Chapter Text
The Cult of Cthulhu wasn’t a family group to most. Stuart, Carol, and of course their infant son, Kenny, were in attendance often. After all, ‘free beer was free beer’, right? Obviously at the time, they couldn’t have known their son would inherit immortality from these outings. Though, after Carol’s hundredth rebirth of her son, talking with Stuart, she thought back to those cult meetings. Maybe they were just drunk but, wasn’t there another family like them there as well?
…
Francis had always wanted to be Stan.
All attention in South Park was on Stan. Stan Marsh, an ‘All American boy’, or so he was informally claimed. Stan, why Stan? Who is Stan without his friends, without his family, his dad? Ugh, his dad. All the town's newest problems came from Randy. Stan was, obviously, guilty through his familial association. His presence at school was a torment. No, Stan had never paid actual attention to Francis. That was the exact problem. No one knew Francis. At least Stan had something in his life that made it worth showing. Who was Francis? No one knew him, but they would soon enough.
As much as he despised the Marsh family, Francis was clearly the minority of that opinion in South Park. There was no chance of airing out such an unkempt hatred to a town programmed to live with them. Francis would just have to bear them. Showing anger now would ruin the growing image of the All American boy on the rise, much more ‘All’ and ‘American’ than Stan had ever been. Now would be his time.
It’s clear to see when Francis’ time became his own. Prior to high school, Francis had consistently squandered any potential popularity he possessed with desperate attempts to appear ‘cool’. But it was obvious to everyone that the boy in the Snacky S’mores sweatshirt was no ‘baller’ despite what he had claimed in laughable old internet posts or embarrassing declarations late at night on Boy Scout camps.
Thankfully, the guy realised his strengths didn’t lie in having ‘swag’. Someone born awkward can mimic coolness all they want, but they won’t ever truly exude it beyond their facade. At least now, at the teetering age of seventeen-going-on-eighteen, Francis didn’t try to hide behind a distasteful personality. He was himself…ish. Well, more himself than ever before, so practically himself.
A year ago, Francis was given the role as team captain of the local baseball team, which made him at least seem competent in something. It was a sport that Stan openly hated. A space Francis alone could occupy that would help him in becoming himself, becoming someone.
It seemed as though the universe too was seeing Francis’ worth from this development. The creators of the Snacky S’mores sweatshirt as a means of marketing saw an actual customer of theirs in public. It was a miracle for a dying, desperate business. How about a new face in advertising? Mr Francis Valentine: a churchgoing, Scouting, now baseball playing All American cliche would fit the retro kitsch aesthetic of the brand perfectly. That would surely save them.
Now, Francis never actually wore his sweatshirt because he had some addiction to Snacky's low quality prepackaged frozen s’mores. His family was simply poor. Not desperately so, not Kenny poor, but they didn’t see a need for more than one cold weather outfit when Francis already had an outfit that still fit and didn’t tear at the seams. The sweatshirt had been bought when Francis was only ten years old. And hey, Francis had always liked beavers, which the logo of the sweatshirt held in full. He even, at his age, kept upon his quilted bedsheets a Snacky S’mores beaver plush toy from his childhood: Baxter Beaver. No one needed to know that, though. Who knows if it would ruin his up and coming image? Before the image, Francis didn’t even consider the fact that wearing the Snacky S’mores sweater would make his attempts to be confident and swaggy ridiculous, but it certainly compounded with everything else. Seven years later, the sweater was going. It wasn’t going strong, it was just going. Sure, it was far too tight, but it went over Francis’ head, so that’s all that really mattered. It was his entry to a new life. He couldn’t complain about it. Once again, he would bear it alone.
It happened on the sunny American afternoon after practice while Francis was walking himself back home. The manager for Snacky’s advertising department came across the boy in the sweatshirt. He wasn’t a model, but he had a sort of renaissance coming off his extremely low rankings amongst girls not so private lists in elementary school. His image would work plenty good enough.
Francis came home that night elated.
“You won’t believe what happened today!” He yelled shyly, because he could only yell in such a manner. Despite his need for fame, he still sorely lacked it. “A man offered me a job at uhm, this Snacky company. Like, the one from my sweatshirt.”
“Ah, congrats, kid.”, his father sarcastically gruffed as he chewed on some low grade tobacco. “So instead of bein’ a hunter, you chose, what like, maintainin’ boxes on shelves or somethin’?”
Scott had always wanted his son to be a hunter. It was ‘the job’ in the Valentine family. Francis being himself was too awkward to be holding a gun, he couldn’t even hold a stare. The only thing he was sure of was in his absolutism towards the Marsh family and an innate desire to be seen instead of brushed aside.
“Uhm, well actually…”, Francis replied. “They want me to work in the advertisements, on TV.”
Scott laughed loudly and slammed his fist on the table.
“Now I’d like to see that!”
Francis scratched his nape in return.
His mother came closer to him, attempting to be comforting. She was, partly, but her response was largely the result of skepticism.
“I’m not so sure about this sweetie. I mean, you don’t even know how to act.”
“But moommmy”, Francis whined, more like a toddler than a near adult. “Think of the money. I mean, if it’s bad it’s bad, if it makes us money, it makes us money.”
“Ehhhh… Tch, it’s up to you Francis.”
His hazel eyes lit up. His big break would soon actually begin. Say goodbye to your popularity Stan. You’ll be taken over by your better self soon.
“Yay! I’ll make some good cash for all of us! I’ll be famous! I won’t disappoint you!”
There would be a time, for a while, when Francis would be what he wanted. But, of course, things can’t work in just one person’s favour forever.
That’s just how things are written here. In South Park, changing what’s on the page isn’t possible yet…