south park x reader. gender neutral reader.
crackfic. lowercase intended.
a 17-year-old punk degenerate in their senior year makes friends with a bunch of dirty-mouthed boys. together, they form a band, cause mayhem, and ruin their love lives.
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CHAPTER SEVEN: i've been around the world a million times and all you men are slime a gun to my head, goodbye, i am dead wastewood rockers, it's time for crime
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you watch cartman put on a performance and witness your principal breaking down — and not in a good way.
eyes, dull and empty as they always were widened a bit to the sound of something slowly echoing throughout the gym. you couldn't tell exactly what it was at first, it was so ambient but melodic.
cartman, dressed in a way that personified cigarettes, entered through the smoke. the smudged eyeliner around his eyes now hidden when his sunglasses fell to his nose. a spotlight shining brightly as it ever did, gave a glare to the audience.
you shuffled your feet slightly, a little alarmed that he out of all people looks unconventionally attractive in that attire. you gag in your mouth.
your groupmates, your principal, and you were all still on the stage in the middle of the gym. a high pedestal watching someone enter the room and catch everyone's attention, you were relieved. for some reason, your savior today would be cartman, and you would never have to do any of this again.
he had a microphone taped onto his cheek, your eyes steady as he strikes a pose.
"we should make bullying kill itself," he sings.
immediately, without fail, you slam your head onto the podium in front of you. in your opinion, actually, the general consensus opinion is that it's so over. the 'anti-bullying' committee is so fucked as they know it.
cartman's voice booms in a clear tone as he bangs his fist into his chest, "as a victim, i need your help," you can't help but shudder.
cartman walks by the bleachers singing into the crowd.
"'cause when i'm alone, and i'm all on my own, no place to call my home,
i know who can save me... the anti-bullying committee..."
you dig your fingers into your scalp as you incoherently mutter, "we're so fucked, we're so fucked, we're so fucked," a myriad of times.
the spotlight that enlightened cartman has now moved to the stage, right where you stood. it was too fast to process, one second you were in front of the podium blinded, and the next you were being ushered off by some random guys.
"hey! what the--" stan says before he's trampled by long-haired men with guitars.
your heart thumps in your chest as you witness your feet glued to the floor and your eyes set on the stage. you see a bald guy on the drumset that magically appeared, softly tapping a kick pedal and cymbals.
