Kyle tossed his sopping towel to the floor and, fiercely, began to blush. “Only the one.”
- - - - -
Stan hovered over the break table, slowly stirring his coffee. “I don’t like how the photographer is looking at you.”
“It’s strictly business,” said Kyle, “I mean, he’s the photographer.”
“It’s strictly business until the shoot’s over and suddenly he’s leaving anal beads in our mailbox.”
“What!” Kyle nearly spit out his tea. “Anal beads, are you insane?”
“No! Well, maybe a little. But, no! I just see how he’s looking at you, like you’re just some piece of meat he can - manhandle!”
“Manhandle?” Kyle tossed the dregs of his tea as Stan, scalding him. “Break’s over.” Kyle walked away.
- - - - -
Electrocution took a lot out of a guy, and Kenny had worked up an appetite. Stumbling back into the ballroom, he headed for the buffet table, shrimp cocktail in a giant ice sculpture shaped like a bucking bronco. Four shrimps in and-
“Kenny, dude, where have you been?” Kyle was nervously readjusting the collar on his navy tuxedo.
“Nowhere,” Kenny said through a mouthful of shrimp, “not important.”
“Because there was a power outage, it was freaky-”
Rolling his eyes, Kenny gestured to the buffet table. “Shrimp?”
“That’s not kosher. God, it’s like you don’t know anything about me.”
- - - - -
“This is Miss Beazley,” Kyle said, removing the lanky dummy from its cushioned box, golden curls hanging limply in its face. Kyle combed them away from her eyes. “Say hello, Stan.”
Stan’s mouth tensed. “Uh. Hi?”
“Hi, Stanley.” The doll’s arm inched toward Stan, knocking against his fingers. Kyle spoke in a stilted falsetto. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“This is really weird,” Stan said, knocking the dummy’s hand away. “Dude, if this is some kind of fucked-up sex thing, you know I’m cool-”
“Whatever are you talking about?” The doll’s plastic lashes fluttered in a seductive blink.
- - - - -
Token was a venture capitalist and Craig was a litigator. Kyle and Bebe were both stay-at-home mothers. Butters was a sous chef at Denver’s second most acclaimed steakhouse.
Clyde had won the lottery.
“Yeah.” He twirled the swizzle stick in his blood mary, “I’m on the board of multiple organizations. Denver Art Museum? I brought that Van Gogh show to town.”
“You don’t say,” said Craig. Craig was on his fifth wife.
“Yeah, I’m a real mover and shaker in the board of trustees world.”
“Wow, your life must be pretty empty.”
Craig and Clyde fucked in a broom closet.
- - - - -
“Hey, Park Country class of 2007! Who’s ready to get jiggy with it?” Kenny took a sip of whiskey from his flask. Four songs into his set and this was already exhausting.
“I have a request,” Craig Tucker shouted, “how about we leave the family rap nostalgia for the 2010s?”
Kenny ignored such haters. Haters be tripping. This was his night. Nothing could bring him down.
“Hey, some people whose names start with ‘Stan’ and ‘Kyle,’ let’s try to keep this dance floor PG13-rated!” Kenny shouted over “Hey There Delilah.”
The next tune, Avril’s “Girlfriend,” was all ready to go.
- - - - -
“It’s going to be drafty today, darling, so wear a sweater.”
Christophe looks up from the Post to see Gregory at the other end of the table, hears jam spreading against sourdough toast-
“Sweaters snag,” Chris replies, “they leave fibers.”
“Hmm.” Gregory sets down the knife and begins to tighten the lid on the jam jar. “Very well, when you put it that way. Just, promise me you’ll be sensible.”
The newspaper is folded in two, set down on the table next to Christophe’s breakfast of soft-boiled eggs and soldiers. “I promise.”
Gregory cracks half a smile. “Good to know.”