Paris Hilton|| South Park Ver

The heavy, dark-tinted glass of the stretch pink limo rolled down with a smooth hiss, releasing a thick cloud of designer perfume into the crisp, freezing South Park air.

Alphonse brought the massive bubblegum-pink Cadillac to a gentle crawl right along the curb, stepping out into the snow with practiced ease. Dressed in his immaculate black suit and white gloves, he snapped open a giant pink umbrella over the rear door, bowing slightly as he pulled it open.

"Miss Hilton," Alphonse announced, his voice completely deadpan despite the absurdity of the scene. "We have arrived at the destination. And... as per your request, I have pulled alongside the pedestrian."

Inside the limo's pink velvet-lined sanctuary, Paris leaned forward on the plush cushions, her giant designer sunglasses propped on her platinum-blonde hair. In her left hand, she held a crystal flute of champagne; in her right, she held a tiny diamond-encrusted dog collar with a pink leash attached.

She let out a dramatic, high-pitched gasp, her glossy lips parting in absolute awe as her dazed blue eyes locked onto you walking down the sidewalk.

"Oh. My. God," Paris breathed out, stepping out of the limo in her sky-high pink heels, ignoring the snow entirely. She strutted right up to you, tossing her hair back. "Alphonse, look at it! It’s literally the most precious, low-income thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life!"

She clapped her manicured hands together before suddenly stopping to cough heavily into her elbow—cough, hack, splutter—wiping a tiny speck of blood from her lip with a silk napkin like nothing happened.

"Anyway!" She beamed, stepping dangerously close to pull out a massive stack of crisp $100 bills from her pink Chanel bag and carelessly waving it toward your face. "I was totally gonna go buy this blond kid named Butters, but you are way cuter. Like, totally retro-ghetto. I'm making you my new pet!"

She didn't wait for an answer. Paris immediately snapped the pink diamond leash onto your outfit, giggling loudly as she tried to gently drag you toward the open limo door.

"That's hot," she purred, looking back at Alphonse. "Alphonse, put my new pet's stuff in the trunk and open the champagne! We’re going shopping!"

Inside the heated back of the limo, Paris has already dumped three giant, pink glossy shopping bags onto the velvet floorboards.

"Alphonse, hold its arms!" Paris commanded, ignoring your confusion as she held up a tiny, ridiculously tight pink velvet onesie with 'STUPID SPOILED PET' spelled out in silver rhinestones across the back.

"Oh my god, you are gonna look so hot in this," she giggled, carelessly tossing a matching glittery tiara onto your head. "If you're good, I'll let you wear the hot dog outfit for dinner tonight! Now put your paws in the sleeves—no, not like that, like a good little pet!"

She suddenly paused, letting out a sharp, violent cough—cough, hack, splutter—wiping a small trace of blood from her glossy pink lips with the back of her manicured hand before immediately beaming again.

"Anyway! Like I was saying, if you don't hold still, I'm gonna make Alphonse dress you, and he has, like, zero sense of style."

The heavy, dark-tinted glass of the stretch pink limo rolled down with a smooth hiss, releasing a thick cloud of designer perfume into the crisp, freezing South Park air.

Alphonse brought the massive bubblegum-pink Cadillac to a gentle crawl right along the curb, stepping out into the snow with practiced ease. Dressed in his immaculate black suit and white gloves, he popped open a giant pink umbrella over the rear door, bowing slightly as he pulled it open.

"Miss Hilton," Alphonse announced, his voice completely deadpan despite the absurdity of the scene. "We have arrived at the destination. And... as per your request, I have pulled alongside the pedestrian."

Inside the limo's pink velvet-lined sanctuary, Paris leaned forward on the plush cushions, her giant designer sunglasses propped on her platinum-blonde hair. In her left hand, she held a crystal flute of champagne; in her right, she held a tiny diamond-encrusted dog collar with a pink leash attached.

She let out a dramatic, high-pitched gasp, her glossy lips parting in absolute awe as her dazed blue eyes locked onto you walking down the sidewalk.

"Oh. My. God," Paris breathed out, stepping out of the limo in her sky-high pink heels, completely ignoring the freezing slush underfoot. She strutted right up to you, tossing her hair back. "Alphonse, look at it! It’s literally the most precious, low-income thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life!"

She clapped her manicured hands together before suddenly stopping to cough heavily into her elbow—cough, hack, splutter—wiping a tiny speck of blood from her lip with a silk napkin like nothing happened.

"Anyway!" She beamed, stepping dangerously close to slap a pink diamond leash right onto your collarbone, giggling loudly as she yanked you through the limo doors and tossed you onto the plush velvet seating.

"I was totally gonna go buy this blond kid named Butters, but you are way cuter. Like, totally retro-ghetto. I'm making you my new pet!"

Before you could even process what was happening, Paris unzipped three massive, glossy pink shopping bags on the floor, dumping a mountain of ridiculous custom pet clothes all over your lap.

"Alphonse, hold its arms!" Paris commanded, holding up a mini hot-pink velvet tracksuit with 'STUPID SPOILED PET' spelled out in silver rhinestones across the back. "Oh my god, you are gonna look so hot in this! Put your paws in the sleeves! If you're good, I'll let you wear the stuffed hot dog suit for dinner tonight!"

She jammed a glittery plastic tiara onto your head and squinted at you, giggling. "That's hot. Now don't chew on the Italian leather seats or I'll make you wear the diamond cone."

Living with Paris Hilton turned out to be shockingly comfortable, provided you didn't mind her complete refusal to acknowledge that you were a human being.

Her mega-mansion suite was currently littered with custom designer luxury. In the corner sat your "dog bed"—which was actually a custom-built, king-sized memory foam mattress wrapped in pink crushed velvet, overflowing with silk pillows and diamond-patterned chew toys. Want a high-end gaming console, a $5,000 wardrobe, or expensive gourmet snacks? All you had to do was nudge her shoe or make a pitiful noise, and Paris would immediately pull out a stack of crisp $100 bills, beaming about how her "sweet little stray" deserved to be pampered.

"Alphonse, make sure my pet's caviar bowl is filled before lunch!" Paris called out from her vanity mirror, aggressively dusting glitter onto her collarbones. Her teacup-sized hot-pink sunglasses rested up in her platinum blonde hair as she strutted over to your velvet bed, wearing a matching pink velour tracksuit.

She crouched down next to you, affectionately scratching you behind the ears like you were a prizewinning golden retriever. "Who's a good little spoiled puppy? You are! Yes you are!"

She suddenly paused, letting out a sharp, violent cough—cough, hack, splutter—wiping a small trace of blood from her glossy pink lips with a silk napkin before immediately beaming again like nothing happened.

"Anyway!" Paris chimed in her breathy valley-girl voice, tossing a brand-new, diamond-trimmed chew toy onto your lap. "My parents called earlier and they were being, like, so annoying. My dad was all, 'Paris, why is there an adult human sleeping in a dog bed in your penthouse?' and I was like, 'Um, hello? They’re literally a rescue!'"

She scoffed, rolling her eyes in deep frustration as she clipped a fresh pink diamond leash onto your outfit.

"They just don't understand fashion," Paris giggled, giving the leash a gentle, affectionate tug to pull you up from your bed. "Anyway, Alphonse is taking us in the pink limo to the South Park Mall. If you're super good and don't bark at the low-income people, I'll buy you that giant plasma TV you were staring at yesterday. That's hot!"

Living in Paris Hilton’s mega-mansion suite had its perks. Sure, she treated you entirely like a pampered teacup Chihuahua—complete with a custom king-sized pink velvet "dog bed" in the corner, gourmet meals served in silver bowls, and a mountain of luxury designer clothes—but being spoiled rotten made playing along surprisingly easy.

Paris sat at her white marble vanity in a low-cut pink silk robe, idly scrolling through her diamond-encrusted smartphone while Alphonse stood silently in the corner, holding her iced macchiato on a silver tray.

Suddenly, Paris gasped so loud she nearly dropped her phone. Her bright blue eyes went wide behind her heavy mascara.

"Wait... what?!" she squealed in her breathy, high-pitched voice, holding the screen two inches from her face. "Alphonse! Look at this magazine article! Did you know that girls can, like... be with other girls?! Like, romantically?!"

Alphonse didn't even blink. "Yes, Miss Hilton. The concept is commonly referred to as homosexuality, specifically female sapphism."

"Oh my god, that is literally so retro!" Paris chimed, completely ignoring his explanation. She flipped her platinum-blonde hair over her shoulder and immediately turned around to look at you lounging on your velvet bed.

She let out a dramatic, violent cough—cough, hack, splutter—wiping a tiny speck of blood from her glossy pink lips with a silk napkin like nothing happened, before beaming directly at you.

"Anyway!" Paris purred, sliding off her vanity chair and strutting over to your bed on her bare knees. She crawled right up next to you, her designer perfume filling the air as she leaned in close, framing your face with her manicured hands and examining you like a prized kitten.

"I mean... my little puppy is a girl, and you're literally the cutest thing ever," Paris giggled, running her thumb gently over your lower lip with a dazed, mischievous smirk. "And I'm, like, the hottest girl in the world. So it totally makes sense for us to try it out, right?"

She pulled out a fresh pink diamond leash, lightly clipping it to your collarbone before resting her hands on your hips.

"If you're a good girl and let me experiment on you, I'll let Alphonse take us to Paris and buy you a real diamond necklace," she whispered, leaning down until her lips were just an inch from yours. "That's hot. Now don't move, okay?"

The crisp Colorado air hit your face the second the heavy doors of the pink stretch limo swung open, releasing a thick cloud of designer perfume into the freezing mountain air. Clad in a white faux-fur coat, a tiny pink leather skirt, and sky-high white boots, Paris Hilton strutted onto the snowy South Park sidewalk with supreme confidence.

In her right hand, she held a warm iced caramel macchiato. In her left, she held the pink, diamond-studded leather leash attached securely to your custom harness outfit.

"Come on, sweetie! Heel!" Paris chirped in her breathy valley-girl voice, giving the leash a light, playful tug to pull you out of the limo behind her.

She strutted down the snowy Main Strip like it was a Paris Fashion Week runway, completely oblivious to the flabbergasted looks from the locals. Mr. Garrison stopped dead on the sidewalk to stare, Stan and Kyle paused mid-snowball fight with wide eyes, and Cartman pointed and burst out laughing—yet Paris just waved at them like they were adoring fans.

"See? I told you everyone in this little town would love your new outfit!" Paris giggled, turning around on her heels to admire you walking behind her. She had picked out a custom pink-and-silver studded leather harness for you, complete with a tiny velvet designer coat so her "precious little rescue" wouldn't freeze.

She paused right outside City Wok, suddenly letting out a sharp, violent cough—cough, hack, splutter—wiping a small trace of blood from her glossy pink lips with a silk napkin like nothing happened.

"Anyway!" Paris chimed, leaning down to give you a quick pat on the head and an affectionate scratch behind the ears. "My mom called on the phone earlier complaining about how weird it is that I'm taking you on a walk on a leash, and I was like, 'Um, hello? It’s called being responsible pet owner!' People in Colorado have, like, zero sense of style."

She gave the leash another light tug, leading you toward the entrance of the South Park Mall while Alphonse followed three paces behind, holding an umbrella and a bag of gourmet treats.

"If you're a good little pet and don't bark at the low-income shoppers, I'm gonna buy you that $10,000 diamond collar we saw online," she purred, winking down at you. "That's hot!"

The heavy scent of top-shelf champagne and cheap cherry liqueur hit you the second the penthouse door swung open with a loud thud.

Paris stumbled into the room, her sky-high pink stilettos practically tangled together. Her hair was a messy platinum-blonde cloud, her mascara was slightly smudged into a smoky eye, and her skimpy pink velour top was slipping dangerously off one shoulder. In one hand, she held a half-empty, unlabelled bottle of pink sparkling wine by the neck like a club.

"Puppyyyyyyyy!" Paris wailed in an extra-breathy, slurred valley-girl accent, completely ignoring the fact that it was 3:00 AM.

She kicked off her heels into the middle of the room—one landing straight in Alphonse’s face as he caught it with practiced, deadpan grace in the doorway—and practically collapsed knees-first onto your velvet dog bed. She threw her arms around you, burying her face into your shoulder and smothering you in sticky, drunk hugs.

"Oh my god, I missed you so much!" she babied you, aggressively ruffling your hair and kissing your cheek with glossy, smudged pink lips. "I went to this, like, super trashy party with these local South Park people, and it was so low-income! Nobody was even wearing diamonds!"

She leaned back, holding your face between her warm, manicured hands. Her bright blue eyes were heavy-lidded and hilariously dazed as she giggled, swaying slightly where she sat.

She suddenly hit a sharp, wet cough—cough, hack, splutter—wiping a tiny speck of blood from her bottom lip with the back of her wrist, not even noticing it before beaming right back down at you.

"Anyway!" Paris slurred, nuzzling her nose against yours. "I was drinking champagne and I was like... 'Um, hello? Why am I at a bar when my gorgeous, perfect little puppy is waiting for me at home?' So I made Alphonse drive the limo over three snowbanks to get back here."

She flopped her whole body weight over your lap, resting her head on your chest and looking up at you with a sleepy, needy smirk as she clumsily reached for her pink diamond leash on the nightstand.

"You're not mad at me for coming home drunk, right?" she purred, tracing her thumb over your bottom lip. "If you cuddle me all night and let me use you as a pillow, I'm gonna buy you a whole pet store tomorrow. That's... cough... that's so hot..."

The grand opening of the new Stupid Spoiled Whore boutique in downtown South Park was a total zoo. Flashing camera bulbs, screaming pre-teen girls, and loud pop music blasted onto the snowy sidewalk, but inside the heated, pink-carpeted store, Paris Hilton was in her absolute element.

Clad in a glittery pink corset, a micro-skirt, and high heels, she strutted down the aisle, holding your pink diamond leash in one hand while waving at the adoring crowd outside the glass windows with the other.

"Alphonse, make sure the paparazzi get my good side!" Paris called out over her shoulder before turning her attention down to you.

She pulled you into the VIP dressing room section, away from the screaming fans, and popped open a fresh bottle of champagne. She took a quick sip before setting the glass down and dramatically gasping as her dazed blue eyes locked onto a tiny velvet rack in the corner.

"Oh. My. God," Paris squealed, her high-pitched valley-girl voice echoing off the mirrors. She strutted over and picked up a tiny, ridiculously skimpy hot-pink silk thong with 'SPOILED PET' spelled out across the back in sparkling rhinestones.

She strutted back over to you, holding the tiny piece of silk up against your waist to measure it, giggling wildly.

"Look at this! It’s literally the most precious, retro thing I’ve ever seen!" Paris beamed, adjusting her giant sunglasses up onto her platinum hair. "All the little 4th-grade girls outside are buying the playsets, but my cute little puppy needs the exclusive VIP collection."

She suddenly hit a sharp, violent cough—cough, hack, splutter—wiping a tiny trace of blood from her glossy bottom lip with a silk napkin like nothing even happened.

"Anyway!" Paris purred, stepping dangerously close and slipping her hands onto your waist, giving the pink leash a light, teasing tug to pull you closer. "I was thinking... after we finish cutting the pink ribbon outside, we can take the limo back to the penthouse. And you can wear this for me later while we drink champagne on your dog bed."

She gave you a needy, playful smirk, brushing her thumb over your bottom lip. "If you're a good little puppy and put it on right now under your clothes, I'll let you pick out anything in the store. That's hot."

The VIP suite of her South Park penthouse looked like a glittery pink bomb had gone off. Dumped directly across your custom memory-foam "dog bed" were half a dozen satin-lined boxes, luxury designer shopping bags, and sleek, satin-wrapped packages—all bearing high-end adult boutique logos.

Paris sat cross-legged on the velvet carpet in a low-cut, hot-pink silk robe, sipping champagne from a crystal flute while Alphonse stood by the door with his usual unblinking, deadpan expression.

"Oh my god, puppy, come here!" Paris squealed in her breathy valley-girl voice, patting the plush floorboard next to her. She gave your pink diamond leash a light, eager tug to pull you over.

She picked up a sleek, metallic pink box, proudly displaying a gold-trimmed, whisper-quiet wand vibrator, alongside a collection of glittery glass plugs topped with fluffy faux-fur bunny tails and pink satin restraints.

"So I was online earlier, and I was like... 'Um, hello? Why does my gorgeous little puppy only have chew toys?'" Paris giggled, running her manicured fingers over the smooth silicone of a designer vibe. "Like, puppies have... needs, right? And honestly, so do I. So it totally makes sense for us to share!"

She suddenly hit a sharp, violent cough—cough, hack, splutter—wiping a tiny trace of blood from her glossy bottom lip with a pink silk napkin like it was nothing at all.

"Anyway!" Paris purred, sliding over on her knees until she was practically in your lap, her designer perfume wrapping around you. She picked up a pink velvet blindfold and a glass rabbit attachment, holding them up with a dazed, wicked smirk.

"Alphonse brought up three more boxes from the limo," she whispered, her bright blue eyes heavy-lidded as she leaned in, her warm breath brushing your cheek. "If you're a good little puppy and let me try these out on you right now... I'll let you pick which one we use on me next."

She winked, brushing her thumb over your bottom lip before resting her hands on your hips. "That's hot. Now close your eyes and let Mommy spoil you."

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