A/N: I wish I could find the quote by one of the South Park creators about Kenny growing up to be a serial killer, because that inspired half of this. The other half came from an expansion of the quote which said he'd be killed by another serial killer. I had to get it out of my head after that.
An End to It
His fingers are a cold and sticky red. There are two this time, huddled masses of flesh growing rigid in the December night. He remembers the steam pluming out of them with each cut of the knife that now lies in the red-speckled snow at his feet. It was their own fault for coming out to Stark's Pond alone.
Kenny's stiff fingers curl into a fist at his side. He's lost track of the numbers now. This is somewhere past twenty, he's sure. Still he has found nothing. The fear and sadness in those fading eyes was no more illuminating than the anger or pain he's seen in the others. It's getting irritating.
A sharp pain at the back of his knees sends him rolling in the bloody snow. Winded, disoriented, Kenny's arms are pinned at his side before he can raise them. A heavy weight crushes more air out of his lungs, cotton-gloved fingers wrap around his neck, digging into his throat just right. He smiles up at the ghost-pale face peering at him from the starless sky.
"K-Kenny?" Butters whispers, his grip loosening infinitesimally.
"Don't...stop..." Kenny rasps, smiling.
This is different somehow, he can feel it. Kenny has faced death a thousand times, each encounter different but maddeningly the same. There's something unique at work here and he wants to see it through. Maybe, finally, this will be the last time.
Spots dance before his eyes as the life is steadily squeezed out of him. He sees fireworks bursting and in them little flashes of the future, but not his this time. He sees the police finding Mr. and Mrs. Stotch smothered in their bed. Eric Cartman with a faded blue sweater wrapped under his bloated purple face. A dozen others with their air ripped out of them, some he knows and some he doesn't. Stan Marsh will somehow survive long enough to give crucial testimony but he'll choke to death on his own vomit two years before the death sentence is carried out for Leopold Stotch.
A long time ago, when he still had some shred of innocence left to him, maybe all of this would have been horrifying in some way. Instead, Kenny laughs silently through blue lips as a warm, blessedly unfamiliar, comforting velvet wraps around his frayed consciousness