Author's Update:

When I started writing my previous South Park fan-fiction, 'Trick Or Tweek', it was just supposed to be a one-shot (or at best a few chapters) inspired by the Halloween season and the then latest 'Tweek X Craig' episode. However, as I started writing, I realised that I was really enjoying it - much more than I ever anticipated, in fact. I soon decided to write a swift conclusion to that story and begin work on this, which will be a full novel-length story. It is a sequel to 'Trick Or Tweek', but since all the events of that story are recapped (in greater detail than the original ever went into as well) it isn't necessary reading beforehand. So, with that said, I hope you enjoy 'Bullets'.

Prologue:

The leather upholstery of Token's new car is surprisingly comfortable - even for however ridiculously expensive I'm sure it is. It's a dark beige colour, almost brown even, and you can tell from just looking that it's expensive. Whereas a cheap hatchback has chairs made from some ugly childproof material, a rough velvet of sorts that's usually black so as to never show washed-out vomit, spilled drinks or whatever else the little brats can throw at it, this car is anything but child-friendly with its easily damaged seats. I'm honestly still surprised that his parents, rich as they undeniably are, bought him such an expensive first car. After all, with us being only sophomores, none of us are what you'd call 'experienced drivers'. In fact, we're all either learners like Craig or not driving at all like Clyde and I. Only Token, the oldest of our group, has an actual license yet. Still, having a car has its benefits, like not having to stand outside in the snow every winter's morning whilst you wait for the school bus, which all too often runs late as if they actually want you to catch a cold. Personally, I think they do, but then I'm paranoid about such things. I always feel like people are out to get me: classmates, parents, teachers, disease. That last one in particular is something I hate, especially since it seems that I'm unfairly ill far more often than most, but that's enough. I'm rambling.

Token's sitting at the front, in the driver's seat naturally, tapping away at the steering wheel as tunes blast out from the radio. It's an expensive sound system, like everything else in this car, but that doesn't stop the music from sounding like trash. Too much bass and female vocals, which I'm sure can't actually be achieved without auto-tune, make for the typical pop garbage. I sigh, quietly to myself, and push my face against the cold window. It stings, a tingle of frost shooting down my entire body, but I like it. Feeling something is always good. Too often, I feel nothing. It isn't depression exactly, though I hear that's what it's like, rather an anxiety so strong that I just shut down emotionally. My mind goes AWOL and I twitch. Amongst my friends and school peers, I've actually become known for it and 'spaz' is therefore just one of the many unappealing nicknames I've been given.

Sighing again, I suddenly become self-conscious. My friends don't need to know that I'm bored senseless, that I'm actually not feeling too good, or that if it were up to me I wouldn't be here right now. They're trying to be nice. They don't need me being a 'downer'. However, I can't help it. This is, or at least was, supposed to be a special day - not simply because it's Halloween. Outside the car window, leaves twirl majestically like ballerinas after being shot into the air by the force of the car ploughing over them. There's a hint of frost in the air, although it has yet to snow, and children are running down the streets in their costumes. One costume in particular catches my eye: a spaceman. The kid wearing it is no more than seven, an upside down goldfish bowl adorning his head as he carries a toy laser gun at the hip like some space-age cowboy. He reminds me of the hulking beast besides me; the very hulking beast whom I have been infatuated with - dare I say, almost obsessed - for some years now. Craig Tucker, my boyfriend, is sat besides me in his trademark blue jacket and black jeans. A yellow puffball sits atop a matching woolly hat, kind of like the capping star on a Christmas tree (a thought which always makes me smile), from which a jet black fringe peeks slightly out the front. He's tall, around six foot I think, and has the most mesmerising, sea blue eyes.

"What are you laughing at?" His question sounds monotone, as usual. Ever since we were kids, he has always been the most cynical and stoic amongst us, often prone to flipping people off with a crude gesture that I both detest and love at the same time. Perhaps that love, even for what would otherwise be an unattractive characteristic, is how I know my feelings for him are real and not just some 'phase'.

"N-n-nothing," I stammer out. I'm nervous, but not in a bad way. See, there's the bad kind of nervousness: anxiety. It's like a rat gnawing away at your mind, making you more illogical by the second, until you're just a small, ignored, helpless crumb on the floor. With Craig though, it's like butterflies. They're flying in my stomach, which has become a conservatory for them since I met him: a hot, sweaty room filled with beautifully exotic plants and butterflies.

It's easier to point, so I do that, and it isn't long before we're casting nostalgic smirks at each other in light of the sweet costume. That smile is something I alone get to truly see, for this giant is like a dried prune. Only I, the one person who'll bite into him, gets to reach the soft insides.

"I... l-love you," I force out, tugging painfully at my hair as I so often do for comfort in nervous times. Our hands soon meet in the centre of the car's back bench of seats, which is vacant and allows them to wander playfully. One of his reaches my knee, then slowly begins to tiptoe upwards, first towards my thigh and then towards my groin. "Stop," I chuckle, casting his hand away. "You p-pervert!"

"You think that I forgot what day it is? It's," he begins, before I interrupt him with the answer: our anniversary. My heart swells with elation at the realisation that not only has he remembered, but that (if his current facial expression is anything to go by) he has plans too, and soon enough all previous thoughts of boredom or disappointment are banished from my mind.

. . .

Our destination is the woodland which, along with the snow-topped mountains, surround South Park on all sides like a security blanket against outsiders. As the road ends and we hop out the car, I study those exact mountains. Despite seeing them everyday, though admittedly from a farther distance, their impact is no less impressive. I stand perfectly still, my mouth almost agape and my mind transfixed on the beauty of nature surrounding me. Leaves, a beautiful concoction of every imaginable shade of orange, are scattered across the ground and crunch satisfyingly underfoot. There is the soft whistle of wind too, as it meanders gently through the trees, which dance in reaction.

"Earth to Tweek," chuckles Clyde, the stereotypical 'jock' of our group. He's sporty, even going so far as to dress in the burgundy varsity jacket of the high school sports team and cut his hair short in an almost militaristic style. His remarks drag me back to reality, as I realise that the other guys are struggling to unload duffel bags and compacted-down tents whilst I daydream over nature, and I rush to join them. There's a twinge of pain as I pull, slightly too hard, on my hair. Sadly, it's my only coping mechanism, out here in the (almost) middle of nowhere, without the caffeine that normally soothes my feelings of anxiety. The thought of a piping hot coffee, preferably black, makes me nearly drool. My mouth is flooded with saliva and, running up to Craig in a fit of anticipating giggles, I plant the sloppiest kiss imaginable on his cheek.

"Tweeeeeek," he moans, dropping the camping supplies with a loud thud (I sincerely hope there was nothing too fragile in that duffel bag), and glaring at me with a not-so-serious but still annoyed scowl. I know what this means. I run.

"Gah! C-C-Craig," I scream as my legs push, fast as they can, to get away from him. He's chasing after me, his longer legs taking leaping strides and kicking a flurry of leaves up into the air. They obscure my view, but I can see Token and Clyde behind us, rolling their eyes as they hop back into the car for a seat to wait for us. They, or at least Token being the 'smart-ass' (that's how Cartman always put it) he is, knows that splitting up in a woods is dangerous. It's safer for them to wait here, for us to have a known point to return to, and that comforts me enough to run ahead into the dense trees. I can lose the hulking beast in there.

However, it's no good. Craig's longer legs carry him, like a cheetah after its prey, and within mere seconds he is right on my heels. Thwack! One rugby tackle later and, suddenly, the six foot monster is on his knees, straddling me at the waist. I look pleadingly into his eyes. Those deep blue eyes, which glisten with such an intensity that they may as well be spotlights, have a hunger in them. Powerlessly trapped beneath him, his hands begin to drift. A finger runs up my arm, tracing along the fine blond hairs there, and towards my face to caress a cheek endearingly. Then, with that hunger still not sated, his tongue bursts into my mouth and sets about exploring every orifice. I don't fight back, instead reciprocating the warmth which emanates from his body by moaning, subconsciously and almost uncontrollably. My throat produces sounds that even I myself don't recognise, but they only add to our shared arousal. I can feel the yearning muscle in Craig's jeans, pushing and throbbing through the thick denim, and a grin plasters itself across my face.

. . .

"There lived a man, happy but unfulfilled. He had a seemingly perfect life: the perfect job, the perfect house, and the perfect family. However, he wanted more. It always felt like something, a hole in his heart that couldn't be filled, was missing. One day, on his way to work at the office, he came across a homeless beggar on the street. He normally paid them no attention, or at best gave them a few dollars before walking on, but for some reason he found himself stopping for this one."

We're sat around a fire, which crackles soothingly as Token tells a ghost story, but I'm not really listening. I hate ghost stories, so I decide to study my surroundings instead. The orange and red hues of the fire seem perfectly autumnal, illuminating the faces of the friends sat around me, and I cling to Craig's hand tightly for comfort. Our spot is in an opening, where the dense trees fortunately thin out enough to make camp, and opposite a still lake. The water is frozen at the edges where it meets dry land: yet another sign of the impending winter. Above, stars litter the night sky like candles on a birthday cake. How old must the universe be to warrant so many?

"The beggar gave him a key, an ordinary-looking bronze key. However, as the beggar soon explained, it wasn't ordinary. 'This key is special. If you find the door it unlocks, then you will have everything you could ever need or want. It is a key to happiness. Behind it, there lives a family who will help you. The wife in particular gets lonely whilst the man of the house is away at work, so take it. You look like a man in need of some pleasure, and she can help you, like she helped me.' At first, the man ignored the key and went about his daily life. Curiosity soon overwhelmed him though and he became obsessed."

Buzz! Buzz! I shoot back with such force that I almost fall off the log which Craig and I are sharing, but fortunately he grabs me by the scruff of my collar just in time. I'm shaking, terrified, and feel like a panic attack could set in at any moment. The others are looking at me as though I'm insane. After all, it was just a phone. Clyde is rummaging around in his pocket for it, raising a hand to excuse himself and walking off for some privacy. 'When things go south, breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth' is what one of my therapists taught me. Reciting it repeatedly in my mind, I begin to calm down - just enough to sit still on the log.

"Everyday, he would search for the door which the key opened, moving from house to house across the town. When he stopped showing up for work, he lost his job. When he stopped showing up for dinner, he lost his wife. When he stopped showing up for birthdays, he lost his kids. The divorce was quickly finalised and the man went to collect his belongings. As the only house left in town which he hadn't tried the key in, he inserted it into the keyhole. It clicked. They found his body a few days later, drowned in the nearby river, his lifeless hand still clutching the very key that had forsaken him."

. . .

I can't sleep; probably because of Token's freaking ghost stories. I just keep tossing and turning, waking whenever I do so happen to shut my eyes for a few minutes. Instead, I admiringly watch the teen sleeping next to me whom, without any clothes as he slumbers, I can examine fully. His jet black hair is an adorable mess, tufts shooting off in every imaginable direction, and his fringe partially obscures those beautiful blue eyes. A thin line of hair runs teasingly from his navel down into a pair of tight boxer-briefs, which leave very little to the imagination and send my blood pumping downwards, until the lustful muscle is screaming for release. Desperate, but not wanting to awake Craig, my hand drifts south and, as I feel the heat of it, I groan - a little too loud. Crap!

"T-Tweak...what," he murmurs, eyes fluttering open.

"Gah! Pressure! I'm s-s-sorry!"

"It's not midnight yet. There's still time for one last celebration, " he remarks smoothly with a coy smile, looking down to catch me in the act.