Sometimes, the very best of life happens when the very worst of you is unmasked. Worst of all, the best of life happens usually when you don't have time to appreciate it, and then you throw it away like garbage.

I'm one of those people; at least I think I am. Been dying on and off since third grade, and it still happens whenever something good takes place. Do you know how many times I've missed a friend's birthday? Missed a day where Jesus or someone came down and played kickball with the guys? Hell, I always end up missing it.

But, perhaps it's for the best. After all, who really misses me? Cartman, the fatass he is, barely gives a shit about living people much less the dead. And Kyle and Stan…I'm not sure. Maybe they feel bad for a moment, but I always come back, right? It's not a permanent thing, not like with anyone else. Dad's usually too boozed up to notice I'm gone, and Mom's busy fighting with him all the time. Kevin's gone now (last I heard he was hitting it up with some traveling fair people. Good for him, drunken bastard), and ever since no one's been there to miss me.

So why do I keep coming back? What's the point?

I used to say because God hates me. But after meeting that mole, Christophe was his name I believe, I didn't want to be a dick and steal his line. That's just not cool to do to a guy…everyone has to have one cool line! Anyways, it got me thinking a lot about the real reason I keep coming back to South Park. And, after turning eighteen, I think I might know the answer.

Time to go up and find out.

"Oh, hey Kenny." That's all I get when I walk up to Kyle's doorstep, all the reaction he has to me being ripped to pieces by an airplane engine (please don't ask. I don't want to explain). I'm just glad that my parka's still able to cover my face, to at least shield my appearance of hurt.

"Hey dude. Gamesphere?" came my muffled reply. After all, wasn't that Stan on the couch cursing at some violent videogame? Had to mean that they were in the middle of some sort of epic killing spree.

My red-haired friend nodded. "Yeah. C'mon, extra controller's waiting. Stan sucks at driving a tank."

I heard a grunt. "Says the guy who can't hit a zombie three inches away from his face with a bazooka!" Stan's black hair, sticking up in odd places from under the brim of his hat oddly gave the blue-and-red monstrosity charm. His brown coat was strewn off to the side, just leaving him in his old white "Moop" band tee shirt. As we had gotten older, Stan was the one graced with muscular tone. Sure, he was still skinny and lanky like most of us, but you could see the tone in his arms. He just looked like he would hurt you, but we all knew that the Marsh kid was too relaxed for his own good. Hell, if my brother was anything like his sister, I would be too! He had his tongue in his teeth, even though the game was on pause. "I don't want to die again, Kyle. Not for the thirteenth time."

Kyle just laughed. "That's why we have Kenny, man." I knew he was teasing, but I still had to send him a little bit of a friendly glare. He's changed a lot too, now that I think of it. His curly hair—god I mean it was a freaking afro when he was a kid—had finally tamed itself to a short, wavy mane. It framed his face where it flicked out of his hat, still the same weird-ass name hat. Ushu…Oosha…Gah! It's just Kyle's hat, that's what I've called it. He was the shortest one of us all, which always made him an even bigger target for Cartman's antics. Compared to Stan, he looked like a healthy skeleton. Oh, the kid ate, don't get me wrong. He just wasn't one to pick up a lot of muscle. The Broflovski kid just wasn't one to look threatening in that sense. Wordplay was more of his forte, if you asked me. If he put more effort into his schoolwork, he could probably take the ranks as the smartest kid in class. Socially, thank Jesus he didn't. He stretched, his orange tee shirt only slightly too big to fit him. "So scoot over, and let him drive."

I smiled. At least they're here.

Three of us on the field. Sixteen-thousand something enemies stalking us. We each are lucky to have a grenade and one last clip of ammo left. After that, it's up to our fists to save us. Pixilated fists, of course! I'm right between Kyle and Stan, shoulder to shoulder with the only other two players on this game. Stan's stretched out as far as he can get, swinging the controller so wildly that I think he's going to end up giving himself a black eye if he keeps it up. And Kyle…I don't know how he can play Gamesphere while curled up into a little ball myself. His character on the screen sends a grenade flying right into the most infested area, and all that reads on his face is concentration.

"Dude, to your left!" The loud voice makes me jump; it's right behind me. Ike. Damn, he's become a little sneak as of late! Like his advice helps; my poor guy is trampled and torn to bits.

Damn. Even in a videogame, I always die.

"Oh my God! They killed Kenny!"

Wait for it. "You bastards!"

I can't help but shake my head and smile. Some things never change, apparently. Kyle's little brother just laughs and heads up to his room to do…well…whatever it is genius little brothers do, I guess. Don't have one myself, so I guess it's an experience you'll only be able to observe from afar if you aren't blessed with it. It's for the best. It was tempting to strangle him for making me lose my bonus upgrades.

I can tell Kyle feels my annoyance, and like the big brother should: "He's just a kid man. I'll kick him later."

"Yeah," I reply. I had shed my parka some time ago, leaving me in my matching orange pants and nothing else. Yeah, my family's still poor. Once I outgrew all of my old shirts, they were only good to trade in to get a bigger parka. I don't know how I did it, I mean, I'm as skinny as they come. You try living on pop-tarts and mustard-free sandwiches for the last eighteen years of your life, and then come back to me and say how easy it is to gain weight. I was hoping I'd stay small enough to at least wear out all of my clothing first. Bah. Life can suck like that.

"You still kick your brother dude?" Stan piped in, his own character dead now thanks to that hidden zombie on the ceiling. He sets his controller down, leaning back with me and closing his eyes. "That's pretty messed up."

Kyle pouts, and it makes me smile a little. "He doesn't go through the window anymore. I don't think it counts like it did before."

I couldn't help but add to the conversation. "Oh yeah, it counts."

It took only fifteen seconds of explanation before Kyle's character was squashed by the boss zombie. Thus, our epic killing spree ended up an epic death spree. Kyle unfurled himself from his odd shape, tossing the controller near the television and leaning back on the couch with us. "No fair…you distracted me."

I couldn't help but notice Stan's odd little smile.

Ah, this part I guess I should explain. You see, I've been noticing something about my friends Stan and Kyle lately. Ever since we hit sophomore year of high school, they've gotten closer than friends. There were always rumors being spread around, but no real facts to back it up. Most people just threw it away to them being as close as they were. But…

You don't look at a friend the way Stan and Kyle look at each other.

Let me tell you a little something. I've done the dirty before. Done it enough during sophomore and junior year to know that look when someone digs you that way. Bebe gave me that look more than once, and I followed it more than once. Couple of other kids gave me the same look, and it always ends up with sex my way. Sometimes, I guess, the other person can really care about you. Haven't met the person that cares about me like that yet, and I don't think I care to. I've had enough of whoring around to last me, despite what everyone says. I'd much rather have cigarettes.

But Stan can give Kyle that look, and I can tell it's not just about getting it on. He used to give that look to Wendy back in middle school. It's that look of "oh, you're going to be my next big thing." I hate to admit it, but Stan's the kind of guy who gets attached to people very easily. Kyle…well…

Kyle's relationships have been close to nonexistent. We made it a point to not count the small little pecks he would "experiment" with other chicks. The only reason we did that was because that's the farthest he'd ever go. As we got older, he seemed to stay in that same ol' shell of "No girls allowed." Sure, Cartman gave him hell for it, but the fatass was right. Our poor little Jewish friend is gay, and he didn't even know it.

Now that we've gotten to our senior year of high school, he's finally admitted it to himself. I can see that in the way he smirks back at Stan. People's eyes can't lie all that well, if they haven't taught themselves how.

After some dinner and another round of trying to conquer zombies, it was time for two options. Option A: go home. Usually it's the option we all take. Stan goes back to his lovely abode, and I go back to my little hellhole. I'm usually lucky enough to die that I miss sleeping there at night anyways, so it's not a big thing if I have to go. But tonight…Option B: crash with Kyle.

Tonight was the night of Option B.

Now don't get me wrong. I love spending time with the guys. But I love the shower just as much, and I swept up the first night's shower faster than anyone else. That's what being skinny gets me, and I'm able to slip past the other two as they jam shoulder to shoulder trying to get through the doorway.

"Damn it Kenny! It's my shower!"

I make a little raspberry at our host for the evening. "Dibs."

It's Stan laughing that perks my suspicion. "Dude, let him have it. I gotta show you something on the internet anyways, it'll make ya laugh."

Undress. Turn on the shower. Hop in.

It's a very simple process, and the rewards are glorious. Away with greasy hair and dirt smudges that always linger a couple of days after you get cleaned up. I can't scrub away my situation, can't scrub away being cursed and poor. But I can scrub away the evidence once in a while. Sometimes, I can still come across a bruise or a cut that seems to ghost itself onto my skin. Lingering effects of dying, I guess. Band-Aids usually solve the problem really quickly and affectively. Sometimes it'll be a deep cut, one that doesn't bleed but leaves a scar. Don't worry; I'm not into the whole slashing-of-one's-wrists thing. I'd just come back anyways.

Even though I'm already clean, I just sit there in the hot water and let it rinse over my body. I can't count how many times I do this whenever something's lingering on my mind. It's always a different reason. Sometimes, it's wondering why we can afford alcohol, but not a proper meal. It frisks onto the reasoning of my whole existence, and why fear death when I can come back? Tonight, it's different.

Why am I jealous?

Okay, I know. Kenny McCormick can be jealous of a lot of things. Like the luxury of warm water, for instance. I'm not talking about frivolous things like that. It's what Stan and Kyle have between them, implied or not. It's the closeness that they've always had. Call me gay if you want, but I want that too. I don't have a Super Best Friend. It hurts to see people like that, if you believe it or not. Makes me wonder why I haven't found someone like that yet.

Hell. Maybe I'm just not trying hard enough.

It's time to get out; all the hot water's gone. The bathroom's still steamy from the high temperature, just the way I like it. And even though the water's gone, the thoughts still linger.

Why am I so jealous?

It's a simple matter. Throw a towel around my waist, head back to the room. It's not like I have a pair of pajama's running around with me. I always have to ask to borrow a pair, no big deal. I know I've taken a good hour long shower by now; all the lights are off. The adults are off sleeping, Ike the tyke's probably passed out as well. Strange though…

Why's Kyle's light off?

Simple Kenny. They got tired of waiting on your ass and they went to bed. It's as simple as that. So forgive me if I'm a little startled when I give the knob a small turn and I hear heavy panting.

"Shut up Stan, my folks are sleeping!" came a harsh whisper, obviously Kyle. More heavy panting, and I can hear the rustling of clothing and bed sheets. What the hell?!

"Ngh…Ky…" I know those sounds. Oh god. I almost walked in on my friends having sex. Shit! I just stood there; hand still on the doorknob and listening to them. It was the only thing I could think to do in the situation. It's kind of shocking to catch your best friends in the middle of going at it; it'll freeze your feet to the spot.

I shouldn't do this. I should just walk back in the bathroom and pretend I didn't see anything. That's the right thing to do, then that way I could talk about it later. But no. That's not what I did. Quietly as I could, I turned the knob and cracked open the door. I felt my heart race in my chest, my eyes wide with surprise and…wait…what the hell was I doing?!

Actually, I was surprised to see Kyle on top. He's never seemed to fit that stereotypical role, of course, of being what's expected of him. His body was curved into the junction of Stan's legs nicely, the sheets thrown back and holy hell did I get a good view. I just watched him grind his hips slowly in and out of Stan, one of his hands splayed on the dark-haired boy's stomach and the other slowly pumping the already-slickened shaft displayed for him. In the darkness I couldn't see Kyle's face, but I could sure feel the satisfaction he was obviously grinning. Stan's legs wrapped themselves around Kyle's rear to prevent him from going anywhere but deeper. One of his hands was gripped tight in the under sheet, the other splayed over his face in some sort of half-embarrassed way to hide. It was Stan that made those odd little sucking sounds, muffled moans, and shrill yelps.

And he gave another one as Kyle sped up.

No matter what I did, tearing my eyes away and giving my two friends privacy was not a feasible option. Seeing them together only threw my already-confused mind into a painful reminder. I didn't have someone that close to me. Before I knew it, I was rubbing myself along to their rhythm.

"Oh God!" Stan squeaked, his hands moving to cling to Kyle's shoulders. I watched and pumped in time as Kyle shifted his hands to dig into Stan's hips, grunting as lusty urges overtook them. I had to stay my hand quietly against the doorframe to gain proper footing. It was sad, really. I'm jacking off to my friends having sex.

Kenny McCormick, when will it end?

"S…stan…" I hear Kyle pant, and I secretly wish that it could have been my name on his tongue.

"Ugh…Kyle, I…gah!" That could be me making Stan swoon like that. I have to bite my tongue, my mind delving into taking the other's place just for a moment. It looks so much more meaningful than all the sex I've ever had. So forbidden. It's unfair, really. Why can't it be me?

The knot growing in the pit of my belly is close to release, and I realize that I've caught up to their pace pathetically quick. I will my hand to stay at their same speed; give my hopeless fantasy one more breath of life. Kyle leans down and captures Stan's lips with his own, muffling out the yowl of pleasure I'm sure he'll give.

With a shudder, it's all over for the three of us.

Kyle goes rigid, his body giving a little spasm as he keeps his mouth firmly planted over our noisy friend. I hear the throaty rasp for breath, imagining that Stan's eyes have rolled back into his head. I see his hands gripped tightly into Kyle's shoulders, each of them twitching slightly as they ride out their orgasms. I can't say that I don't look the same. The towel around me only prevented my seed from squirting over the carpet, but it let the sticky substance run down my leg slowly. I can only remember seeing black and white, panting while hunched over and one hand on the door.

The door which flung open very quickly once I had climaxed.

The door which had hidden me from my two friends.

My two friends, whose eyes were wide open and staring me down.
"Kenny!?" Stan shuffled the sheets to hide him and our Jewish friend.

Oh. Shit.