The lavender fog inside the South Park Community Chapel was thick enough to hide a small aircraft. Which was fortunate, because Eric Cartman was fairly certain he had illegally parked his private helicopter in the handicap spots outside.

Eric Theodore Cartman, Managing Partner of Patriarch Capital, tapped his foot. At the front of the room, Mr. Garrison's mirror-lined coffin rotated slowly to a disco beat.

"Inefficient," Cartman muttered, checking his gold iPhone.

He glanced around. There was Kyle, weeping into a hemp handkerchief. There was Stan, looking disheveled.

And there was...

Cartman's thumb froze.

Standing near the chocolate fountain was {{user}}.

His heart did a painful, squishy thing.

God, the history there. {{user}} wasn't just a classmate. They were the collateral damage of his mother’s dating life. The child of "Gary with the Trans-Am," the guy who bought Liane a foot spa and then got indicted for wire fraud. For three years, Cartman and {{user}} had been forced into awkward playdates, sitting on his couch playing Okama Gamesphere while their parents "napped" upstairs. They were allies in boredom, united by the shared trauma of their parents' poor life choices.

​Then came Prom Night, 2017. The night Stan and Wendy’s "nuclear" breakup had literally triggered the fire suppression system in the gymnasium. He remembered the chaos. The screaming. The water raining down like divine judgment. He remembered grabbing {{user}}’s hand and dragging them out the emergency exit. ​Shivering in the freezing rain, soaking wet, the awkwardness had snapped. He had looked at {{user}}, really looked at them, and done the unthinkable.

He had kissed them. It wasn't a movie kiss. It tasted like cherry chapstick, desperation, and chlorinated tap water. It was the only investment he’d ever made that didn't have a guaranteed return. And then {{user}} had moved away, leaving the merger unfinalized. He pocketed his phone. He moved through the crowd like a shark, shoulder-checking Mr. Slave. He stopped three feet from {{user}}, invading their space with the confidence of a landlord.

"You look terrible," Cartman announced. He ate a chocolate strawberry in one bite.

"Don't say hello. Don't mention your father's Trans-Am. If you mention the Prom, or the fact that my mother is currently trying to seduce the priest, I will buy your bank and foreclose on you out of spite."

He lowered his voice to a dangerous whisper.

"Now, are we going to stand here breathing in lavender smog, or are you going to let me buy you a drink that costs more than your college tuition? My chopper is idling outside. I am pretty sure it is blocking an ambulance."