The Extravagant Lives of Corrupted Men

Ships: StanKyle, KennyBebe, CraigTweek, EricWendy
Genre: humor, romance, angst, drama… well, pretty much everything.
Warning: slash pairings, swearing, culture-bashing, character death (Kenny, of course!), drug and alcohol usage, smoking… though it's pretty much just anything goes.
Rating: Teen. Bordering mature, but probably not.
Summary: Stan is a priest who follows lame stereotypes. Kyle believes in after-hour fantasies. And Kenny? Well. Kenny just paints.

Chapter I

There was not a better feeling for Kevin McKormick than to see his newly finished painting of his brother's. This, of course, being because he had posed a good two hours to get it painted, not to mention he'd soon have the pleasure of selling his nude picture to a feisty, young, horny woman, who would probably hang it on her bedroom wall for purposes he spent hours in the bathroom fantasizing.

However, for his brother Kenny… there were probably better feelings.
Like sex, for example. Though the idea of his brother finally putting some clothes on was a good feeling, too.

"Lemme see the fucking picture," Kevin growled, snatching the painting into his hands. "How much you think we'll get outta this?"

"Maybe fifty," Kenny replied, making sure his gaze was strictly focused on the upper half of the picture. "You're nude in this one. Maybe a hundred."

"I'm nude in most of them," snapped Kevin, setting the painting back on the easel. "Now when can I sell it? I've been fucking deprived for two days, now."

"Let the paint dry," Kenny said, his desire just as great as his brother's. "Go to the Cartman's, though; Liane will buy it for any price you offer."

"Fuck, yes!" Kevin exclaimed, eyes gleaming with excitement. "Two hundred, for her then!"

"Good deal," said Kenny, rubbing his fists together. "God, I need a fucking cigarette…."

-

"An excellent sermon," Randy Marsh was saying, hand upon a nice, young lad. "Really, I think you've improved since you first started."

"Thanks dad."

"A real eye-opener, that was," continued the balding man, giving a pat to his beer belly. "You sent your mother in tears."

"Dad, it was just a father's—"

"I hope you're happy," Randy said with a sigh, turning away. "Because of that sermon of yours she needs to pass by the grocery store to fetch a box of Kleenexes. Kleenexes! And I'm missing the first fifteen minutes of the game!"

"Thirty minutes if you don't leave now," said Stan with a sly smile, and, with the horror etched upon his face, Randy Marsh flew off.

Now perhaps one might think that Stan would've joined his father in watching the game, but no, he had other things to do. Like, for instance, imagining his father slouched in their ten-year-old couch of theirs, popcorn in lap, and beer in hand. Now why would a man eat popcorn to watch the game, Stan couldn't possibly imagine, especially since he was more of a chips-and-cheese-dip kind of guy; of course, all priests fasted as much as they could, barely eating more than they needed, so, of course, Stan refrained from the chips.

The cheese, of course, he ate with no problem. It was the best part, after all.

Yet that, of course, wasn't why Stan had to go home. In fact, it was because he had to start planning his next week's sermon. Since, as everyone knew, that's all a priest really did. Read off a book… and then make a speech.

And then hold wine and bread into the air for all to see. You know… the tiring part of the job.

-

"He's a fucking priest, for fuck's sake!" Ike Broflovski—Peter Gints, rather, as named after abandoning his adopted, Jewish heritage—yelled into the glazed eyes of his adopted, Jewish-culture-retaining brother Kyle. "Having fantasies with men is one thing, Kyle—and I promise I won't tell mom—but with Stan? A priest, Kyle!"

"A Catholic priest!" said Kyle, hopes raised past Uranus. "And he's really stereotypical, anyway! He might be a gay, Catholic priest!"

…hopes raised past Neptune….

"And you're a gay, Semitic Jew." As opposed to a non-Semitic Jew… though that just might exist. "You're double-damned to heaven, Kyle. You wanna make Stan double-damned, too?"

"Cartman says only Mormons go to heaven," retorted Kyle, "and while I don't normally believe everything he says, I'm pretty sure Kenny's said that angels themselves have affirmed this." Kyle sighed, placing a green, textured sheet on Peter's chest, connecting it to a string, and ultimately tying it around his neck. "So he's Catholic, he's damned once. And if he's a gay priest, he's double-damned!—without my help!"

"Whatever, Kyle," Peter mumbled, eyeing the tools on the tray carefully. "You and your fantasies, seriously."

"Would you like to hear about them?" Kyle asked. "I'm sure you've heard about the one with Stan on—"

"What I would like to hear," said Ike, sneering, "is the sound of that silver tool against my teeth, doing what a dentist is supposed to do with it. Like myself, I don't think that tool's going to appreciate the story you're telling, and nor will it appreciate the money wasted on such a story, the money I spent to pay my own, fucking brother!"

Kyle grew quiet, and then shrugged. "Stop complaining, you're adopted."

-

Eric Cartman remained still on the couch as he tossed Cheesy Poofs by the dozen into his mouth, licking his lips in a satisfied manner after every scoopful or so. He couldn't care less about his disapproving mother, who was much too scared to bring up the topic of obesity to her fully grown once-child, nor of the pussycat who liked showing her pussy-like pussy to anyone who hazarded a look in her direction.

Her? His? Maybe just an 'it.'
A look in its direction. Yeah, that seemed to work.

But really, the only thing Eric actually cared about was the television in front of him, watching all the episodes of Terrance and Phillip he had missed, all because he had attended so many of Kenny's funerals, on Wendy's request, who was requested by Stan, whom Kyle wanted there, because Kenny liked it when Kyle was there.

However, Liane Cartman had turned into the silent type, after continuous back-talking from her only son, so she wasn't a problem at all. And the cat? Well. The cat smoked catfish—no, spoke cat-ish, rather—and its meows weren't anything distracting. So the pussy was fine, for him.

So, when the doorbell rang that Tuesday afternoon, Eric roared louder than a lion.

…an angry lion, of course. Because an emo!lion would give rather crappy roars.

"Ms. Liane Cartman?" greeted the voice of a rather excited Kevin McKormick. The two, of course, were acquainted well, as Kevin's visit would neither be the first nor the last. "We've got another offer for you."

"Oh, goodness," she said, blushing. "I haven't seen you since—"

"Goddamnit, can you keep it down over there! I'm trying to watch mah damn show!"

Liane uttered a small apology before continuing. "Anyway, I haven't seen you in a while, Kevin. So what's the painting in question this time?"

Kevin revealed the nude painting of himself.

"Two hundred," he said simply, nodding his head.

"My, my, that's quite a nice… thing you've got there."—though, she already had six paintings of him nude, so her statement was rather pointless. "Two hundred, you say?"

"Keep it down, ma!"

"Meooooooooow!"

"Goddamn pusseh, shut the hell up!"

Liane shook her head, uttering yet another apology. "It's a deal."

She left momentarily to get her wallet. Kevin took the opportunity to look around; a picture of him stood proudly in the dining room, though he wasn't nude in that one.

"Here you go," she said, and Kevin took the money happily. "So what're you doing with all that money?"

"Buying stuff," Kevin said simply before turning on the spot. "Good day, Liane."