A Note From Ben: Mea culpa. I know I started a story and haven't updated it yet. I will. I promise. I just got the idea for this one from a list of writing prompts on Reddit. The prompt said... well, I can't tell you what it said without giving anything away. Suffice it to say, it was a springboard for this story. As soon as I read the prompt, which was only one sentence long, this story assembled itself in my head. I wrote while the idea was fresh.

Also, if any of you happen to do research on the phrase "23 skidoo", you'll find out that it's a phrase from before WWI that basically means "get out while you can". That is not the context it is used in in this story. I am aware of this.

Twenty-Three Skidoo
by Ben Barrett

One more day,
One more time,
One more sunset,
maybe I'll be satisfied.

But then again,
I know what it would do:
Leave me wishing still
for one more day with you.

-One More Day, Diamond Rio

The boy simply went by the name "Spread". Spread had a legal, reasonable name but he hated it, almost as much as he hated his parents, who had given it to him. He began going by Spread in the third grade, after another boy had asked him how hairy his pussy was. He had broken the boy's nose and had subsequently been suspended from school for a week. His mother had grounded him for a month, which he'd viewed as unfair. In one last ditch effort to find something redeemable in his father (a man he hated like no other), he'd gone to the old man for help, but he'd just told him to move out from in front of the TV. Dickhead. From that moment on, he'd adopted a new moniker, one that would protect him from the evils of his ridiculous name. He simply called himself Spread.

Now a boy of fifteen, Spread was walking through downtown Denver one day, trying to come up with a reason not to go back to the hotel. He and his parents were from South Park, and had come here for a two-day trip for some reason unknown to him. It would have been easy enough to simply drive back to their home in Park County every day, but his dad was a cheapskate and didn't want to waste gas, so he put them up in the cheapest, dirtiest hotel he could find. Spread didn't have the heart to tell him that the two days he'd paid on the room would probably end up being greater than or equal to the amount he would have spent on gas. Why bother? He was a moron.

So now he was wandering around, going into various businesses and not buying anything. He saw a CD he'd been wanting, but of course he had no money. Because his father was too cheap to give him any. He had just walked out of a small shop on the 16th Street Mall when he was accosted by a wino who smelled like a mixture of piss and vomit and who was wearing clothes so ragged he may as well have been dressed in banana leaves. He looked strangely happy to see him, though Spread had no idea why.

"You boy!" he cackled, and Spread could see he was missing nearly all of his teeth. Probably a crackhead. "Got a nickel?"

Spread was repulsed by this creature, but had a soft heart and felt compassion for him as well, so he reached into his pocket and produced the only money he had to his name: one crumpled dollar bill. He offered it to the man, who looked at it, sniffed it, licked it, then stuck it in his pocket.

"Twenty-three skidoo!" the wino cried, spinning in a circle. He was clearly insane. "The truth is in the pudding."

"What the hell does that even mean?" Spread asked. "You know what? Never mind. I'm out of here. Have a nice day."

He turned to walk off, but the man grabbed his hand. Spread turned around to punch him in the mouth and possibly scream rape, but there was a pleading, desperate look in his diseased eyes.

"Please," he said. "The truth needs to come out."

"What truth?" Spread asked. His throat felt dry as sandpaper.

The wino reached into his filthy rags and produced an envelope so old that it had turned yellow with age. He placed it in Spread's hands and folded the boy's fingers over it.

"Twenty-three skidoo," he whispered, then turned and walked off. Spread watched him until he disappeared into the alley, then looked down at the envelope.

What the fuck is this?

Something inside him was telling him to sit down and read it. He didn't know if it was the sorrow and pain he'd seen in the man's eyes or the way he'd practically begged him. He just knew that whatever was in this envelope had been important to him.

He made his way to a nearby bench and sat down. In the envelope were several items. There was a letter spanning multiple pages of notebook paper, with writing on the front and back of each page; there was a photograph of someone he'd never seen before, but who looked frighteningly familiar; and there was a movie ticket stub with a heart drawn on it in purple ink.

The letter read as follows:

To whom It May Concern:

Is that how you start one of these things? I don't know. I don't know if that's too formal for such a personal story, but since I already wrote it, it will have to do.

My name is Kenny McCormick. I was born in the little town of South Park a long time ago. My father was a worthless drunk who couldn't keep a job. Even when we had money, he'd spend it on Scotch, so we never had food to eat. My mother was white trash who stayed with him even when she saw that her kids were starving to death because of him. I loved them both in spite of this. I guess I had every right to hate them, but how do you bring yourself to hate your parents?

My childhood was simple. We lived in a little ramshackle house (long since demolished) that sat in the poor part of town. I was always ridiculed as the poor kid, especially by my sometimes friend Eric Cartman. God, he was an ass. If there was anyone in the world I could say that I genuinely hate, it's him. He's dead and in hell now, thank goodness, and has been there for many years, but while he was alive he made life miserable for me and anyone else he came into contact with.

Along with Cartman, my friends were Stan, who was such a sweet person, and his best friend Kyle. Stan and Kyle were inseparable, and I was all but positive that one day they'd come out and say that they were gay for each other, but they never did. Stan married Wendy, his long time sweetheart, and Kyle married some chick named Rebecca. I don't know what happened to them in the years after high school. I tried to keep in touch with them, but it's hard sometimes, ya know? I heard that Stan moved to New York and Kyle moved to California, so it seems unlikely that they remained friends. Stranger things have happened, though.

The person I considered my absolute best friend, though, was a boy named Butters Stotch. We weren't that close in elementary school, but we really started bonding in middle school. By the time we were in high school, Butters was my whole world. I loved him more than I've ever loved another human being, before or since. I didn't consider myself gay at all. I mean, my whole life I'd liked the ladies, and boobs were my favorite thing in the world. But one day I turned around and all I could think about was Butters. I can even pinpoint the exact moment it happened. He and I were sitting by Stark's Pond on a bench (Stark's Pond has since been paved over) in the late evening, and we were kidding around with each other. Butters was talking about how he secretly liked to listen to old music like Frank Sinatra and sing along. I told him he was old-fashioned and needed to bring his goofy ass out of the 1930s and into the twenty-first century. He looked at me and cried "Twenty-three skidoo!" We both started laughing hysterically, and as I looked at him in the red light of the dying evening, his face in a big grin and his eyes twinkling, I felt myself fall in love with him.

It took several more months before anything came of it. I pretended like nothing had changed for me, but it had. Boobs no longer interested me. Girls no longer interested me. All I could think about all day, every day was Butters Stotch. The whole "twenty-three skidoo" thing became a running gag for us. Whenever one of us would say something silly or stupid, the other would cry "Twenty-three skidoo!" and we'd both start laughing. Nobody else understood it, and looked at us like we were retarded. I thought it was adorable. God, I loved him.

It didn't take long for our other friends to notice how I'd changed toward Butters. I tried to keep my mannerisms the same and keep cracking jokes about big titties and shaved muff, but Kyle saw how I was looking at Butters when I thought no one else was looking. He saw the way I'd smile too big when the two of us were together, and how my eyes twinkled when we made eye contact. He pulled me off to the side one day and confronted me about it. He told me I needed to man up and tell Butters how I felt about him.

"I know, Kyle," I said. "I'm not going to fall into an old cliché of 'Oh, should I tell him? I can't tell him. I'm afraid of what he'll say'. I hate that shit."

"I don't understand, then," Kyle said. "If you're not worried about telling him how you feel, why haven't you done it yet?"

"I just don't know if I'm ready to admit to myself that I might be gay," I said. "I've never had gay feelings before."

"Look, Kenny," Kyle said, "it's not that cut and dry, okay? There was this doctor, his name was Kinsey, and he came up with this scale. It rates people's sexuality on a number system between zero and six, with zero being completely straight and six being completely gay. He said that almost no one is a zero or a six and that most people fall somewhere in between. He also said that even people who are mostly straight can find someone they could have a meaningful gay relationship with, and vice versa. Butters may be that person for you."

"Where do you fall on that scale?" I asked with a sly grin.

"I'll put it to you this way," Kyle replied, "I'm closer to the middle than Stan is."

He refused to say anything more than that, and I let it go. That night, I called Butters and had him meet me at Stark's Pond, in the exact spot I first fell in love with him. We sat there making small talk for a few minutes, then he got serious. He looked at me and said:

"Why did you call me here, Kenny?"

I sighed and looked out over the pond. I didn't know what else to do, so I came right out and said it. I told him I had strong feelings for him, that I liked him as more than a friend, that I would do anything for him and that I hadn't had any interest in anyone, female or otherwise, for a long time. He sat there in silence for a minute, wringing his hands and biting his lip as he thought over what I'd said. When he finally spoke, he looked me square in the eyes and said:

"Are you in love with me?"

"Would that be a problem for you?" I asked.

"No," Butters said, "because..."

"Because what?"

"Because I'm in love with you," he said, looking away as the tears filled his eyes. "I've been in love with you for so long."

We embraced then, and the embrace turned into a passionate kiss. The first time I kissed him, it was like the whole rest of the world melted away. It was just the two of us in our own little bubble. All I could think about was how much I loved him, how lucky I was to have him, how soft his lips were and how good he tasted.

From that moment on, we were an item and hopelessly devoted to each other. We would sometimes spend all day together, then spend four or five hours on the phone. Most people thought it was sweet and supported us, but there was one fucker who didn't: Cartman. Cartman became more of an ass than he had ever been before, and he'd been a pretty nasty individual in the past. He mocked us every time he saw us, called us fags and queers and nancy boys. He would pelt us with spitballs, "accidentally" dump things on us, harass us on Facebook or through text messages. Butters was actually scared of him. Cartman had threatened to fucking kill both of us, and Butters was in tears when he called me and read me the email. I decided I'd had enough. I went to see him.

When he opened the door, the first thing I did was grab him by the shirt and slam him against the wall. He let out a cry of outrage, but I didn't think he had any right to be upset. I punched him in the stomach and knocked him to the ground, then I kicked him in the ribs a few times.

"You stupid piece of fucking white trash shit!" Cartman screamed from the ground.

"Shut up!" I bellowed. "I'm going to make this clear right now: Butters and I are together, and you're going to make peace with that right now. There will be no more harassment, no more threats. I can see in your eyes that you do it because you're fucking jealous, but I don't care. It ends now."

"Jealous?" Cartman spat. "What the fuck do I have to be jealous over?"

His eyes told me he was putting on a front, and I wasn't falling for it.

"You don't like it that you've been crazy over Butters for years," I said. "He used to be your little sidekick and victim when we were kids, and now that he's moved on, you can't stand it. You had your chance, mother fucker. You could have been best friends with him long before I ever even noticed he was alive, but you chose to fucking torture him."

"Fuck you," Cartman hissed. "That's not true."

"It is and you know it," I replied. "But you know what? It doesn't matter. You're going to get over it, and you're going to get over it right now, because if you don't, the next time I will be taking your threatening email messages and texts to the police. Do I make myself clear?"

"Road trash," he said.

"That's what I thought," I said, and walked off.

The next month passed without incident from Cartman. Butters and I continued to fawn over each other just as much as we ever did, and he never did anything but shoot us dirty looks. Butters saw him doing it one day and I told him to ignore him. Instead, Butters showed Cartman how little his opinion meant to him by grabbing me and kissing me right there in the school corridor. Cartman was livid, but instead of retaliating against us, he simply ground his teeth, punched a nearby locker so hard that he left a dent in it and walked off. Butters was ecstatic because he thought we were finally free of his wrath, but I knew better. I knew better, yet I chose not to act. I figured as long as Cartman kept his distance, I would leave him be.

This was a mistake.

We were on our anniversary date. It had been six months since we'd officially become an item. It was weird, because as much of a little horndog as I'd been in the past, talking about liking tight pussy and bouncing titties, sex wasn't an issue between us. We'd been together six whole months and hadn't even come close to having sex. We cuddled, we kissed, we held hands, but we did not go all the way. I'd never even allowed by hands to drift below his waistline. Butters was special to me, and I wanted him to feel special. I decided that when Butters wanted to have sex with me, he'd let me know in his own way. That night, as we sat in the theater waiting for our movie to start, Butters took my ticket stub and drew a heart on it with his favorite purple pen. He handed it to me and smiled at me.

"To let you know that my heart is always yours," he said, "and tonight, I want my body to be yours, too."

Nothing more was said, and the movie started. I put the ticket stub in my pocket as a keepsake, and it is the stub I've kept in this envelope all these years. It has so much sentimental value for me. It's the last thing Butters ever gave me before... it happened.

We walked out of the theater that night, holding hands. We were planning to walk back to his house and make love for the first time. I was excited, and I could tell he was too, because his palms were sweating and he kept looking at me with a cheeky grin.

"What?" I asked, feigning innocence.

"I hope you're not too big," he said. "My little bottom is tender."

I laughed and drew him in for a kiss. I'll remember that kiss forever. As we pulled apart, we saw Cartman step out of a dark alley not far from us. He was looking at us with more hatred than I've ever seen in the eyes of any other human being.

"Come on," I whispered to Butters. "Let's get out of here."

We started to walk away, but Cartman stepped in front of us.

"Move, you fat fuck," I said. "Get out of our way."

"I was sitting in the theater behind you," he said. "I know what you're planning to do. You can't sleep together. No. You... you can't."

"It's none of your fucking business," I said. "Fuck off."

Instead of responding, he simply looked over at Butters. In one fluid motion, he reached into his jacket, pulled out a pistol and pumped three rounds into my beloved's chest. I saw it all in slow motion. The gun came out, and before I could jump in front of it or push Butters out of the way, the bullets started flying. I could almost see them cross the space between the barrel and Butters' chest. Then Butters was on the ground, his blood pooling on the sidewalk around him. I heard someone screaming. I didn't realize until several seconds later that it was me.

Cartman looked terrified for the first time in his life. There must have been some kind of insanity in my eyes, because when he looked at me, he turned and tried to run. I grabbed him and knocked the gun from his hands.

"You fuck!" I screamed. "You stupid piece of worthless fuck!"

I knew there was no hope for Butters. He had three holes directly in his heart and the blood was everywhere. He was all but dead the moment he hit the sidewalk. But I had a plan.

One thing I never told you about me: I used to be immortal. People could kill me, but I would always come back. I would never stay dead. My friends used to scream "Oh, my God! They killed Kenny!" when I'd die, but they got sick of saying it and eventually stopped. Why bother? I'd just be back the next day, if not within hours or minutes. I knew that I might be able to use that ability to my advantage this time, save Butters and get rid of Cartman all in one fell swoop.

I was still screaming at Cartman when I pulled him into the street, into the path of a passing semi truck. The last words he ever uttered before the truck hit us and smashed us into hamburger meat was, "Weeaak!" Then we were all dead.

I woke up in hell, as usual. I wasted no time. I ran toward Satan's office. That bull queer owed me a favor, and he was going to pay up. I burst into his office without knocking, demanding that he take it all back. He looked at me over his glasses with a rather bored expression. He closed his book and put it to the side, then folded his hands on the desk in front of him.

"Can I help you with something, Kenny?" he asked, as if he hadn't heard me the first time.

"Take it back!" I screamed. "Don't let Butters die!"

Satan sighed and looked down at his big, red hands. He didn't speak right away, just sat there twiddling his thumbs in thought.

"You know it's not that easy," he said when he finally looked back up at me. "There are conditions."

"There were never any conditions for me!" I screamed.

"You're different," Satan said. "You're special."

"Fuck special!" I shouted at him. "Tell me what I have to do to save him."

"I can tell that you love him," Satan said, "but how much do you love him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you love him enough to give up your ability to regenerate?" he asked me. "To give Butters a second chance requires a price be paid. The price is very high. You have to give up your immortality."

"Done," I said without a moment's hesitation. "I would do anything for him."

"There's a couple of other things," he said.

"There's more?" I cried, incredulous.

"I told you the price is high."

"Name it."

"You will get Butters back, but only for a year. He will live until one year from tonight. Then he will die. There will be no more bartering, and there will be no substitutions. Every man owes a death, Kenny. Even Butters. To give him a second chance can be done, but only for a limited amount of time."

"I..." I stuttered. "I don't... I mean... how will I live without him? How will I live every day over the next year knowing that he's going to die, and even knowing the exact day?"

"You will live through it," Satan said, "by making it the best year of his life. Show him how special he is. Make love often. Buy him things. Tell him you love him. Make sure his last year on Earth is the one he remembers for the rest of eternity."

"Okay," I said. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes," Satan said. "There is one final stipulation."

When he told me what it was, I realized just what he meant by sacrifice.

I returned to Earth in a most unspectacular way. I appeared back on the sidewalk where the whole mess had started. In the street was the mess of mangled human flesh that was Cartman and my previous body. On the ground was Butters. He looked dead. I felt the tears sting my eyes. Even after all of that, it hadn't worked. I had given up so much, and had been double-crossed. I felt my heart begin to break. Then Butters opened his eyes. Those beautiful, wonderful eyes I loved so much. The bullet holes in his chest evaporated like water on an August sidewalk and he sat up.

"Wh-what happened?" he asked.

"Twenty-three skidoo," I said, pulling him into my arms.

I held him for a long time, because I did not want him to see the tears streaming down my face.

We did not make love that night as we'd planned. I took Butters home and just held him all night. I was so happy to have him with me, safe and sound. I kissed him often, told him over and over that I loved him, then I told him I wanted to spend the rest of our lives together. He looked at me and smiled.

"We're too young for that," he said. "We're not even out of high school."

"Who says we have to get married to spend our lives together?" I asked. "Let's spend what time we have just like this. I could spend years holding you."

"Aww, Kenny," he said, and blushed. He was so cute when he blushed.

I spent the next few months doing everything I could for him. I bought him things, I told him every day how much he meant to me, and six months after the incident in front of the theater, we made love for the first time. It was technically our one year anniversary, and it coincided with the night of our high school graduation. We marched up to the platform, accepted our diplomas and threw our caps in the air. I pretended like everything was normal, but inside I was falling apart. I watched Butters accept his diploma and realized the pointlessness of it. In another six months he would be dead. In the months since he'd been shot (which he didn't even remember) I had often wondered why I bothered even letting him go through the motions of going to school. Why spend his last year on Earth wasting eight hours of his day on an education that would benefit him nothing? I always came full circle back to the same response: because I couldn't tip him off that anything was amiss. I had to keep him happy. So we went through the motions, went to graduation, and as Butters took his diploma I tried not to let my heartbreak show in my face.

I took him out after the ceremony and we drove to a secluded place in the forest, where we talked for over an hour. Finally, Butters turned to me and said:

"Why haven't we had sex yet?"

"I just want to make sure it's special," I said. "You're special to me."

"You're special to me, too," he replied, "but I don't want to wait anymore. I want you, Kenny. Right now."

"If you're sure that's what you want."

"I've never been more sure of anything."

So we made love. It was awkward in a way that only two virgin teenagers can make it awkward, but it was special, too. We moved together in harmony, both of us moaning and sighing and saying how much we loved each other. In that moment, everything was perfect between us, and it was better than either of us had ever dreamed it would be. When it was over, he cried. So did I.

Then I said it.

"Let's get married, Butters."

"Married?" he cried, surprised. "We just graduated. Don't you think that's rushing things?"

"Why wait?" I asked. I understood the folly of waiting far more than he did. "You love me and I love you and we know we're perfect for each other. Let's go get married."

"No."

"No?"

"No," he repeated. "I don't want to get married yet. I want to wait until after college at least."

"Butters..."

"No, Kenny!" he said, and he said in a way that was not unkind but let me know the subject was not open for discussion or debate. "Just... don't rush me on this. Give me time."

Time was something we didn't have, but I relented. I just wanted him to be happy.

The months flew by and Butters started preparing for his first (and only) semester of college. Thankfully, he had decided to attend a local community college so that we would not be separated. It would have killed me to be apart from him when he died. As he began his classes, I began to ponder ways that I could barter for more time. I thought and thought and thought, but could come up with nothing. We had less than three months left, and I had no way to save him. It was killing me.

He threw himself into his studies, and they took up a big chunk of his time, but he always made time for me. Every minute we could spare, we were together. Sometimes, when I tried very hard, I could almost convince myself that things were normal and that nothing bad was going to happen. In the dead of night, though, when the lights were out and there was nothing but silence and the sound of Butters sleeping next to me, I knew better, especially when he started having chest pain.

It was two months from the deadline. It started out as something so small I might have been tempted to ignore it were it not for the window of time that had gotten uncomfortably small. We were sitting in our apartment one day, cuddled up together and watching television (Terrance and Phillip reruns, if it matters) when he suddenly gave a little squeak and grabbed his chest. I looked over in alarm.

"What?" I asked. "What's wrong?"

"Felt a little twinge in my chest," he said. "Probably nothing. Probably just ate that burrito too fast."

Burrito. Yeah. I knew better.

As the weeks sped by, his little "twinges" got worse. He began having strong, agonizing chest pain. He thought he was having a heart attack. I took him to the hospital, knowing nothing would come of it. He still had a month left. The doctors admitted him and put him in the cardiac wing, and the first time I walked in and saw him on that bed, a tube in his nose and wires running from various parts of his body, I knew that the end was near. I didn't want to cry, but I couldn't hold it in any more. The tears broke free and began to run down my cheeks in streams. Butters saw this and he tried to comfort me.

"Hey, it's okay," he said. "The doctors say it's probably not a heart attack. They're running tests now, but they're pretty sure I'm gonna be fine."

"Sure, Butters," I said.

"Hey," he said, "twenty-three skidoo."

"Hehe," I chuckled. "Yeah. Twenty-three skidoo."

Butters went home the next day with a prescription for pain killers. The doctors told him they weren't sure what was causing it, that it might be acid reflux or a pulled muscle. They recommended that he buy some Pepcid or other strong antacid to see if that helped, and gave him some non-narcotic pain killers to help with the pain. I smiled and told him I was glad he was going to be okay, which destroyed me. I hated lying to him.

The next couple of weeks passed like so many I've described to you before. I told him I loved him, treated him like a god, gave him anything and everything and did my best to make him happy. But his chest pain didn't go away. It got worse. He wanted me to take him back to the hospital. One week left. I knew this was it. I drove him to Hell's Pass with what felt like a knife in my stomach and watched as they admitted him again. I felt like screaming as I realized the next time Butters left Hell's Pass, it would be in a hearse.

When I went up to his room, he didn't smile this time. He looked at me, very somber.

"This is it," he said.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"I'm not going to make it," he replied.

"Of course you are. I..."

"Kenny, don't lie to me," he said, cutting me off. "You're a terrible liar. I've seen it in your eyes every time over the past month or so. You've known something and haven't been telling me. I don't know how, but you know. It doesn't matter anymore anyway. I know my time is near. You can feel it when Death is near. It's like, I don't know, a sense, I guess."

I took his hand and began to weep.

"There, there," he said. "It's going to be okay. You've been so amazing to me. You were the best thing that ever happened to me."

"I don't want to lose you," I said.

"We all owe a death," he said. "Even me."

I said nothing. I just sat there, kissing his hand and crying my eyes out.

"I want you to promise me something," he said.

"Anything," I told him, my voice thick with emotion and phlegm.

"Promise me that you'll at least try to love again."

"I don't know—"

"I want you to promise me!" Butters cried, then winced and grabbed his chest. He stayed like that for a moment, then relaxed and looked at me. "You don't have to promise me that you will love again, but I want you to promise me that you'll try."

"You're the only one I'll ever love."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

I never left his bedside that entire week. When the last day came, the day I'd been dreading for a year, I watched the clock. Butters had been shot at 9:05PM by Eric Theodore Cartman. It was 9:03PM now. Just two minutes to go. I looked up at him.

"It's time, isn't it?" he asked me.

"Yes," I said.

"Make me happy before I go?"

"Anything. Name it."

"Give me one last kiss. Let your lips be the last thing I feel."

I got up and leaned over him.

"Twenty-three skidoo," I said.

"Twenty-three skidoo," he replied.

Then I kissed him. It was the most wonderful kiss we'd ever shared. The tears were running down our faces, mixing together and dampening the sheets as they fell. We never wanted it to end. I would have gladly stayed like that for eternity, kissing him and crying and just being grateful to have him for sixty more seconds.

Then we broke apart. When we did, he grabbed his chest and gasped. There was no dramatic heart attack, no heart monitor going nuts, no doctors running in trying to save him. He just grabbed his heart and gave one last gasp, then closed his eyes forever.

I have never cried so hard in my life.

I will spare you the details of the funeral and the sobbing mess I was for weeks after. Suffice it to say, I never really got over it. I eventually just fell apart completely. I quit going to school, quit going to work, quit caring about everything. I found solace in a cheap green bottle of wine. It helped me to forget my pain for a little while, but of course it came with a price.

I'm surprised I've been able to write all of this. Most of the time my sanity is shaky at best. But I remember my final deal with Satan. The part I never told you about.

The last thing he said to me was this: I would not be able to die. My immortality was gone, but I would be doomed to live a long, lonely life. Though I would be able to seek Death, I would never find him. If I tried to overdose, the doctors would always manage to save me. If I were to try and jump in front of a moving vehicle, the driver would slam on the brakes just in time or someone would push me out of the way. If I tried to use a gun, it would always misfire. This was the price I had to pay not only for daring to defy Death and give someone time they were never supposed to have, but also for killing Cartman. I had taken his life instead of letting justice be served, and I had to pay the price.

He told me that I would die, eventually, but not for a long time. He said I would know it was my time to go by performing this simple test: If I approached a stranger and asked them for a nickel and they handed me a dollar, I was to check it for three things. If the dollar was minted in 2012, the year Butters died, and it smelled like cinnamon and tasted like peppermint, then I was to give them a hand-written letter describing everything that had happened. He said that only one person would pass this test, and that the letter was for them. He didn't tell me why. He said when this happened, then and only then would I be allowed to die.

If you're reading this, then it means you are the one. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. I am finally free, thanks to you.

I'm coming home, Butters. I love you, dear.

Kenny McCormick

Spread finished reading and put the letter on the bench beside him. He took another look at the photograph. It was a teenage boy with blonde hair and a warm, irresistible grin. On the back was the inscription: Leopold "Butters" Stotch, 2011

Spread stuffed everything back in the envelope and stuck it in his jacket pocket. He walked back to the alley where he'd seen the old wino vanish. He stepped over the trash and debris and found him in a dark corner, clearly dead. The tortured look that had been on his face earlier was no more. He looked at peace.

When Spread went back to the hotel room, he threw his coat over the chair and went into the bathroom to take a shower. As he stood under the hot stream of water, he thought back on all he'd read about and the tormented look on that old man's face. Could it all be true? Had it really happened the way the letter had described, or was it all a figment of the old man's imagination, coupled with an incredible coincidence? Yeah, the old man had died shortly after giving Spread the letter. And yeah, his dollar had tasted like peppermint and smelled like cinnamon because of the hard candies that he had stuffed into his pocket. But did that prove anything?

And who the hell was Butters and why did he feel like he'd seen him somewhere before?

When he stepped out of the bathroom, his stupid mother was reading the letter.

"What are you doing?" Spread asked.

"Where did you get this?" his mother asked.

"What does it matter?" Spread replied. "The guy who wrote it is dead."

"Wait," she said, "Kenny died?"

"You talk about him like you knew him or something," Spread said.

"Not personally," came the reply, "but I heard about him plenty of times from your grandma and grandpa before they died."

"How did they know him?" Spread demanded. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Leopold," she said, referring to Spread by his legal name, "Butters was my older brother. I was born two years after he died. I named you after him."

"You're lying!" Spread said, shaking his head vehemently.

"No, I'm not. My maiden name was Stotch. Butters was your uncle, Leopold. You probably don't even realize it, but you look almost exactly like him."

Then it hit him. Why he thought Butters looked so familiar. Why Kenny had seemed so happy to see him. Why he'd always been strangely fond of Frank Sinatra.

He looked at his mom, his eyes wide as saucers. She simply smiled at him.

"Twenty-three skidoo," she said.

Fin