"Ladies, gentleman, and Jews. I have a proposition for each and every one of you. We live on a godforsaken world, headed by people who don't understand what they are doing. Americans, and the rest of this planet rely on us, the next generation, to ensure that they remain safe and in control. We have saved their lives, and this planet countless times. We have stopped the zombie apocalypse, Osama Bin Laden, and even Barbara Streisand. The world, and all of its people rely on us. So why are they still in control? We deserve the world that we saved more than they do. Follow me, and we can have that world in our grasp! Imagine a world lead by us, the children. Gregory, it'd be completely peaceful. Craig, it'd be boring. Kyle, you'd hoard all of your Jew gold. Kenny, you'd have all the porn and women you'd want. Christophe, you'd have money. Wendy, women would have equal rights. Bebe, I'd buy you shoes. Clyde, everyone would think you're awesome. Damien, you'd rule the world. Pip, you wouldn't be made fun of. Butters, I'd send your parents to jail. And Stan, you'd be able to drink all the beer you'd want! Follow me and all these riches could be yours. Anything that you'd want would be yours. Are you with me?"
Half of the people in the room, including me, flipped him off and walked away. Christophe seemed intrigued by the offer, and I watched him with worry in my eyes. Cartman saw my hesitation, and the cause of it.
"Yes, 'Tophe. You could have endless cigarettes, and all the shovels that you'd ever want. There'd be no guard dogs ever again." My best friend looked extremely tempted.
"Christophe. He's lying." The Frenchman gave me a worried look, and he grabbed my arm. After a moment of just staring at each other he let go, and walked to Cartman's side.
"Gregory, eet's ze best choice. I weesh zat you'd see ze light. We could 'ave anyzing. Cartman ees right. Je serai les yeux sur les alienes." My eyes widened, but I shut them after a second. His tone was soft, but I knew the meaning. ' I'll be the eyes on the inside.'
I signal for the others to rush forwards. Kyle Brofloski is the first one past me. Then comes Wendy Testaburger. Craig Tucker. Tweek Tweak, who is screaming about pressure through his gag. (No he's not a prisoner. He's the one who asked for the gag. So the 'gnomes won't get [him]!') Phillip Pirrup, A.K.A. Pip. Token Black. Usually Stanley Marsh would be next, but he had been captured about five months ago after whiskey was illegalized for the sole purpose of the effect that Cartman had planned for. He'd been fine for a while, and made his own, but eventually we ran out of resources. Stanley had been distracted. A perfect target. Then comes Shelley Marsh, who wants revenge for the capture of the 'turd.' She pretends that she hates him, but I know otherwise. She's still a protective older sister under all the shields she puts up.
Thomas, who also has a gag. No one knows his last name. Mark Cotswold, who's still depressed about the death of his sister, Rebecca Cotswold. Ike Brofloski, who only joined because of his brother. Fillmore Scotts, who joined because of Ike. Flora Leeways, because of Ike. The four Goth Kids, who just want to kill things. And last, but not least, Bradley Biggle, A.K.A. Mint-Berry Crunch. Not the best army, but it's all I have. I join the line when Bradley passes me. I tap my hand, against the wire to contact the kids at base.
"Alright. Christophe should be meeting us at the fence to Cartman's. He'll get us in, and hopefully we can get him back." I said, hearing my voice echo. After a few moments of only static, I finally hear a voice.
"I sure hope so Gregory. Poor kid." The Mormon child responds, slightly less enthusiastic than he normally is. His four siblings agree quickly. Mormons, you gotta love 'em. They are always so happy no matter what the situation.
"Keep us posted. Tell the others to stand guard. Cartman's prepared for anything, I know it. Tell the 8th graders to guard better than ever, and we'll give them extra porn." I command. I hear their agreements, and take my hand off the wire.
The group stops when they reach the fence, and I turn to face them, as they circle around me. Every one of them looks at me for directions. "Christophe should be here already." I explain to the children. "I don't know what's keeping him." Actually, I have a theory, but it would terrify them and probably cause Pip to start crying. I told Christophe not to come if they executed the prisoner, and I wouldn't put it past Cartman to do such a thing. He had always hated him. The rumor is that he's going to be executed after they receive the desired information from him. Who knows what the prisoner could have said? He could have told them anything.
"'Ello Breeteesh fag. 'Ow 'ave you been?" The familiar French voice asks. I heave a heavy sigh of relief, as I see his scarred face.
"Perfect. He's still alive?"
"Why else would I be 'ere?"
"Good. Is the tunnel thick enough?" Christophe is known for making tunnels that were only big enough to fit his tiny stature.
"Oui. I made sure zat even Cartman could feet in zere."
"Oh and we bettaire do zis well. I 'eard zat 'e 'asn't given 'im ze desired information. Cartman got peessed to say ze least. Ze guards say zat zey're going to keell him tomorrow. And seence 'e's one of you, Cartman ees goeeng to do eet 'imself."
"Fuck." The older Brofloski snaps, and I glare at him.
"Keep your voice down. Mole, you're lead."
"Got eet. Now we 'ead down zis tunnel. I made sure zat ze doors are unlocked. 'ead to ze stone bueelding, and go to ze last cell on your left. 'E's ze zthin zing on ze floor. Cartman 'as been starveeng 'im, but lately 'e tried ze 'I'll butter 'im up and maybe 'e'll zink I'm nice' treeck. Ze ozzaires are zinner, since zey 'ave been eegnored. Oh and zey've chained 'im on ze floor, so eet'll be 'ard for 'im to walk. Once you reach ze tunnel again, I'll be poseetioned by ze fence. Crawl zrough when you 'ear ze alarms."
"Why are you gonna pull the alarms?" Craig asks.
"So zey don't zink zat I'm 'elping you. Now, any ozzaire questions?"
After a minute of silence, Christophe nods and crawls into the tunnel.
"Fuck." Kyle mutters, as we walk past the cells. Everyone in them are as thin as a stick. Christophe wasn't exaggerating, when he warned us. We know that Cartman is a Nazi, but (excuse my language) fuck.
The prisoners look at us, with fear in their eyes. Did you ever hear about how Nazi's tattooed numbers on their prisoners? Cartman is no exception. On every prisoners right shoulder is a number with a swastika under it. Beautiful Eric.
"Last cell on the left." Fillmore reminds us. Poor child. Eight years old and he has to deal with Cartman's wrath.
"Shouldn't we help the others?" Wendy asks.
"We can't. Mole only succeeded in getting the key to Stanley's cell. We'll help the people that we can. Bradley, watch for guards. Kyle go with him. Ike, you as well."
"But…" The Day-walker starts. but I shake my head. I don't doubt for a second that he won't like what he sees. I've seen my share of Cartman prisoners. None of them look the least bit pleasant.
"Go." I order, and he reluctantly follows his younger brother.
"Wendy, watch my back. Craig, Pip, check the sides. Mark calm Tweek and Thomas down. Shelley, stay with me. Goth children, stand guard. Fillmore, Flora keep in contact with the Harrisons. I want to know if anything happens. Keep your guard up everyone. Let's go." I command, leading them forward. Every one of them follows my orders within the second. They know that I'm completely serious. We're in an enemy base. We need to keep our guard up.
Christophe ditched us the second that we left the tunnel. He told us where we'd find him if anything went wrong. I'm hoping this all goes according to plan. I know from experience that nothing goes according to plan.
That fact is proven when the alarms go off.
"Fuck!" Fillmore snaps.
"We have to go." Craig says, flipping off the ceiling.
"I'm not failing this mission. Goth kids, go after Kyle and the others, Tell them to get to the tunnel, and go with them. Mark take Tweek and Thomas back. Shelley go with them. Flora, Fillmore, and Wendy stand with me. Craig, Pip get back and take down as many guards as you can." The team bolts, excited to leave this hell-hole, leaving the four of us together. I sent some of our strongest members away, but I can't risk them falling into enemy hands. I'll be able to fight, but four is a better lose than twelve.
"Run." Flora offers, and for once I follow an order. We bolt to the final cell, our feet like lightning beneath us. I jam the key into the cell door without thinking about what I'm doing. I can hear my heartbeat. It isn't a welcoming sound. I can hear the sound of footsteps, and I order the others to guard me. I give Fillmore my sword. I have another on my belt. I pull the gate open, and find several confused eyes staring at me. They're all thinner than any human should ever have to be. If they pull their shirts up, I can count their ribs. Actually, I can can count their ribs regardless.
"Run." I say, repeating Flora's words. And they do. Only one person stays behind. The only person that's chained to the wall. Details, details Christophe. I pull the extra key out of my belt, and run to his side.
His hair is everywhere, and his hat lay ruined on the floor. I can see blood running down his face, and scars littering his skin, and head. They were most likely donated by Cartman himself. He's thinner than he used to be, but relatively normal, weight wise.
"Gregory?" He asks, and I nod.
"We have to go."
"They'll kill you." He sounds alarmed. I spot the number on his arm. 666. Ha ha, funny Cartman. He probably planned that. This is why we exist (La Resistance).
He lets out a sigh of relief, when I finally open the first chain, freeing his right arm. My heart is racing, and I feel my chest constricting. I hear a scream, and shove the key into the other chain.
"No problem. We have to get out of here fast."
"No kidding." The second his chain snaps open, he starts to rub his wrists. They're bleeding.
"Come on." I walk forwards, but he stumbles and falls to the ground. He obviously hasn't been walking for a while. That's when I notice the dried blood on his pants, where his knee should be, that had pooled out of a small hole in the denom. It didn't take a genius to realize what had happened. You bastards.
I put his arm around my shoulder, to take the stress off of his bad leg. "We'll deal with it when we're back at base."
He nods his appreciation, and I help him reach the door. Fillmore holds his shoulder, and winces in obvious pain and discomfort. Only Cartman would shoot children. The others are un-wounded. I notice the bodies that are crumpled on the ground, unconscious. Cartman will probably kill them. Good riddance. Stan breathes a sigh of relief, at seeing our companions (And probably the soon to be corpses on the ground). Without a word, Wendy walks over and wraps his other arm around her shoulder. He nods again, and we help walk him through the long hallways. He winces, but doesn't say anything.
Fillmore, and Flora run side by side, and once again I hear footsteps behind us. We pick up our pace, practically dragging Stan though the base. For the first time I question how we're going to get him through the tunnel. I never anticipated the boy having a bullet through his knee. Whatever. We'll manage. As long as we escape.
Flora guards our back, and I hand her my extra sword. It's not like I can use it anyway.
Wendy grips her tranquilizer gun as if it's her life preserver. It probably is. Stan seems to be drifting into unconsciousness. It's probably because we reopened the wound in his leg. We have to make sure that we don't slip on his blood.
"Stay awake Stan. We have to reach the tunnel." I whisper.
"I'm trying." He grits his teeth as he speaks. I know from experience how hard that can be.
So I talk. I talk about what we'll do when we get back to base. I talk about when we finally kill Cartman. I talk about saving the world. I talk about how everyone at base will be glad to see him. I talk about how Cartman will be so pissed off when he's missing (And yes, that's a good thing). I talk about how we'll burn his entire strong hold to the ground, his body with it. I talk about how we'll be deemed heroes. I talk about how his closest followers will be sent to rot in jail. I talk about how the members of La Resistance will live to see it all. I talk even after he finally drifts into unconsciousness. I don't notice that he has.
I fade from where I am, forgetting everything bad that's ever happened as I talk to his prone figure, being dragged between us. Even Wendy seems enchanted by my words. I hear a cry from behind us, but I ignore it.
I talk about how the person who put a bullet through him will pay. I talk about how he'll be better. I talk about how we'll get that number off of him. I talk about who's waiting to see him for the first time in five months. I talk about how Tenorman's been planning something. I talk about how Gary's been so enthusiastic about his arrival. I only stop, when we reach the tunnel.
Wendy climbs in first, and I put Stan in next. She drags him forwards, and I push from behind. Flora comes next. And then Fillmore. I hear Christophe packing the tunnel back in, after we disappear inside. Stan's blood fills it with a stench that makes me want to vomit. We stop for a second, and check him for bugs. I use a scanner that I stole from Yardale. We comes up with nothing. I sigh with relief, and Wendy and I haul him through the seemingly never ending tunnel of dirt.
I see the light before even she does. "We're here." I say. Christophe had dug it all the way back to the base, after we'd left. He really did have supernatural skills with that shovel. Kyle is the first one that greats us. He and Gary are the first ones to relieve us of his weight. "Take him to Mophesto and Doctor Doctor. He got shot in the knee. Fillmore follow them." The only two adults that worked with us. In a way we were lucky with who they are. In other ways (Such as the four assed animals that ran around our base) we are completely screwed. The four figures left us at the entrance of the tunnel.
"We guarded them kid." Davey says, watching my every movement. Yeah eighth graders. Great companions. I pull the folded up Play-Boy magazine out of my front pocket, and hand it to him. The eighth graders left, probably to jack off to it.
Christophe says that Hustler is better anyway.
"Gregory?" Butters asks, and I look up to face him. "You okay?"
"I'm just tired. Is Stan okay?"
"I don't know. I-I just got back from food hunting. There was nothing."
I curse, and find my way to a seat in the corner of the room. I spot Clyde and Token, placing the metal barrier back in the tunnel entrance. I slow down my breathing at will, but my heart is still beating like a drum. I know that I need to check on how the base held up while I was gone, but for now I'm too tired. Carrying 100 pounds of pure weight can do that to a child.
I think of contacting Christophe, but inwardly shake my head. Cartman's probably whining to him about how he should have built bigger walls (Even though the French boy didn't build the walls), and insulting him. Cartman is annoying to say the least.
I don't remember closing my eyes.
"Get up!" Mophesto orders, and I reluctantly open my eyes.
"Huh?" I ask, still half asleep.
"The meeting!" Oh yeah. We agreed that we'd have a meeting after the rescue. Meetings usually just consisted of me, Mophesto, Dr. Doctor, The leader of the Eighth Graders, Kyle, Stan, Kenny, and Ike. Each of us control a specific section of the Resistance.
Mophesto controls the scientific needs.
Dr. Doctor controls healing, and medical diagnosis.
The eighth grader (I don't know his name. He won't tell me) controls the eighth graders.
Stan controls weapons.
Kenny controls the supplies.
Kyle controls the computers (Thank god for his hacking abilities).
Ike controls studious matters, being smarter than even the adults.
I control general leadership, and I plan the tactics.
It's our mini-government. It's the main reason that we needed Stan back. One missing isn't such a big deal, when they're not a leader. Stan is the only one that knows every weapon from the inside out. He can fire any gun, and can fix any of them. He's our main man for weaponry.
"Oh yeah. Give me a second." My mind screams at me to wake up, but my body doesn't listen. I'm (Excuse any further obscenities in this story. I'm being influenced by my companions) 'fucking' tired!
In response, he grabs my arm and pulls me out of the seat, that I had fallen asleep in. My face smashes against the floor, and I groan. Can a kid not sleep? I'm only 12 years old for god sake!
"C'mon Gregory. It's been twelve hours." Oh. I must have been really tired. I guess we should schedule missions before scavenging, and not after.
"Alright. The others asleep?"
"Passed out right about the time that you did." The crazed scientist says.
"Good. Is Stan awake?"
"Why do you think we held off the meeting for twelve hours?" Good call. I pull myself off the floor, and stare at the wall for the second that it takes for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. I'm not a morning person.
"Looks like you actually can lead without me," I never compliment anyone. As I watch his eyes light up with pride, I have to knock him down a notch. "Somewhat." His smile turns into a scowl, and I step in front of him and start walking. He follows shortly after.
"Ask him yourself." Is he annoying? Yes. Is he obsessed with asses? Yes. Is he important? Sadly, yes.
"Was anyone else hit?"
"Fillmore got hit in the shoulder, and we used all of our resources to get Stan's bullet out of his flesh. Luckily it only grazed him, and we managed to stop the bleeding. Kyle got a deep cut on his face that needed stitches, from one of those guards, and Tweek's hyperventilating. Nothing else out of the ordinary."
"Tweek hyperventilating is not out of the ordinary. Can Fillmore fight?"
"It'll hurt him for about two weeks, before the pain finally goes away. We had to give him painkillers. Doctor said not to have him fighting for three weeks. Stan is the same, but he'll probably have a limp." Dammit! We don't have enough painkillers, and now our best fighter can't fight. Maybe I should follow Christophe's lead with the whole 'Why deed you curse me like zis god?' thing he does.
"Make sure to limit his intake." Is the only thing I can say. My fingers brush against one of my swords. Fillmore and Flora gave them back to me when we reached the tunnel. I don't know why those things offer me a feeling of safety that Christophe's shovel provides, (Maybe because the blade can cut through human limbs without the need of any extra effort) but dammit they do! Mophesto looks at me for a second, before stating his claim.
"You're one strange kid."
"That I know." We're all a little strange. I walk into the 'room' without anyone saying anything. After taking a quick check that everyone's here, Mophesto and I move a thin piece of metal to block the doorway. In meeting we talk about things that terrify the other kids. We don't want them to hear our conversations.
We're lucky that we found the underground cave before Cartman did. Without it, we'd probably be dead or his slaves by now.
I sit at the front of the table, and survey my companions. Stan takes the other side, across from me. Whoever sits in that seat always has news. Hopefully it's information about Cartman's 1whereabouts. The fat boy has seem to gone all, but missing in the past month.
"Let's get this meeting underway. Any news?" I ask. Minor news always happens first, and I find Kenny speaking next.
"Good news for you, Stan. We were raiding in my house, and apparently we had a cellar, that I hadn't known about. It's filled to the brim with whiskey." His hood had been burnt off In the beginning of the war. I had honestly never expected Stan to get so depressed about being without alcoholic beverages. Kyle had mentioned when they first found out that he was a cynical asshole, that he started avoiding human contact, and ignored anyone who tried helping him. Not to mention the fact that, nowadays he's addicted.
I don't think I'd be good to lay him off of it again, considering the fact that he's our best fighter when drunk.
"And we also found cigarettes for The Mole, and some food."
"Pop-tarts." After a moment of complete silence, Kyle speaks up.
"We were able to see a lot of Cartman's base, while we were there. Fatass has built himself a fucking army."
"We heard footsteps from aboveground." The eighth grader says.
"You shut off all of the equipment right?" I asked.
"Yes. They just kept walking. Didn't stop for a second." Mophesto explains, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
"Good. Anyone else have anything to say?" After a minute without anyone speaking, I turned my head to give full attention to Stan. He took the hint.
"Cartman has an interrogation room set up right next to the building that I was held captive in. We can't rescue the people trapped in there, because half of them are soldiers who are being punished for some sort of crime against him. They were stupid enough not to put me in a cell with the soldiers. Cartman is always heavily guarded, even when he was interrogating me. If you even move the wrong way, they won't hesitate to attack, which is why they fucking shot me," His voice carries anger, and I know how pissed off he must be. I've reviewed Cartman's work. That bastard knows how to get to you. "I'm just warning you, in case any of you are caught."
He seems to be completely back to normal, emotion wise. Kenny probably already gave him a bottle. It takes me a few minutes to realize that this is the first time I'm seeing him, not the depressed cynic that he'd become but him, in six months.
"Cartman has gotten even fatter than before."
"Is that even possible?" Kyle asks, and I have to hold in a laugh. We all hate that fat boy so much, after what he's done. Most of our parents are dead because of him.
"It seems so. He was eating a hamburger from Shakeys during every one of the interrogations. During the whole 'starving' shit, he'd tempt me with it, but telling him to fuck off really helped!"
"Did he get anything out of you?" Ike asks, and Stan smirks.
"Not a thing."
"Did you get anything out of him?" Kyle asks, probably already knowing the answer.
"Of course. He doesn't stay at the base nearest us. He stays near Fort Sumter. His last success in the new civil war."
"Why'd he tell you that?" I say.
"He was trying to manipulate me into believing that he's on my side. He's as dumb as he is fat."
"We knew that already. How many were at the cells?"
"No idea. They knocked me out, before they took me. I think Cartman only showed up, once a week, but whenever he wasn't there Damien or Christophe took over. Christophe made sure not to get ask anything that can get you guys too screwed, but I still never answered."
"Yeah. I'm not sure what he can do, so I really don't know if I revealed anything."
"What?" Mophesto's eyes widen.
"He is the son of Satan. He may have been able to, I don't know, read minds?"
"That's a good point, but why would they keep trying to get the information out of you?" The scientist says.
"No idea. Maybe he does have that ability, maybe he doesn't. If he does, we're fucking screwed."
"We'd be screwed long before you went there. He's probably seen Christophe, and had a conversation with him, considering the fact that he's one of the leaders." I state. Oh yes, anyone who sided with Cartman before the war is one of the leaders. Cartman may be the main commander, but our little spy has a great deal of power that we're hoping to exploit.
"Speaking of 'Tophe, is he trusted?" The Eighth Grader asks.
"Completely. No one doubts him, and anyone that does gets a shovel to the face, before they can say anything." I smile, remembering how many times the brunette threatened me with his shovel, and attempted to kill me. Luckily my sword is extremely sharp.
"Let's hope it stays that way." Kyle states, and I nod. I hope so.
If you're reading this, I'm probably dead. Hopefully we've succeeded. Hopefully I'm alive, and fighting the last remnants of Eric Cartman's armies. Hopefully Cartman is dead, and La Resistance has succeeded. Hopefully every member of the group got out alive (Which probably isn't the case). Hopefully you're living in a world very similar to the world before Cartman. If not, well, you might want to read this and take up our cause. And when you're finished, burn this. If the world is still under his rule, I'm probably dead. And so is La Resistance.
I can't predict the future, and I don't think that anyone can. But, if La Resistance is dead, Gregory is alive. Unless of course, it's been hundreds of years and if so he's probably dead. If not, find him.
If you're in a heavily guarded area stuff this in your back pocket and go home, or to whatever Cartman created. If you're in his stronghold hide, and burn this. He'll kill you if he finds it. If however you, like I, are part of a rag-tag group of kids and or adults that fight against Cartman, by all means read this. If you have no idea who Cartman is fuck you, and give this to someone who actually fucking understands.
I live in a ruined world. And only I can stop it. Hopefully I'm alive. Hopefully Cartman is dead. If not, hopefully you're fighting.
I knew exactly what hell I was about to put myself through. The look of recognition in his eyes almost forced a smile onto my face, but I managed to stay in character. I was fucking lucky when I taught him French.
The fat bastard smirked as my closest ally left his basement, and he turned to me with a smile. "Smart move, Mole."
"Don't call me zat." I snapped. Only people that I trust, or stand can call me Mole. Cartman is in neither of those categories.
He put his hands up in mock defeat, and I knew that he was trying to trick me into thinking that he's obeying my orders. He was trying to make sure that I stayed on his side, and I knew it. I didn't say anything. I couldn't compromise the plan.
"So what ees your master plan?"
"Simple, Damien if you would." He planned the outcome. That fat bastard.
The Son of Satan nodded, and lazily snapped his fingers. His entire hand lit on fire, and he angled it at the wall. The flames warped until I could clearly see England.
"What about eet?" I asked, and the others didn't seem to understand the significance of what we were looking at. Stupid American bitches.
"This is England The bastard says, ignoring my words. "Christophe is going to help us capture it."
"And why am I goeeng to do zat?"
"Why are you here?" I clench my fists, but continue to watch him. "We will pretend to have Christophe as a hostage, and we will command for England, send us money in exchange for them."
"I'm not Engleesh. I'm France."
"Good thing I have two citizens then… Uh Damien." The fire changes to my native country. "We'll do the plan with France instead."
"'Ate to break eet to you, but I'm an Amereecan citeezen."
"No you're not," He double checks a piece of paper, after throwing the other one into the flames. "Your name is Pierre Hendrickson, and you were captured by rogue Americans who kidnapped you while you were on vacation in Denver."
"Where's the real Pierre Hendrickson?" Kevin asks.
"You don't want to know." The fire morphed into an image of Mexico. "We will use the money that we made off of Christophe to hire thousands of Mexicans, to be our soldiers. Then we will attack different towns and tell them that they can join us or die. Most will probably join." The blaze changed into the White House.
"From there, we will march to to the capital, and use the soldiers that we have gathered to kill every congressman, and threaten the President's life. He will give us America, and we'll have enough nuclear weapons to take over the world." And as he said it, the flames changed to the world.
"That seems easy. Too easy." Bebe said.
"It'll work, trust me. and we will all have everything that we'll ever want!" All, but Damien, Cartman, Bebe, and I walked away after his speech.
"Alright. I'll contact the media. Damien, and Bebe make Christophe look like this man." He tossed a picture of an innocent boy on the table, and walked out of the room. We all knew Cartman. We knew that he'd succeed.
"Meh!" Cartman whines, and punches the desk.
"Zere ees nozing zat we can do. Accept ze loss and get ovairre it. You were going to keell 'im anyway."
"But now he'll give away precious information!" I almost wish that I'm being yelled at by Damien, but the Anti-Christ isn't in the room. Cartman whines too much.
"What are you goeeng to do? Re-capture 'im?" He smiles, at my words.
"Not a bad idea, Mole. Killing him would be a great blow to the Resistance, and they'd be pussies without weapons again!"
"'Ow are you goeeng to find 'im?"
"Simple. Dogs." I visibly wince, and he seems to notice. "Don't worry, you won't be in charge of them. You'd suck at it anyway. I have a team for that."
"We've tried dogs before. Zey nevairre found zem."
"That's because they're normal dogs. Dogs today can't do anything. Damien says that Hell Hounds do a much better job."
"Stop talkeeng about your leetle fuck buddy for once." I snap. Damien and I are the only ones that he takes shit from. Probably because we're both supernatural. Me with my shovel, and amazing smoking abilities (I can change cigarettes, and light them without wasting for than a second of my time), and Damien with his Hellish powers. We can both kill him if we wanted to. I just don't want to. Yet.
"Ay! At least I'm not a British piece of shit!" My shovel is in my hands, without me consciously moving it. The metal handle is cold against my skin.
"I am not Breetesh. I am French. Get zat into your fuckeeng 'ead!"
"Good point. I meex up you Americans and ze Canadians all ze fuckeeng time." I smirk, which causes him to glare down at me. It sickens me, but I'm about a foot smaller than his '6' "2" height. I blame my genetics. Fucking midget of a dad.
"I got Kyle captured by Osama Bin Laden for calling me Canadian. That was just a warning."
"Ze Jewish boy got captured by 'ho?"
"Osama Bin Laden."
"'Ho ze fuck ees zat?"
"He's the one who set up 911."
"Oh zat terroreest guy. I never paid attenteeon to your fuckeeng news. I was always too busy layeeng land mines een my front yard, and setting up ze moteeon sensors een my room." He seems to think I'm joking, but I'm dead serious. I think my strong personality makes up for my lack of height.
He doesn't even notice that I changed the subject from La Resistance to whatever the fuck we're talking about.
"You never heard of Osama Bin Laden?"
"Non. Nevairee een detail. I zink I keelled someone zat went by zat name zough. Obama?"
"You killed him?"
"Oui. Someone said that eet's because of 'im zat some street zug keelled 'is wife. I deedn't question eet. Just keelled ze bastard like 'e said. Gave me four 'undred grand for zat one. I don't know why eet was worz zat much."
"Obama was our president."
"Zat makes sense zen."
"You're really fucked up."
"As are you, Cartman." I slide the shovel back onto a strap that wraps around my back. "I zink zat we're done 'ere."
"Hey! I'm the boss! I say when you stop or not. Respect my authoritah!"
"Keep dreameeng cocksucker. I'd like to remind you zat I can brain you wiz my shovel whenevaire want."
"The guards can kill you."
"I've keelled ze president of ze united states, wizout even realizing 'ho 's was. I zink that I'd be completely fuckeeng safe. You realize zat eef I leave, and reveal my information to any ozzaire country, your empire you fall?"
"You may already have. I've gotten records that Stan escaped through a tunnel."
"You zink zat I'm ze only one een ze world wiz a fuckeeng shovel?" He ponders this for a second before he realizes that I'm completely right, and he's a fucking idiot for thinking otherwise.
He's a fucking idiot for believing me.
"Get out," He snaps, and I do so, flipping him the bird. I laugh at his scowl. "And kill Stan's guards." And maybe he doesn't kill me, because I'm his best fucking mercenary.
"I want my payment tonight."
"Fine, just go." I laugh.
"What are you gonna do to me?" He whispers. He's seen me work on the innocents in the cells, and he knows exactly what I can do.
"Ze question ees, what deed you do to make Cartman so peessed off?" I know exactly what he did, but in my experience it terrifies a victim to hear those words. I put extra pressure on the arm that I had wrenched behind his back, earning a pained scream. "You 'ave a minute to tell me exactly what you deed, and write Cartman a wreetten apology, or I weell keell you."
"I let a prisoner escape!" The British fag screams. "And I was defeated by children!" I haul him to his feet, with his arm still firmly behind his back, and I push him forward.
"'Ho were ze cheeldren?"
"A blonde kid with a sword and a gay haircut," Gregory. "A little kid with black spiky hair," Fillmore. "A little girl with blonde pigtails," Flora. "A kid with a green hat, and a pole," Kyle. "Four kids dressed in all black," Goths. "And the prisoner were all that I saw."
"I'm goeeng to let go. Eef you run, I weell fuckeeng shoot you een ze balls." Hey, a mercenary has to be trained in torture. His eyes widen, and he nods. I push him forward, letting go of his arm. I give him an unsharpened pencil, and a piece of paper. "Write ze lettaire. Do eet."
His hand shakes as he writes it. I'm able to make out the letter.
Dear Lord Cartman,
You're awesome. You're totally not fat. Please don't hurt me sir. I want to live to see you again.
Pathetic. A grown man betting a twelve year old for his life. I watch him with disinterest. When I was first beginning, I hated the deaths that came with my occupation. I used to be traumatized, and made it as quick as possible for the victim. I figured out that drawing it out makes it fun. Creating fear is humorous to me. I kill the guilty. I hate killing the innocent. I only laugh at the death of the guilty. He isn't guilty.
"Sign your name een blood."
"Sign your name een blood."
"What do I cut myself with?"
"I nevairre said cut." I aim the gun upwards, and pull the trigger. He doesn't have time to scream, before the blood splatters onto his letter. I repeat the process five more times, before turning in for the night. I don't vary any of the orders. I don't vary any of my words. I give all six letters to Cartman after I'm done, and he recalls thinking that I'd make a good member to the team. I tell that fucking cocksucker to go choke on Damien's dick. I've begun to notice that all of my insults involve sex. It's kind of ironic, considering my sexual identity.
The next day, I'm supposed to interrogate some guy from South Park, to see if he knows Stan's location. The guards tell me his name, and I realize that I never met him. Fucking job. I barely know anyone that lived in South Park.
I'm reading from his file, while he's sitting nervously in his chair. He seems freaked out. It interests me to learn that he's Stan's own father, Randy Marsh. His picture is different from the way he looks now, but I suspect that's because he's spent the past two years in captivity. His mustache has grown into a full beard. It doesn't suit him.
"Do you know Stan?" He asks, but I ignore him. He's probably seen me around town, even if I haven't seen him. I'm a mercenary, not a trained fucking spy.
His wife is dead, and his daughter is part of La Resistance. Stan is still listed in captivity. The file hasn't been updated yet.
We have files on everyone that lives under Cartman's rein, so all of North America. I trust Gregory to be able to stop him. I'm hoping to use Randy's information for La Resistance, but it'll be important for Cartman too. I'm wondering if I should just be neutral in this war. I don't care who the fuck wins.
After another ten minutes of file reading, I come upon a picture of his wife. It takes me a minute to realize that I shot her in the neck. I see her corpse in another picture.
"Do you know where Stanley Marsh ees?" I deepen my voice into a constant growl. It terrifies the victims. He seems surprised as I speak.
"I don't know! I told everyone here that I don't know!"
"Do you know where Shelley Marsh ees?"
"We can do zis ze easy way, or ze 'ard way."
"I don't know where they are! I was separated from them during the start of the war!" I know that he's telling the truth, but they don't know that I know. Poor bastard.
"Ze 'ard way eet ees zen. 'Ow about your wife? Do you know where she ees?" I hear laughter outside the door. They know what I'm going to do.
"My wife?" His eyes perk up. "Sharon?"
"Oui, Sharon Marsh. She was a fun one. She wouldn't tell me anything zat 'appened either. Do you know what I deed to 'er?" He shakes his head with bewilderment. Stupid cocksucker.
"I took a gun, and offered not to keell her, eef she told me ze truz. She deedn't tell me ze truz. So I pulled ze treegger. She screamed for a while, as she gagged on 'er own blood. She's not a zreat to Cartman anymore," He seems traumatized. "I'll give you ze same offer. Eef you tell me ze truz, I won't keell you."
"Oh my god. Sharon…"
"God? God ees ze one 'ho put you een zis seetuation. I wouldn't prey to zat faggot ever again, eef I were you. Deed you know, zat when you die, you eemmediatly go to 'ell. Only Mormons go to 'eaven. So your perfect leetle wife? She's een 'Ell. I know. I've been zere. Now, I'll geeve you one chance. Tell me, or go to 'ell."
"I don't know kid. Please let me go." I drop her picture on the desk. His eyes widen even further. I watch as his face turns green, but he doesn't have enough food in his diet to be able to waste it on vomit. I watch him swallow the bile. "Oh my god!" I look into his eyes for the first time. I see a being even more broken than myself. I see someone who's ruined beyond belief, who's been subjected to the worst conditions that one can survive in. I feel terrible that I don't have permission to kill him, so that I can end his suffering. He's crying.
"Don't call that cocksucker." And I keep my shields up, even though I want to cry with him, and remember every life that I've ended in the name of survival. I want to kill Cartman, and stop the war, and free all the prisoners.
People only see the dark side of me. They don't realize that I'm broken. They don't realize that I broke myself.
"He's dead! The other prisoners say that he's dead!" He's sobbing now. He's lying.
I slam my shovel into his face in a whirlwind of motion. He doesn't see it coming. He won't remember drifting into sweet, sweet unconsciousness. I leave him there, and gather the papers. I hand it to them on the way out. They can drag out the body themselves. The sadistic bastards are laughing themselves to tears. One day Cartman will have me kill you two. Then you won't be laughing.
I don't have another meeting with Damien, Bebe, Cartman, or even Gregory for at least two days. I've done all of my mercenary work for the week (though Stan's rescue will probably get me some paperwork), and I can relax for the first time in five months. Thank that fucking faggot in the sky.
Damien isn't as easily strayed as Cartman is. He doesn't let his temper win him over, which is good considering the fact that he does have an insane temper. Damien is also much better at torture than the Fatass, because he's the Anti-Christ (Just to remind you). And he doesn't take my shit like Cartman does. Probably because I'm 'supposedly' Heaven allied concerning how I got those powers with my shovel, and weird 'I-don't-ever-get-sick-from-cigarettes' thing.
Just to say, yes I hate Damien. I want to rip his face off and feed it to his own fucking Hell Hounds.
They took my shovel. They don't trust me with it around him. So I stole their gun, and threatened to kill them if they didn't give me my fucking shovel back. My shovel is firmly strapped against my back.
"What ees eet?" I ask.
"They escaped through a tunnel. You were missing. Find the connection?" His voice has deepened over the past few years into a constant growl, just as mine had. The only difference between us is that I never needed supernatural abilities to kick ass (They just help immeasurably. Fucking God makes me value the powers).
"I 'as traineeng to 'elp you wiz zis fuckeeng war. I smashed one of zem een ze fuckeeng face!" Poor Kyle. He did tell me to do it, but I hate hurting allies.
"There was a cigarette in the tunnel."
"And I'm ze only one een ze world zat smokes?"
"You're the only one with the resources."
"'Ow do you know? 'Ho knows 'ow many resources zey 'ave at La Resistance." He knows when I lie, but I'm not lying. I'm just stretching the truth.
"Did you help them escape?"
"No," I helped them get in, and I dug a tunnel, but I never led them to the tunnel so I never helped them escape. "Now eef ze eenteregation ees over, I would like my payment." He scowls, and two packs of cigarettes, a few bottles of whiskey, and some jars of coffee appear in thin air. Money has no value anymore, so I don't ask for it. I don't really like whiskey or coffee, but I donate it to La Resistance. I'm the only one in the United Federation Under Cartman who can actually drink any alcoholic beverage. I shove that into the guards face like crazy.
Sometimes with recovering alcoholics all you have to do is offer them a bottle of beer, and they'll spill any information that you need. I try not to use that method, considering the fact that Damien will blow their brains out afterwards for drinking.
"Can I go now?"
"Yes. I need you to deal with a guard. They didn't do anything too terribly wrong, so just shoot them in the brain."
"Afterwards I'm goeeng 'ome."
"Fine." For some reason he never follows me. Probably because he knows that Heaven (For some fucked up reason) wants me to fight for them in the war, and his doing anything against me would result in the final apocalyptic battle, and I'm sure that he doesn't want to die yet. "Cartman wants to see you on Sunday."
"He's taking over England and wants you to be leverage."
"I'm fuckeeng French, deecksucker."
"I'll tell him to revise the plan."
"You just want an excuse to steeck your deeck up 'is ass." He gives me his most perverted smile.
"I'd rather do that to you."
"Are you asking?" I gag for a second. I'm not surprised that the Anti-Christ is as perverted as Kenny (Maybe slightly less than Kenny).
"Aww, you're teasing me now." He smirks. Yeah, he's out of interrogation mode for sure. When he's not trying to see if I'm a traitor so that he can murder me and eat my heart, he's actually a pretty cool guy.
"I need bettaire eensults don't I?"
"Yes you do, scrotum suckairre." He said, mocking both my accent and insults. I scowl, and glare at him. Even the Anti-Christ can't match my worst glares.
"Go fuck yourself Damien."
"I'd rather do you instead." I pull my shovel out of the strap, and walk over to the door. I lift the heavy garden appliance over my head, and bring it down on the locked door.
"Au revoir Monsieur Zorne," The wooden door cracks on impact, and the two guards turn to face me with astonishment on their faces. "What?" I ask, and they both point their guns at me.
"Put down the shovel." Oh we're playing that game. I'm betting that I'll win.
"You're a fucking deeckless cocksuc-" As they wait for me to finish my sentence, I bring the shovel back down on one of their heads. I hear a cracking sound. Without even waiting to recover, I swing it around into the other guards stomach. I hear his gasp, and he falls back onto the floor, breathless. "-ker." I wipe the bloody shovel on one of their shirts. Cartman's bitches really suck at fighting. I'll probably have to clean the blood from the first one
I take a second to pack the dirt behind me. In another second the tunnel is 15 feet long and counting. I'm considered the fasted digger on Earth. It's one of the reasons that Damien is never able to follow me. By the time he's even inside of the hole, I'm a mile away.
I've never been afraid of small spaces like some people are. I'd be fucked if I was. My shovel moves at unimaginable speed. I can't describe the feeling that pulses through my veins when I dig.
I once dug from Maine to the South Eastern regions of Mexico. It took me about two hours. I fell asleep in the tunnel when I arrived.
The dirt walls seem to collapse in on themselves when I leave them behind. It's as if I was never there.
I hum a random tune over and over again, as I shovel through the dirt. I'm already far from Cartman's base. I am extremely lucky that La Resistance decided to have the base underground, in a cave that I lived in in-between missions. I had probably lived there for three years, before they decided to use it. And being my home it had weapons, escape routes, landmines, bombs, a wall of shovels, 24 packs of cigarettes, the former La Resistance flag (For memories of cheating death), and rooms for prisoners. I had carved it myself.
Cartman never anticipated that I would be able to fight back. He never anticipated any of our movements. Because I made sure that he never knew the real plans.
My ears sting, as the metal of my shovel connects with the metal of the door to the base.
"Viva La Resistance." I say, making sure that my voice carries into the underground cave. The metal door opens, and I smirk at the inhabitants.
"Mole?" Wendy asks. I nod.
"Ze one and only."
"What are you doing here?"
"I need to talk to Gregory. Cartman ees planneeng somezing beeg."
"I'll get him. There at a meeting."
"I'll go. Eet ees very eemportant for 'im to know early." She nods, and leads me through the cave. I strap my shovel back onto my back, and replace my cigarette as I walk. They can't tell me not to smoke, because they're the guests in my house. I make sure to always smoke when I'm there. Even if they're my allies, pissing them off is fun.
"What's going on?"
"Cartman's new plan may just destroy ze entire Resistance. I need to tell Gregory."
"What's the plan?"
"Zat ees classeefied informateeon. Just 'ead my warneengs. Ze Fatass wants to keell you. Ze Fatass weell not stop until you are all dead. You 'ave to beat ze Fatass." I knock on the metal plate that separated the rooms. Wendy watches me with a confused expression. "Eet ees Ze Mole." The plate opens like a door, and I walk in as Wendy closes it behind me.
"What's wrong Mole?" The British boy asks.
"Cartman ees planning somzing."
"What?" The man with the ass cane asks.
"Oui, zey can smell a certain zscent from miles away. And I believe zat zey have Stan's scent from ze 'andcuffs zat zey used to take 'im to interrogation."
"Fuck." Said boy mutters.
"We need to evacuate zis base. I 'ave another een ze meedle east. I can get zere een about a day, but you'll 'ave to fly or somezing. Do you still 'ave zat plane from when you started ze upriseeng een Libya?"
"Yeah, remember, you dug a hole for it." Oui, I do. And it's in Mexico. Fuck."
"(We're screwed.)" Kenny, oh-so optimistically, states. Hell I shouldn't be talking. I'm a pessimist myself.
"Get everyone to strip this cave until there is nothing, but rock. We can't leave any evidence that we stayed here, if we are going to go." Brofloski says.
"I'll tell Cartman zat I'm goeeng to see my maman een France. You all fly to Russia, and I'll meet you zere. Cartman weell likely send me by plane, and zen I'll kill ze guards and tell my maman zat I weell be at a zjob, and I'll deeg to you. Now, streep ze base. Don't forget my shovels and cigarettes. Ze cost me a fuckeeng fortune."
"Be careful Mole." Brofloski says.
"I zink you know by now 'ow I respond to zat."
"Yes," He sighs, and then mimicking my accent says "Careful? 'As my mozzairre careful when she stabbed me een ze 'eart wiz a clozes 'anger?" Why can everyone mimic my fucking accent?
"La te faire foutre, my young companeeon." Translation? Fuck off, my young companion. No one mimics my accent. "Remember to keell any 'Ell 'Ounds."
"Will do Mole."
"Zen good luck, and remember not to die."
As you can see, I'm not one for introduction. Gregory and Christophe are going to the the only P.O.V.'s. Answers will come soon, such as "How did Cartman possibly get any fatter?", "Why does everyone think that Christophe's British?", and "Why the hell isn't Cartman dead yet?" will probably... not be answered next time.