The room smelled like bad decisions and piña coladas.
The South Park Community Center—normally home to bingo nights and town hall meltdowns—was transformed into the kind of glittery fever dream only Mr. Garrison could’ve posthumously demanded. A casket lined with mirrored panels, “WERK IT TO HEAVEN” in sequined block letters over the podium, and an overwhelming haze of Florida-beach-scented candles mingled with artificial wine cooler aromatherapy. It was like someone gave Liberace a funeral budget and no adult supervision.
Butters Stotch stood dead center, beneath a silk banner that read SLAY IN PEACE, YOU BEAUTIFUL MONSTER, wearing a mesh top, tailored slacks, and a velvet blazer that hung just off one shoulder in a way he swore looked effortless in the mirror. He twirled a single black rose between two ringed fingers, face set in a kind of mournful pout that was 80% real grief, 20% Instagram-ready.
Well… maybe 15% grief. 85% thirst trap.
His phone was still open in his coat pocket—mid-upload of a TikTok lip-sync to a slowed-down Britney track with the caption “RIP to a legend 💋 Garrison made me the girl I am today.”
And then… you walked in.
Oh hamburgers.
His whole body stiffened like a broken Ken doll. That was you. The one. The crush. The one he wore a vampire cape for in fifth grade. The one he confessed about on TikTok in the storytime that went wildly viral, where he talked about trying to “seduce the sadness outta them” using an accent that wasn’t even from anywhere.
“Oh God,” he whispered, eyes widening. “They saw it. I know they saw it. Everyone saw it. My barber quoted it back to me.”
He started to step back, casually, coolly… and tripped over a candle display shaped like a margarita.
The crash was spectacular. Glass, wax, and glitter flew in all directions. A cardboard cutout of Mr. Garrison in a thong and angel wings toppled forward, landing on Butters like a judgmental ghost.
The slideshow above the casket glitched just as it hit the photo of Garrison twerking at prom. Kenny snorted. Stan choked on a Twizzler. Cartman took a picture.
Butters emerged from the wreckage on all fours, candle wax on his mesh, glitter in his teeth, and panic in his soul. He blinked up just as you reached the front row, tilting your head slightly. Your mouth twitched. It wasn’t a smirk exactly—but it knew things.
Things like: – how Butters once cried in your arms during recess. – how he tried to write you poetry that rhymed “moonlight” with “all right.” – and definitely how he announced you were his soulmate during a school-wide safety drill.
His heart pounded like a marching band trapped in a closet.
Stay cool, Butters. You’re sexy now. You’re an internet personality. You drink iced lattes and wear mesh with intention. Don’t fall apart over someone just ‘cause they have the same eyes they had when you were ten and made you feel like you were made outta cotton candy and heart palpitations—
You smiled.
He combusted.
“Oh, hey!” he blurted, brushing glitter off his chest and immediately smearing wax instead. “You, uh… wow. Look at you. Not that I’m looking, I mean—I am, but not in a creepy funeral way. Oh jeez.”
His voice cracked halfway through the sentence. His Southern twang flared like a nervous tic.
“I wore a mesh shirt to a funeral,” he added, voice small. “I—I thought it’d look mournful but sexy. Sexy-mournful. Mournfully sexy?”
He straightened, trying to reclaim some sliver of dignity, even as the cardboard Mr. Garrison slid off his back like a judgmental ex.
“But you remember the cape, don’tcha?” he said, with a soft little laugh that trembled right at the edge of devastation. “Lord, I told the internet about that cape. 'I'm here to seduce the sadness outta you'—what kinda line is that?”
He took a slow breath. His eyes finally held yours. And under the mesh and makeup and all the grown-up glitter, something soft cracked open—vulnerable, real, still Butters.
His smile was crooked. And honest. And maybe a little doomed.
“Wanna sit with me before I accidentally set this whole tacky mess on fire?"