South Park Oneshots

Some slight Stenny content :)

2 years of sobriety and I find myself back in South Park's downtown bar on a late Saturday night. By myself. Which isn't the worst part of my week surprisingly. I lift my head off of the bar table once the room is spinning a little slower and look to the bartender who raises a questioning brow at me. I lift my hand to motion for another whiskey and cola. My sixth. For a moment, she parts her lips to speak, probably to suggest I had enough, but she gave up trying to speak over the loud rock music pounding in the building and smacked her gum real agitated-like and flipped around to fix my drink. My temporary worry faded into a mellow grin as I watched her whip up my glass, observing her choppy red hair fall over her shoulders as she set the glass in front of me, a hand on her hip. "Tab's looking real long, Marsh. You staying for the show?" She raises her voice while leaning near my level, I furrow my brows. I haven't been here since 21, they do shows now? "The who?" I inquire, leaning forward over the bar while sipping from my chilled glass. "You didn't know? Local bands do gigs here now. For the sake of entertainment or something." No, ma'am, recovering alcoholics tend to avoid all the recent updates on nearby bars. 'Til its relapse time. I shrugged it off, already over the idea of near-elderly men trying to live out their lifelong dreams of having a rock band. I see a silhouette out of my peripheral, a blonde boy. He looks familiar but I can't put my finger on where I've seen him. Rehab? Either way, I hope he's not coming over here. My RBF doesn't assist me with this.

"Aw, whats got you riled up?" He leans close onto the bar to my left, I glance over to him and scan his blue eyes and dark speckle of freckles on his face all over, trailing down under his shirt and wherever else. Usually, I'd ignore such a twat but liquor isn't called liquid courage for nothing. "Fuck off, yeah?"

"Hey, how about I help? I'd consider bringing you home, but I don't have one at the moment," he picks up his vodka on the rocks and walks closer to the stool next to me. He's wearing an old white tee and black jeans with an orange jacket tied around his waist. He lights a cigarette next to my face and by the time he takes a hit from it, I'm fed up. "Wouldn't stop us from paying a visit to the alley though, I don't mind bending over the dumpster for the right guy."

I can smell the Tito's on his lips and I look him up and down, the dim setting in the bar complimented his freckles. "Guess that makes every other guy in here the right fucking guy."

His smirk falls and mine rises and he falls back for a second, yet he refuses to accept his defeat, straightening his posture. "Excuse me for wanting to let off some steam." He turns to leave with a bitter expression. I decide to give the conversation another chance.

I scoff, "You're not my type."
"I bet I could be." He turns back around with determination,
"Bet you couldn't."
He looks at me as if I challenged him, tilting his head to the side and slipping his small frame back into my view. "Whats your type?"
"Brunette."
"I am downstairs." He bites his lip with a cocky smile when I grimace, I narrow my eyes and face him,
"Batshit crazy."
"Check."

(Okay yeah so take this and tell me how you guys like it, this is a very short oneshot for me, inspired by a scene in a series I saw. I know I've been slacking on content but I intend on dumping some stuff here for you guys so you aren't waiting around for updates and like I said, keep up the requests and feedback. I appreciate it. :)) More updates hopefully later today or during the week?? We'll see how my battle with writer's block goes.)