Chapter Text
“This is not fucking Mission Impossible, oh my god you absolute dilhole.” Craig groaned, trying to calculate in his head just how fast Clyde’s crappy red jeep needed to be moving to instantly kill him once he got this damn door handle unlocked and tumbled voluntarily into the road. The momentum, he hoped, would be on his side. Red asphalt and all that shit.
“Nuh-uh, you’re not getting out of this one by tucking and rolling, asshole.” Clyde laughed, yanking Craig back by his hoodie string and thus ruining the careful measurement of each nylon cords threading. “Token and I spent a crap ton of time and a hell of a lotta’ sparkly gel pen ink and graph paper planning this out. You are going to this party.”
Craig started to furtively jiggle the handle of the car door like some desperate lab rat pawing at its cage latch to little avail.
“You are going to get drunk.”
Craig banged his fist against the polyplex window that was covered in flaked off pigeon shit and silver sharpie doodles of penises that had been collected over the years. “—and you are finally going to kiss your twitchy little man-crush so that we can finally all share a nice lunch period without you makin’ come-hither eyes and hiding your raging bon—”
“Oh my god Clyde, for the sixth time shut the fuck up, yeah?” Craig Tucker seethed—he didn’t whine. Craig Tucker did not whine.
“I honestly don’t see why you’re being such a fuckin’ negative Nancy about this, you’ve been bitchin’ and moaning about Tweek since like the 9th grade, it’s time to do something about it—and Senior year is exactly the right time.” Clicking on his turn signal, Clyde made a wide left into the rich neighborhood, mumbling out street names to himself till he pulled up to a three-story mansion held up by roman-style columns and fat paycheck stacks.
“I have not been bitching.” Craig rolled his eyes till he was sure he could see into the back of his skull; a dark cavern only mildly cluttered with a few fucks to give.
Giving him the flattest look ever—flatter than days old opened soda—Clyde sighed and shook his head mockingly. “Oh Craig, just what are we going to do with you?” He tutted and made a move to pinch his taller friends cheeks, earning a hard glare and a snarl.
“Kill me.”
“Don’t worry, tonight you’ll either die of alcohol poisoning or pure shame when Tweek realizes what an absolute bonehead you are.”
“Oh joy.” Exhaling out his nose, Craig stamped his sneakers against the jeep dashboard, leaving a smear of mud. “Hey! Stop messing up my car, asswipe!”
“At least I know how to wipe my own ass,” Craig mumbled as he kicked at the dashboard again. At the sound of Clyde’s fumbling fingers pressing the lock keys on the dashboard, Craig triumphantly manhandled the door open before sliding out, nearly hitting his forehead on the doorframe.
“You need a bigger car, Donovan.” He growled out as he exited. The crunch of gravel under his feet got louder and louder the closer he got to the massive flag-stone stair-way that led to the morose purple door that was the entryway to Token’s home. Ivy stuck to the windowpanes in an obvious aesthetic choice and giant urns of marble boasted fat blooms of pink petunias trying so hard to overcome the first of Colorado’s autumn frost. It was still summer by Craig’s estimation and yet he had already broken out his chullo and signature NASA jacket. Fuckin’ hick town and it’s shit weather.
“You need a bigger set of balls, Tucker!” Clyde sing-songed back as he jogged up to the stairwell, only to have his neck roped in by Craig’s long arms into a vicious nuggie. His button nose was smashed into the black-haired teen’s armpit and he practically yowled like a drowned cat to get free.
“Let go of me, you sasquatch!” Scrambling for his fingers to find purchase on Craig’s shoulders, Clyde wheezed as Craig’s bony knuckles made static and knots out of his previously luscious mousy brown locks.
“Damnit, I had to use an entire handful of hair gel to get it to bounce bodaciously like that!” Inspecting the damage, Clyde began to pout miserably when his usually smooth hair practically crinkled against his palms. He had been working on it all first period in the boy’s bathroom, trying to get a style that nicely accentuated his husky strong jaw and his delightfully impish dimples so that Bebe would swoon at the first sight of him. Sure, she was with Wendy now, but he could at least salvage some of his pride by making her jealous as hell.
“’s what you get for being a jerk.”
“But you’re always a jerk! Where are the universes repercussions for that? I demand justice!” No matter how much Clyde pawed at his mussed hair it remained stuck up in cowlick waves with each tug and pull.
“Get used to disappointment.” Craig hummed with a slight smirk as he jammed his finger into the ornate doorbell to the Black Mansion. The chime was instant; some mockup of a Victorian orchestra reel with high pitched tones. Very classy.
They heard carefully measured footsteps on the stairwell from inside before the heavy oak door of the Black residence creaked open and bestowed upon them the beautiful suave face of their friend, already dressed in a smart but casual printed button up and tasteful skinny jeans and new $400-dollar trainers. Craig honestly loved his friends (he would never let them know this, of course—if they knew he’d have to kill them), but he was always jealous at how Token just instantly knew how to dress like an adult while Craig’s method of getting ready for the day consisted of smelling his jeans to make sure the level of stank was acceptable and then snatching a wrinkled shirt from his drawers. Easy. Reliable. Utterly fashionably depraved.
“I’m surprised to see you guys on time—what, no taco pitstop?” Token leaned against the wide berth of the doorframe, looking as cool as a cucumber and Craig internally hated how both of his friends were seeming to handle the situation of impending doom that was about to crash upon them this evening. Didn’t any of them have a single drop of teenage angst in them?
“We were hoping to raid your fridge my good dude.” Clyde explained, and with that his doe eyes were on full blast, accentuated by the flutter of his abnormally long eyelashes that every girl in South Park High wished to covet for their own. It was utterly pathetic, and yet it usually worked in Clyde’s favor in obtaining food scraps.
Token sighed affectionately and nodded his head. “Right, okay. Well there’s frozen Totino’s pizza rolls in the freezer we can heat up. Just promise me you’ll use plates because Jesus Christ I don’t think my mom could take another repeat of last week’s spaghetti marinera disaster.”
Clyde saluted faithfully before grinning ear to ear. “Aye Aye, Captain! Oh! And thanks once again for letting us chill here before the party—things are still pretty shitty at my house and I don’t think either of us could handle one of Tricia’s moods while we’re trying to help out our good ol’ douchebag here!” Elbowing Craig in the ribs earned him a hard swat.
“Dude calm down. This day has been a long time coming—even Token agrees.” Clyde nodded sagely, earning the wrath of Craig just that much more. He swore he could feel his left eyelid twitching at a constant rate that would put Tweek’s own anxiety spasms to shame.
“Yeah, thanks but I don’t need you ass-wipes telling me how much of a loser I am at life—I’m perfectly well aware.”
“You’re not a loser you’re just a little prickly. Thorny, if you will.” And horny, was Clyde’s chuckling additive. Another elbow to his rib was his reward.
“Also, a bit emotionally constipated.”
“Kinda’ distant.”
“And one MCR record away from being entirely emo.”
“Oohhh my godddd.” Craig groaned.
“But we’re here to help! Operation ‘Turn Craig into a Major Gay Sex Icon,’ initiation—NOW!” At Clyde’s outburst a few neighbor’s pedigree poodles started to howl fiercely against the setting sun.
“Shout that a little louder why don’t you?! Also, great name—can’t wait to see it all crash and burn.” Craig seethed as he shoved his way past them both and into the beautiful air conditioned alcove of the hallway. Passing by the immaculate ivory colored couches and potted ferns that looked too pretty to be fake he made a beeline for the kitchen to seek out the aforementioned junk food. If he was going to be an accomplice to this awful horrible no good night, he might as well get as much greasy food out of it as he could.
“Shoes off dude. You know the rules!” Token called back, and Craig obligingly (but with much eye-rolling) toed off his sneakers and lopped them towards the entry way where they flew behind the couch and bounced at odd ends near the foot of the polished stairs.
“Close enough.” Token shrugged.
The rest of the twilight passed by with the incessant beep of the oven, the smell of almost burnt cheese, fighting over radio stations (Clyde won out more often than not by licking the tuning knobs and daring them to touch his spit), and the irremovable and perpetual bitch face of one Craig Tucker.
“I’m not wearing a fucking monkey suit.”
“Dude, chill, it’s a blazer. You can wear a t-shirt underneath and then chuck it off once you get inside the party.” Token waved the sleek bit of black fabric back and forth; it reminded Craig instantly of a matador trying to taunt a bull with a bright red cloth, a hidden sword poised at the ready to gouge. Like hell he was going to commit social suicide by wearing that.
“Then what’s even the point of putting it on if I’m going to ditch it as soon as I cross Bebe’s lawn?”
“The point is that you will look like you actually put an iota more thought into your appearance than you usually do, thus impressing Tweek and increasing your chances of getting that sweet lovin’.” Token explained, draping the jacket over his enormous bed where all the other piled and rejected clothes lay. It was like a Calvin Klein store threw up on his 800 thread count Egyptian cotton.
“Stop. Oh my god never ever utter that sentence ever again, please.”
“Well then stop being so negative and actually help—it’s like talking to a brick wall.” Token was usually calm, but this was getting on his nerves. At the pace this was going they’d be late picking Tweek up from his house after his shift at the coffee shop, and that was not a good way to start the evening. Keeping a date waiting was a no-no on the “Turn Craig into a Major Gay Sex Icon” itinerary.
“The clothes we told you to bring from your house are utter shit—and most of them unwashed.” Clyde made a face as he poked the black trash bag of what was left of Craig’s closet. It smelt of sweat and nibbled guinea pig hay—and rodent piss. Lots of rodent piss. Most of their contents included alien themed t-shirts, black wife beaters, and an assortment of rejected church clothes that his mother bought him years ago that he forgot to dump at a thrift shop when they stopped fitting him over the years.
“Honestly, Craig, this is really sad.” Clyde flopped onto the bed on his back in an attempt to make a snow angel out of all the discarded bits of cloth piled on Token’s bed.
“Oh, because wearing your god damn letterman jacket for the fifteenth party in a row is sooooo original!” Craig snapped back.
“It’s my signature look!” He pouted, eyes misty at the edges. Good lord, he was going to cry again.
“Well, my signature look is a t-shirt and jeans. Take it or leave it.” He should maybe feel a bit ashamed at how ungodly stubborn he was being, but he couldn’t help the unsettled churning in the pit of his stomach and his utterly sweaty palms. This was way out of his comfort level. Tweek and him had been friends since they were about nine years old—after the scuffle on the playground that landed them in the Hells Pass ER, that is. Then shit got real when they had to “pretend” to be together for a good half of middle school to the satisfaction of the town. That was one of the hardest times for Craig because of how easy it was at first—he already hung out with Tweek a lot of the time anyway, and it wasn’t much of a challenge to sprinkle a few more hugs or hand squeezes in between their regular hangouts. But then, then he started to develop feelings. Fuckin’ awful things those were.
He knew something was immeasurably wrong when he was in freshman year and one night had a wet dream about the other—yeah it was hazy and musty, but when he woke up with drenched boxers and the last vestiges of wild blond hair in his mind he knew he was fucked. It had been a good four years since they “broke up” but apparently that didn’t matter to Craig’s hormones and dick. Nor his heart.
Fuck ain’t that just the sappiest shit?
Anyhow, he had been careful to try to seem calm and collected but internally he had spent the last few months, years, freaking out constantly. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of his feelings—fuck that sentiment and the horse it rode in on. Hating himself was not necessarily an option for Craig Tucker—that was just too much emotional output to deal with, and so therefore his feelings just kind of simmered at a constant but low rate of panic. In a way, he felt a little bit like how he imagined Tweek must feel every god damn day of his life—mildly apprehensive, constantly watchful. Except he didn’t think investing in a whole lot of medication for his dumb gay feelings would do him any good like it would for Tweek’s General Anxiety Disorder. Nope, good old fashion apathy would keep him in check. Heaven forbid he actually tell the guy he had a huge crush on him—had for a while. Like his so-not boyfriend would say—that’s just too much pressure.
Except…that was entirely the point of tonight, God help him.
Token and Clyde had been planning for weeks different ways to help Craig ask Tweek out—or, more like goad him into facing his feelings and putting his heart on his sleeve. The fact that Bebe’s parents were out of town and she was having yet another party to ring in the school year as seniors was just the perfect opportunity that one could not pass up. Contrary to popular belief, Tweek was pretty okay at parties—when he stuck with his usual friend group and had Craig to hang out with him for most of the night. A little bit of weed, some coffee from his thermos and he was good, content to sit near the speakers and feel the music thump in time with his sporadic heartbeat. It also helped that Bebe just got a new cappuccino machine that she wanted Tweek to test out tonight.
“How about you wear these jeans…” Token plucked what he guessed to be the cleanest pair of black jeans in the pile with the least amount of rips and grass stains “…and the black blazer…and any t-shirt of your choice, though so help me it better not have a meme on it.” It was a pretty okay bargain, but still Craig made a less than cooperative face.
“Can I wear a plain black t-shirt…”
“No, you cannot wear a black t-shirt with black jeans and a black blazer you stupid filthy grunge looking mother fucker.” Token clapped out each word like he was talking to a toddler and not a recently turned 18-year-old with acne on his face and loathing in his heart.
“Fine.” He groused and began to shuffle through the slightly crumpled t-shirts while Token preened over the shining spotless black blazer draped over his arm.
He was less than happy, however, when Craig produced a heather gray shirt with a big fat blue circle on the middle and Nasa’s logo striking through it in white and red.
Craig had the unabashed gall to grin wickedly at Token’s mulish face. “Fine, if you don’t want to look special for your man then that’s your problem.” He huffed, wondering why he even tried to smarten Craig up when he was just going to revert back to his heathenish ways. At least the shirt was relatively clean and not ripped at the seams. Progress.
“But we have to do something with your hair…and when was the last time you washed your face? Or brushed your teeth…?”
That was how they spent the last half hour mussing up Craig’s usually greasy black hair into something presentable and playing keep-away with his chullo “…but I swear to God Token if you make me look even remotely like Stan Marsh I will obliterate you with just my eyes alone.” In the end Token allowed him to keep the hat in his back pocket, a kind of security blanket if you will.
He was goaded by Clyde into brushing his teeth for two minutes straight no matter how fiercely he swore that he had brushed them already today. Clyde wouldn’t hear any complaints as he unscrewed the Jim Bean whiskey Token hid under his bed and tried to pour shots into mouthwash caps while counting down the seconds until Craig was free to spit into the sink and wipe his mouth.
“You finally got those damn braces off your face, it’s time to put those chompers to work.” Clyde crowed as he took yet another refreshing shot of whiskey before Token yanked the makeshift shot glass from his fingers. Thank God Clyde was only going to drive them to the party and not back—the last thing anyone wanted was to be pulled over by Officer Barbrady with a drunk Clyde at the wheel spitting up like an infant and recalling Taylor Swift lyrics.
Craig spat the minty foam from his mouth into the sink. “What, you want me to bite him or something?” He deadpanned at his idiot friend’s observation.
“Couldn’t hurt.” Clyde winked, and damn him, Craig burned red for half a second before he socked Clyde in the arm. Hard.
“What?! Tweak’s probably a freak in the sack, you don’t know—but you’re about to find out!” He giggled uncontrollably before those little bubbles of laughter turned into shrieks of fright as Craig lunged from the en-suite bathroom to try to grab and throw Clyde to the ground. The brunette could only jump around the room with reedy high-pitched screams like puberty hadn’t quite hit him yet before Craig took a shoe from Token’s closet and chucked it at him. It hit him behind the neck and downed him like a deer being shot on the discovery channel.
It took all of Token’s patience to wrangle the two of them up and declare them complete and utter fuckwitts. After fixing Craig’s messed up hair yet again and then spending ten minutes looking for Clyde’s lost keys from the now cluttered floor of Token’s room (and ending up finding the keys in Clyde’s jean pockets after all), they decided it was time to go and pick Tweek up from his house and get this night started. Token had the deets to the festivities and was sure that if they left now they’d arrive at a relatively fashionable time; not too late that all the good hard liquor would be swallowed up but not early enough to be labeled lame-asses. Besides, they had a brown grocery bag cluttered with half-filled bottles of rum and Jack Daniels and beer the three of them had been pilfering from their households to add to the communal pot. If that didn’t get them some respect at the party, then they didn’t know what would.
It was admirable of Craig that the other two didn’t have to drag him to Donovan’s jeep, but still he couldn’t muster up much more bravado than that. Already the blazer was itching at his collar and the cologne Token insisted on him wearing was starting to choke up his nostrils. The fact that Clyde insisted on blaring the Beastie Boy’s No Sleep till Brooklyn from his crappy speakers didn’t help the migraine that was brewing behind Craig’s temples. Tonight was gonna’ be a regular shit show.
His anxiety got worse the closer they wound through streets intimately familiar to Craig. He walked this route with Tweek after work at the coffee shop all the time—the jeep passed by the birch tree that Craig stupidly carved his and Tweek’s initials into with his dad’s swiss army knife in 6th grade. They passed by the park bench where he would snatch Tweek’s hand unprompted and swipe his thumb over the others purple bruised knuckles. Craig sunk into his seat in the back, his bulk height bowing under his apprehension as the jeep lurched to a screeching halt part-way in Tweek’s parent’s driveway. God damn Clyde was a shit driver.
Accompanied by the blare of his honking horn, Clyde rolled down the windows and shouted as loud as he could into the freezing evening air “Come out come out wherever you are, Tweaky boy, it’s time to paaaarty!”
The crickets echoed back with the hum of the engine and the first riffs of Cypress Hill Clyde’s speakers were currently entertaining.
“Craig, maybe you should go ring the doorbell.” Token suggested, and Clyde was quick to swing his head round behind him and stick Craig with a shit-eating grin. “Yeah, Craig—be a gentleman and escort Tweek to his awaiting carriage!”
“More like pile of rusty crap.” The black-haired teen mumbled under his breath.
Ignoring his friend frothing at the mouth, Craig decided to grasp what little courage he had and pushed against the right-side door, stumbling slightly into the cracked street pavement. To the chorus of Token and Clyde cat-calling and hollering from the car, Craig bunched his hands into the unbelievably small pockets of his skinny jeans and stiltedly traipsed to the front porch of the Tweak residence. Fuck this, honestly. Ugh.
He thrust one hand out and before his brain and common sense could catch up with him rapped furiously on the front door for a few seconds.
Half a minute must has passed before he heard what sounded like a crash, and then an “Oh Jesus!” accompanied by the rapid rush of footsteps running to the door. Craig had the practiced good graces to step back as soon as the olive-green door was yanked back and revealed a frazzled Tweek. When he saw who was on his porch though, the blond grinned and the dimples on his face showed like two craters on the moon and Craig was instantly reminded by how fucking gay he really was.
His hair was less of a mess than usual—as if effort had been taken to comb it back, but it still curled around his ears and bounced above his forehead in all angles that Craig found endearingly handsome. The dark circles under his eyes seemed less prominent under the orange neighborhood streetlamps and the green button up he wore under his black sweater vest was crisp and crease free at the collar—all the buttons were perfectly in place as well. He looked so good. Thank god I wore the monkey suit, Craig thought with silent relief. He would have to find Token a beer at the party in gratitude.
“Craig! I’ll be right there, I just need to grab my thermos and I’ll be good.” He assured the taller other, toeing his left boot on and not bothering with the laces—he’d tie them in the car, Craig knew.
“Are you going with an Irish coffee this time?” Craig murmured with a natural smile.
Tweek scoffed. “You think you know me so well—but no. Baileys and brown sugar.”
“And you’re sure Bebe doesn’t have any baileys and coffee at her house?” Craig teased, and shit this was feeling so nature, so easy. Why was he afraid? This was just like any other night the guys decided to get together, what was the big deal?
Tweek, already in the kitchen, barked out a sarcastic laugh. “I know for a fact the only brand she has in her kitchen is Folgers! I wouldn’t touch that shit if you paid me.” Tweek returned with a gaudy yellow and green thermos decorated with slices of limes—Tricia had gotten it for him for his birthday last year when Tweek’s parents were out of town (again) and the Tuckers hosted him for a birthday dinner. It was a trifle more decorative than his normal plaid thermoses, but it was green, so he didn’t mind it so much.
“Ooh, pretentious, aren’t we?”
“More like I have taste buds and I’d like to keep them, thank you very much.” He laughed, and Craig knew he probably looked utterly besotted but he couldn’t help it as he closed the door after Tweek without a second’s hesitation and walked alongside him to the car. The grass crunched with silvery frost under their shoes.
“So, you look nice.” Tweek hummed appreciatively, and Craig could swear he caught the end of the other’s gaze looking him up and down slowly as they reached the car. “Oh—um…”You look like a freakin’ angel. Jesus, you don’t even know the things I want to do to you.
“Thank you! That was our doing.” Token grinned from his open window and Tweek jumped, almost dropping his thermos into the gutter.
“Jesus!” He crowed, but quickly regained his composure enough to greet Token with their usual fist bump. “Glad you could make it man!”
“Yeah, my schedule was looking pretty full at work, but Henrietta said she would cover for me—I just have to promise to proofread her next AP Lit paper.” He mumbled, tugging at the collar of his sweater to remove a speck of lint.
Craig opened the backseat door and shoved aside some of the McDonalds cups and taco bell wrappers from the seats to make room for the blond. Tweek hummed his thanks and clamored in. “Seriously though, dude. You look really sharp.” Tweek murmured, and Craig once again didn’t know what to do with this information and so he croaked out a “You too. And…I’m really glad you’re able to come tonight.”
Tweek’s smile was big enough to crinkle the corner of his eyes and Craig could have wept openly in front of him.
“Well, you can stare at Craig’s bitchin’ metamorphosis later, because we got an appearance to make and a keg to destroy!” Clyde crowed happily as he began to back out back onto the black sleet street.
“Metamorphosis, like from Kafka? Big words comin’ from you, Clyde.” Token commented as the brunette flicked on his turn signal and careened off in the direction of Bebe’s house. Tweek gripped tightly at his seatbelt to keep from rocking back and forth at the other’s awful steering. Craig resisted the sudden urge to slip his hand over his knee to keep him steady. Yeah, that would be the only reason, sure.
Clyde shrugged. “I may not have done the summer reading but let it not be said I never read the fuckin’ titles.” Then he suddenly made a sour face. “What’s with this Holden Caulfield douchebag everyone keeps talking about anyway?”
“Jesus, just drive.” Craig groaned.
…
Pulling up to the Stevens house was like getting timeline whiplashed from the best of the fuckin’ 90s romcoms or something. The lawn was absolutely littered with red solo cups of every size, auburn liquid still glittering their insides like dew. The windows of the two storied house had been shut tight but the sweet blaring of guitar riffs peppered with early era Ska still shook the glass frames and it was probably only a matter of time before the neighbors called the cops on the partygoers. Clusters of their classmates and a few kids from North Parks were packed into the opened garage where the boys spied the beautiful vestiges of a keg looking almost full and delicious. A domino’s pizza car was stall-parked in the driveway, it’s muffler humming away fume exhaust as Bebe in her bright candy apple red heels paid the buzzcut dude the pizza fare right on her doorstep.
Parking was a nightmare and so Clyde ended up driving in a loop around the first bought of streets where they could cut through a yard or two and make it to Bebe’s with a quick walk from the Jeep. Already the cold night air bit at their faces and Craig was once against begrudgingly glad he wore the blazer, if not for the little protection it gave him against the Colorado elements. It also helped that Tweek seemed to not be able to keep his eyes off the other’s ensemble, and Craig would often catch him in the act of staring before his eyes blinked rapidly and fixated on some neighbor’s birdhouse or the phases of the moon above. Maybe he did have a chance tonight? Yeah, and maybe if a frog had wings it wouldn’t bump its ass when it hopped…
“Alright gentlemen, here is the plan.” Clyde looped his arms over Tweek and Token’s shoulders and gave them a hearty squeeze—not even bothering with Craig since he was too damn tall to cajole and anyway would probably shove Clyde off of him regardless. Instead, Craig had been regulated to carry the already leaking grocery bag of alcohol to the party—their toll pay for the night.
“We are on a quest to leave as big a dent as we can on the Stevens’ liquor cabinet. I don’t want anything spared—you hear me? I want tie-dyed puke on her bathroom tiles and every coffee table in the house danced on, alright? I want beer-pong games valiantly won—I want your lungs to be filled with the beautiful perfume of the best weed our glorious mountain state has to offer.” The brunette jeered, shaking their shoulders vigorously, as if they were kids again and he was rallying his troops for one of their dumb backyard games. It was oddly poetic and even Craig found himself being affected.
“Kevin said he was going to be the designated driver for the evening, so I’m leaving my Jeep parked down the street. After we have raised the literal roof, Kevin and Jimmy will drive us back to Token’s house where if we’re not already completely shit faced then video games and binge eating will commence.” Clyde assured them all, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Now…You all know the part you must play tonight—” at this, the jock flicked his menacing hazel eyes to Craig and winked, “—so play it well my fellow fuck ups!”
Oh, Craig was going to absolutely murder him.
…