Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Notes: This is my first SP fanfic, so I'd really appreciate any reviews, encouragement, criticism, etc. :) The kids are about ten years old, and there will be romance in the future…hope the lack of slash doesn't deter any one from reading it. :s

CHAPTER ONE: A Dark and Stormy Night

The life of Kyle Broflovski has always been, by and large, short of the element of mystery.

This may seem hard to believe, considering some of the events his town has witnessed – utter destruction by a nasal, middle-aged robotic singer/actress hell-bent on world domination, to name but one – but in a world where Jesus is not only a favoured talk show host but also the guy who steals all the best parking spaces, and one's best friend reports scenes of Hawaii-themed excesses from the bowels of Hell on a weekly basis, life presents very little enigma.

However, as the snow settled across the lawn on the evening of the third of November, all normality of life was suddenly dispelled, and he was plunged into a world of misery, murder and mystery that would shake him to the very core, sort of.

It was a dark and stormy night…

'Hello?'

The phone line was silent, other than a coarse, irregular breathing. The kind of breathing one may well describe as mysterious. Which was, in fact, the effect the breather was aiming for.

'Hello?' Kyle demanded again, slightly louder. His brows furrowed in agitation.

'Kaaaahl Broflovski,' the voice whispered, mysteriously.

'I know it's you, fatass. I've got caller ID.'

Slight pause.

'Uh – Kahl – uh – Kahl Broflovski,' the voice repeated, now sounding vaguely annoyed (but increasingly mysterious).

'What the hell do you want?' Kyle demanded, glowering at the receiver.

Evidently unnerved by his sort-of friend's ability to see through his carefully plotted rouse, the mysterious voice said, 'Ah invite you to my house to witness—'

'Nuh-uh.'

'—GODDAMMIT! Ah invite you to my house to witness for yourself a most horrific crime of—'

'I'm hanging up now.'

'—crime of terrible passion you goddamn Jew!'

Intrigued despite himself, Kyle cautiously said, 'A crime at your house?' As he spoke, he craned his neck to ensure his parents were still alive and well, and not part of a tasty chilli filling.

'Yes, Kahl. A violent crime within my own propertah. Are you intrigued? Does the mystery grip your very soul? Is the curiosity burrowing into your tiny Jew brain, Kahl?'

'Fuck you, fatass!'

'Ay, fuck you!'

Kyle hung up. Over at the Cartman residence, clad spectacularly in a red velvet dressing gown and a monocle, Eric glared at the phone with seething hatred, as if willing every Jew tooth in Broflovski's mouth to rot and perish. Goddamn Jew asshole, ruining his murder-mystery soiree…

The idea had sprung from two very separate incidents: the first was the mystery-themed party his mother had held at their house the previous week, which included Cognac, cigars and people pretending to die and other people pretending to figure out who was responsible, and inevitably ended with an orgy of red hot drunken lovin'. This was the Cartman residence, after all.

The other incident was a live news report about the execution of a man named Sticky Fist as penalty for murder. Hearing about all the defrosting torsos found in his refrigerator, Cartman had squealed excitedly and shouted "kickass!" before hastily planning a series of completely theoretical methods of Jewish assassination.

And now, he had him gripped! He held him in his beefy, ingenious fingers!

Like a Jew lamb to the kosher slaughter!

And he would reveal the whiny bitch for the cold-hearted Jew rat he really was!

And he'd get to kill somebody!

Striking a particularly mysterious pose, he mysteriously dialled the next number on his mysterious list.

Kickass.

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Returning briefly to the Broflovski residence, Kyle shot something on the X-Box and, hearing his phone ring again, reluctantly paused his game.

'Hello?' he said, wearily.

'Hey dude.'

'Hey, Stan.'

'Did Cartman just phone you?'

'Yes,' Kyle growled, with unintended violence, 'he started breathing down the phone and mysteriously whispering my name.'

'Huh,' said Stan, thoughtfully, 'he did sound unusually mysterious, didn't he? And…British.' It was true; he had sounded abnormally like an English country squire, circa 1922. 'So, you going to his party?'

'Well, he mentioned a horrific crime and a "goddamn Jew", so I'm thinking no.'

'Oh,' said Stan, uncomfortably, 'are – are you sure? Because I kinda told him you'd go.'

'What?' he whined, squeezing the receiver with further unintended violence. 'What the hell d'you tell him that for?'

'He said he'd make me eat my parents!'

'Oh, goddammit.'

'And then he put Artemis Clyde frog on the line,' he continued, sounding increasingly uncomfortable as the conversation progressed, 'and he said he'd cut off my pretty little face.'

Pause.

'What?!'

'I'm – I'm just saying! Any guy who makes his stuffed toys threaten his friends is maybe not the kind of person we should be rejecting right now! Uh.'

Kyle shook his head despairingly. 'Dammit, Stan. Artemis Clyde frog just made you his bitch.'

Stan sounded a few muffled curses before demanding, 'Well, are you coming or not? It might not completely suck ass if we're both there.'

He sighed, but nodded. 'Ok. Fine. When do we have to be there?'

'Around six, but I'm setting off now.'

'Ok, I'll meet you there.'

'Cool. Oh – and Cartman says to bring Cognac and condoms.' Stan hung up.

Kyle stared at the phone, concentrated intently on lowering his surprised eyebrows, and hung up. He knew he was going to regret this.