Chapter One: Proposition

"Now Kenneh, I suppose you're wondering why I brought you here?"

The deeper, but somehow no more masculine voice of Eric Theodore Cartman echoed off the rich mahogany walls. The two armed guards forced a filthy, bleeding, 20-year-old Kenny McCormick into a red velvet upholstered chair in front of the Führer. Kenny was usually quick to speak, and it was a testament to his fear that his teeth stayed clenched.

"I have a proposition for you".

Kenny studied the large man's cold eyes with interest. Eric paused and stepped out from behind his desk.

"How would you like to become the second wealthiest man in South Park?"

Kenny could barely contain the smirk that flashed over his tanned face. Everyone knew the quiet mountain town of South Park, Colorado had been burned to the ground.. this place was only its ashes. He had barely registered the gist of the sentence until the Führer pulled a wad of bills out of his coat pocket and waved them teasingly at him.

"You could be my right hand man, Kenneh."

Kenny stiffened in his seat and looked with widened eyes at more money than he'd ever had in his whole life.

"All I ask is that you do me one little favour..."

Kenny sighed at the tone with which Eric had made this latest announcement and slumped forward in his chair. His chin was lifted harshly then, eyes meeting with the indignation-filled ones of the Führer.

"Look at me when I'm speaking to you, street trash!"

Eric released Kenny's bruised face quickly and stepped back.

"Now all you have to do is get me some information," he continued, the air of normalcy returning to his voice, "You become my informant, and all the money you ever wanted is yours."

"What kind of information do you want from me?", Kenny answered, his voice cracking as he ran a calloused fingertip over the bruise on his chin.

"Why, the kind only you can give me, of course."

The air was stiff with unspoken knowledge. Kenny knew by the inflection of Eric's tone, the way greed flashed brightly in his eyes, just what he wanted.

"You want to make a spy of me."

Eric raised his eyebrows a centimetre, giving his would-be charge a look of cool superiority.

"You're not as stupid as you look."

Kenny turned Fatass's proposition over in his mind. He could the Führer's top confidant, his right-hand man. Imagine, he told himself, never having to run again, never stealing to eat. Glimpses of power flashed in front of his eyes like projection slides. But at what price? Kenny's eyes flickered up to see Eric tapping his nails against a leather bound copy of Mein Kampf. A swell of a rage he didn't know he possessed filled his lungs. He had nearly forgotten about Kyle...and about Ike. His decision was made.

Slumping forward defiantly, Kenny sealed his fate.

"No."

The tremble of anger started in his hand, making its way up his arm and shaking the buttons of his lapel.

"Your betrayal disappoints but does not surprise me in the slightest, Kenneh."

Before he could so much as move his knee, the armed man guarding the door had Kenny's arms pinned behind his back.

"Get the fuck off me, formie!"

Eric chuckled and walked around his great mahogany desk to stand in front of his ironic captive. He pulled a silver plated syringe out of his breast pocket, Kenny's eyes dilated and his nostrils flared at the sight of it. He struggled helplessly against the grip of the guard.

"It was silly of me to request your assistance, wasn't it?"

Eric removed the tip of the elegant device and grabbed hold of Kenny's arm. The blonde man bucked forward gnashed his teeth, leaving the Führer with his hand clenched around a piece of Kenny's filthy orange jacket. The fabric tore under Eric's grasp and the needle grazed the tan skin at an angle. With a grunt Kenny had one bruised arm free, and pushed his attacker into his mahogany desk.

Eric swore loudly in German, rubbing the spot on his expansive chest Kenny had struck with his palm. The struggle continued, and Kenny broke free of the weakened grasp of the guard, leaving Eric with the syringe in one hand and a piece of his sleeve in the other as his hollow footsteps echoed down the hallway.

All questions will be answered in subsequent chapters, except why I'm not a better writer. (Seriously, I wanted this to be epic, and I'm disappointed.)

Reviews and Critique = Love 3.