South Park fanfiction.
By mid-afternoon, we were ready. In addition to freeing Lizzy and Kyle, Chef, Ms. Crabtree, Pip, and Dylan (one of Henrietta's Goth friends who had killed himself a year ago) had all decided to escape with us. All we had to do was wait until nightfall.
Now, it's time.
I would go up first to distract the guards. The night watchman guarding the gate is a Nazi, so I already had some idea of how I could get his attention.
"Halt! Wer ist da (Halt! Who goes there)?" the guard says.
"Kenny McCormick," I say. "I was just heading out." I've met this particular soldier before (his name is Hans, by the way), so he knows that I'm allowed to leave, even though no one else is. "But I was wondering if I could talk to Hitler first?"
"Hitler? Warum (Hilter? Why)?"
Why, indeed? "Uh…I need his autograph." That sounds legit, I guess.
"Oh. Okay." He calls out. "Entschuldigen Sie mich, Herr Führer! Jemand will ein Autogramm (Excuse me, Mr. Fuhrer! Someone wants your autograph)!"
A sort of short man in a uniform, with a very distinct mustache, walks up. "Sie wollen mein Autogramm (You want my autograph)?
Shit. Hans was supposed to go off to get Hitler, and we would all escape while he was gone. But Hitler is already here. This…is a problem.
Hitler already has a pen ready, and pulls out a copy of Mien Kampf to sign. "Wen soll ich daraus machen (Who shall I make it out to)?"
"Uh…have it say, 'To my biggest fan, Eric Cartman.'" Just the first person to come to mind.
Hitler starts to write that down. I need something else to get his attention, fast. The others are waiting for an opening, and two Nazis are still here.
"Hier gehen Sie (Here you go)," Hitler says, handing me the book.
"Thanks," I say, getting an idea. "Boy, I can't wait to tell my friends at the synagogue."
"Synagogue?" he repeats, frowning. Then he suddenly screams, "JUDE (Jew)!" Hans pulls out his gun. Frankly I don't know why they would still care about Jews after over 70 years in Hell. Old habits die hard, I guess.
"Schießen Sie ihn (Shoot him)!" Hitler yells. Hans starts firing, and I run off, zigzagging to make it harder for him to aim. But only if my luck improves.
"Nach ihm (After him)!" Hitler yells at Hans, who starts running after me trying to get a better shot. Hitler pulls out a weapon too, and follows him. Finally, they're both away from the gate. Now, Ms. Crabtree!
Fortunately, Ms. Crabtree sees the opening, too. With a roar, our team's getaway car rushes out of its hiding place, and crashes into the unguarded gate, off to freedom. By getaway car, I mean our old school bus; everyone's able to fit into it with no problem, and it still runs beautifully. And Ms. Crabtree can still drive it like the crazy woman she is.
Hitler glances over his shoulder as the bus moves off into the distance, just now realizing what was really going on. "Ficken!" Then, enraged, he points the gun at my chest and fires.
Awwwwwww….DAMN, that hurts. And it's harder to die down here, so the pain's not going to go away for a while. But it doesn't matter, because I can always get out later. The important thing is that my friends are safe—
—wait, what are they doing? Surely, they're not—no, Ms. Crabtree is definitely turning around to come get me. Those fools!
Hitler and Hans see the oncoming bus, and shoot at it desperately, but the bullets don't affect it. The school bus hits them, and they go flying off into the distance—probably in little pieces. But they'll be back before long.
The door of the bus opens, and I walk in, clutching the wound in my chest. Kyle and Lizzy get out of their seats, and run up to me. "Are you okay, Kenny?" Kyle asked. "Oh my god, you've been—"
"YOU IDIOTS!" I shout. "I told you to keep going no matter what!"
"Well, some friends we would be if we just left you here," Kyle throws back.
"Don't forget that I can leave whenever I want," I retort. "On the other hand, if you guys get caught—"
"But we didn't," Kyle says. "So no harm done."
"ESCAPETOR! DERK DERKA JIHAD! SHERPA MUHAMMED KUMA!"
A loud yell proves Kyle wrong. From the dialect, it sounds like it's an Al-Qaeda terrorist. I look back and, sure enough, there's Osama Bin Laden, yelling and jumping around like a maniac, while more Muslim extremists start running towards the bus. Satan's deep voice booms from everywhere, "STOP THEM! Don't let them get away!" We're gonna have Hell's entire population after us before long.
Chef turns to Ms. Crabtree. "Hurry up, let's drive!"
"SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP!" Ms. Crabtree yells.
"Goddamn it, woman; we need to get the hell out of here!" Chef insists.
Ms. Crabtree turns around, enraged. "WHAT DID YOU SAY!"
I can see the Chef's about to lose it, so I interrupt. "He said, 'GODDAMN IT, WOMAN; WE NEED TO GET THE HELL OUT OF HELL!"
"Oh," Ms. Crabtree nods. "I agree." Then she floors it, and our bus takes off.
Chef takes a seat and grumbles to himself, "Damn crazy cracker bi—" He suddenly gets cut off as the bus is hit from the left. We all look out the window, and see about ten terrorists piled up on their own bus. They've just run into us; it looks like they're trying to herd us back into Hell. But if that doesn't work, they'll resort to desperate measures pretty quickly, and that will mean the end of this escape attempt.
"We've got to fight them off!" I scream.
"Are you crazy?" Kyle yells.
Yes. "Ms. Crabtree, where's your gun?"
"THAT'S ONLY FOR THREATENING THE BUNNY!"
"We need it!" I grab the gun out her glove compartment. "Alright, who can shoot?"
"Okay, it'll have to be you, Chef." I say, tossing him the pistol. "I've got my own gun, so the two of us will get up on top and fight them off as long as we can."
"I want to help," Pip says. Kyle and Dylan nod in agreement.
I hesitate. We only have two guns, so having three extra people on top of the bus won't be that much help. What's more, the people on top will be more likely to be killed.
"Alright. Pip and Dylan, follow me. Kyle…you stay here and take care of Lizzy." Kyle looks at me for a second, then nods his understanding.
"Let's do this," Chef yells. We climb up on top of the bus, lying on our stomachs to make ourselves more difficult targets. The wound in my chest still hurts, but I just ignore it. Chef is a pretty good shot, and I'm not too bad, considering the only person I've ever shot is myself. We've taken out about three of them when Pip yells, "Look out!"
I turn around. There's another bus full of terrorists coming at us from the other side. Shit. Then I look back and one of the terrorists from the first bus has jumped over to us…with a bomb strapped to his chest. His hand moves toward the switch…
Dylan leaps at him, trying to wrestle the detonator out of his hand. Seizing the opportunity, the terrorists pump him full of lead. Dylan groans in pain, but before the terrorist can detonate the bomb, Dylan pulls them both back over to the terrorist bus, and grabs the switch.
Time seems to slow down. Dylan looks at me and says, "If you get back, tell my mom that I'm sorry. She may be a conformist bitch, but going back home would have been better than staying here." Then he detonates the bomb.
The explosion blows shrapnel and body parts everywhere. Fortunately, we're just far enough away that we didn't get anything more than a couple of scrapes. Dylan, on the other hand, was obviously not so lucky.
I curse my own selfishness. The only reason he was here was that I cared more about Kyle than I had about him. So, once again, I am the reason someone is now dead. I try to clear my head; I can worry about all that later.
One of the terrorists' rifles had flown into Pip hands. We all look at the other bus, which is coming up fast. Chef and I start shooting at them, and then realize that we're out of bullets. "Use the rifle, Pip!"
Pip looks uncertain.
"You said you wanted to help. Shoot them!"
It looks like the prospect of actually shooting someone hadn't fully occurred to him. "Well, perhaps we can reason with—"
"Pip, they're already dead," Chef puts out. "So you won't really be killing them."
"I don't think I c—"
I finally lose it. "Go ahead and SHOOT them, you stupid FRENCHIE!"
Pip turns to me. His normally cheerful face is purple with rage, and he's shaking uncontrollably. "I. Am not. FRENCH!" He swings the gun around to the terrorists, and begins to shoot like a pro, even though his aim is a little off…
…or maybe it isn't. He missed all the terrorists, but he must have hit the engine or a bomb or something, because the whole bus goes up in a gigantic fireball. Damn…I'm impressed.
"Not bad, Pip," I tell him. He smiles sheepishly.
I look back into the distance; there are other terrorist buses after us, as well as Nazi trucks, but they're too far away to do any damage. We should be in the clear. Our surroundings are starting to change; we can see grass, and trees, and sunlight. We're almost there.
"YOU WON'T ESCAPE!" Satan comes swooping in, with Damien and a legion of flying demons.
"Oh, we're all fudged, now," Chef exclaims.
"He's right," Kyle says, having just climbed up to where we are. "I'm sorry, Kenny, but it's over; we're just going to have to accept our deaths."
I look at the oncoming demons. I think about Dylan, lying dead a little ways back because I couldn't save him. "No. I will never accept it. I am tired of being unable to do anything about my curse. I am tired of simply being a victim. Some way or another, I have a power. That power has always controlled me. But that's over; I won't let it run my life any more. Now I am in control."
Now, keep in mind that this wasn't the first time I had ever thought this. I'm not sure what makes this particular time different. Maybe it's that Dylan's death was the last straw for me. Maybe it's that I've never been so determined to be in control as I am now. Or maybe it's because fate really is still in control, and this moment simply couldn't have happened any other way.
All I know is that I lift my hand, for no other reason than the fact that I did it. From the long road behind us, Dylan's body comes flying through the air, and lands on the bus. I put my hand on his shoulder, and his lifeless form begins to breathe. He sits up, and then looks around, not sure what's going on.
He's not the only one.
Satan looks surprised, but he quickly regains his composure, and orders his demons to attack. Damien, however, flies ahead of the army and blocks their way.
"What are you doing, Damien? Why are you helping these prisoners?" Satan shouts.
"They aren't prisoners," Damien sneers. "They're my friends." He summons a wave of fire that incinerates the demons and…well, kind of pisses Satan off. It's not going to really hurt him, but it has bought us a few extra seconds. He looks right at me, and says, "Live."
"Thanks, Damien," I say.
By now, we've fully formed. I can see where we are now; the town square at the very center of South Park. We're alive and we're home.
The only problem is…Satan is still behind us, with his entire demon army, ready to drag us all back to Hell, and probably about to unleash some crazy shit on the rest of the town as well.
And on the other side of us are all the townspeople, standing in awe. South Park has seen some crazy stuff, but this has got to take the cake. There's Jimbo Kern and his hunting partner, Ned Gerblansky. There's Officer Barbrady, and Sergeant Yates, and the rest of the police force. They all have their guns drawn, ready to fight off the potential demon invasion. Behind them, I can see everyone else; the mayor, the teachers, and even Father Maxi, frantically saying a quick prayer. I can make out my parents in the crowd.
But at the very front, even ahead of the policemen, are three young teenagers: Stan Marsh, Eric Cartman, and Wendy Testaburger . The three people who are probably the most happy to see me, and probably simultaneously the most angry with me for what I've done to get here.
The two sides stand for a minute. Then they rush at each other; the demons are wailing and screeching, and the townspeople are waving their guns and torches and pitchforks (wait…since when was everyone carrying torches and pitchforks? You know what, fuck it, I don't even care). They are all about to collide when:
I don't recognize the voice that called out. It was coming from right behind me, apparently from someone who had just appeared there, based on everyone's reaction. As I turn around, I hear Satan exclaim, "It's you." And I know he's talking about him. The person who literally made the deal with the devil. The one who was truly responsible for my curse. I come to face him.
It's Death himself.