It probably said something about Butters' life that he kept an EMT first aid kit in a go-bag right next to his apartment door, but honestly, he was living with a werewolf and a magical talking skull, emergency overpreparedness was the least weird thing about his life these days.

"I'll meet you at your place in fifteen, twenty minutes, traffic permitting, Karrin," he said into the phone as he grabbed the bag. "Try not to let him move around too much until then, or, you know, burn anything down. Right. See you... uh. What?"

This was not the hallway in his building. This was a driveway. In not Chicago.

Butters was going to have to re-evaluate the level of emergency preparedness that counted as "over."