Pssst. South Park isn't mine.

Hi. I'm Kenny. And I have a story to tell you.

The first thing you should know is I suck at telling stories. When I was a kid, I usta try to spin together yarns for my little sis, to keep her calm during thunderstorms and whatnot. Never could pitch a good one, unless I was just ripping off something someone else had told already.

'Cause a story's gotta have a direction. That's what gives it urgency, you know? See, I can imagine all sorts of characters and situations and fuck all, but they got to struggle, 'cause that's what makes ya empathize. They got to go through something tough, or you don't got no reason to care what happens to 'em.

Well, anyway, I can never hold up a plot, 'cause I don't know nothing about journeys. Your character can be the hottest thing since Katy Perry or shoot moonbeams out of his asshole, but it don't amount to shit, 'cause they don't do nothing. And if they ain't on a journey, they ain't learning a lesson.

And that's what stories are really all about, see? Learning a lesson. Some kinda moral.

It's the moral that makes the hero. 'Cause someone's gotta learn the lesson first, so the reader understands it. Someone you can sympathize with, so when the hero learns his lesson, you feel it too. Like you done it yourself, even though all you done is sit on your pot and read some book. The hero's the most important part of the story. 'Cause even a pretend hero can save your life with the right lesson.

Maybe I got troubles with plot, but now I got a hero. So I guess I got a story, and that's why I'm telling you. 'Cause even though I ain't like, some 16th century dude in tights or a bearded old folk teller sitting by a campfire—fuck, I can't even grow a legitimate beard—I gotta try to tell you all my story anyway. 'Cause I know a genuine hero, and maybe he could save you the way he done me.

I had this teacher that said good stories don't start at the beginning. They start in the middle, where shit's pretty darn bad, so the reader's attention's caught right away. So I'll skip the whole 'once upon a time' spiel and tell it to you straight. Just the important bits, so you get the idea without me having to talk too much.

We open on this: me thrashing around like a fish on a hook, in a puddle of my own piss, head bleeding all over the sidewalk, and some shithead kicking me in my already broken ribs. Guess you wouldn't know what that looks like. I'll try to explain it to ya.

Picture that homeless guy you sometimes flick your spare change at on your way to the office. Face too dirty to even know what age he is, too dirty to look long enough to try to figure it out. He's wearing rags and yesterday's garbage, dragging around a beat up guitar with like, four strings left, or maybe pushing a rusty shopping cart full of old carpet.

Yeah, that was me. Well, not specifically me, 'cause I don't know where the fuck you live or what poor fucker you're thinking of. But it's all the same anyway. We've all got the same damn ugly face. We all ask you the same question with our Styrofoam cups and cardboard signs.

Pity, we're begging for your fucking pity.

And we do get a little bit, rarely ever totally ignored, 'cause even though no one gives a shit if a bum dies, no one wants to watch one die right in front of them. They wanna be able to sleep on the idea that they're not responsible, 'cause they did SOMETHING, even if it didn't add up to more than twenty cents. Not your job to fix the problems of the world, but you have to at least give a damn to sleep on a clean conscious. And apparently, damns are given in the form of dimes, nickels and pennies dropped in Styrofoam cups.

So like, anyway. I'm not looking too hot. Dirt and blood and sweat all over my face, bare feet lashing out blindly, 'cause I can't even fucking see who's kicking the shit outta me, and I'm screaming like an animal 'cause I know I'm about to die in the streets. And even though I never expected to last long out here anyway, I'm pissing myself with fright 'cause when it comes down to it, I really don't wanna die.

I start to see white instead of red behind my eyelids, and I know I'm done for. Like seeing the heavenly light or some shit. Bit of a relief that soon I'd be outta here one way or another, though it struck me as odd, 'cause you know. Heaven. Never figured on going there. But whatever, I saw the light, and so I figured God maybe just forgot about the shit I did that made me hell-worthy. Seemed likely. I forgot half the shit I did.

But as I'm preparing to meet my Maker, I hear this way high pitch voice, all nervous and squeaky, but angry as I've ever heard 'em. Seriously. It was like a pissed off mouse or something.

"Leave him alone!" the Squeaker shrills, "You-you better leave right now! I'm warning you!" He sounds like a squirrel trying to boss around a German Shepard. I tried to open my eyes to see what was happening, but they were swollen shut good. No dice.

"Fuck off," the guy (whose boot is still half buried in my abdomen) spits back, "nothing to see here, fag. Just move on before I put a hole in your nosey little ratface."

"N-now see here!" Squeaker's voice gets all indignant, "I'm going to call the cops! So you better stop that right now!"

"I said fuck off!" the repetitive jabs of pain cracking against my ribcage stop, and I gasp in relief. I hear the guy's boots crushing the gravel as he swivels to face the Squeaker. I feel a trippy mixture of guilt and gratitude. 'Cause I know that Squeaky's probably going to get his face beat in for trying to help me. He doesn't sound like much of a fighter to me, either—he's fucked.

But even when Douchebag-Formerly-Kicking-Me turns on him, Squeaky doesn't run off like he damn well should. I listen for the footsteps retreating in the opposite direction, but don't hear anything. So, I'm thinking, dude, he is either dead, or he's the stupidest damn squirrel in the tree.

"You fuck off!" that high pitched voice cries out, "you're going to kill that person down there, and I ain't gonna stand by and watch you murder him!"

If I could talk at that point, I would have asked him what the fuck he was smoking. Maybe helium, the crazy fucker. You don't just…

"That's it! I warned you! I'ma carve your face in, you little faggot!" Formerly-Kicking-Me takes some thudding steps towards my now doomed savior, and I try to crawl away. Don't judge. Hey, the guy's risking his life so that I might survive. May as well take advantage.

"You're gonna regret sticking your nose where it don't belong," he says and starts lumbering forward again, "gonna teach you a damn lesson. I—"

But just then, sirens sound, and Squeaky's, and my, asses are saved. The big guy mutters, "god fucking DAMN it," under his breath and takes off in the opposite direction.

And Squeaky? He lets out a big old sigh of relief. Yeah, guessing he knows that in one more second and he woulda been hamster food. And me? I'm trying to use one arm to drag myself over the sidewalk. My fucking ribs hurt, my head feels like it's been used by little kids for a Pewee soccer match, but all I know is that I sure as shit can't hang around here. Because, dude. Cops.

"Phew. Close one," Squeaky's voice approaches me, "are you okay?"

I internally roll my eyes and don't bother answering.

But then, I feel his hands reach for the pulse in my neck, and I give up trying to crawl away. Too tired now anyway. His soft fingertips brush under my chin and I try to get a look at him, but get an eyeful of blood instead. So I just lie there and let him do is thing. Maybe he'll go away.

"You're bleeding."

I cough instead of chuckling ironically. "N-n," I hack some more and taste blood, before continuing with a grimace, "No crap."

"You shouldn't talk," his voice is soothing somehow, full of concern, nice and quiet. Least I think that's what he said. Ain't sure, 'cause I'm going in and out of consciousness, black and red trading places before my eyes.

I cough some more, pain shooting up my sides. I clutch my ribs; fuck—my chest feels like it was run over by a tractor. I wonder if there are any bones left unbroken.

"Don't worry," Squeaky's voice says, all fuzzy and far away sounding, "we'll get you fixed up in no time."

He says some more things, but I can't keep track of it. The world loses its sharp lines and starts to go dark, and I fade out, blessedly into blackness.

So that's how it started. I know you probably already got some questions you're just dying to have answered. Well, chill out. I'll tell ya, just be patient.

All you need to right now, is that that's how the Squeaker saved my life.

What I should point out to you is that I had no idea who Squeaky was at the time. He saved my ass for no good reason. And he risked his life to help me, and that's not even what I really mean when I say he saved me.

And he did it without even knowing my goddamned name.

But you'll see. Just relax, and it'll all become clear. For now, I'll tell you what happened next, 'cause I got a lot more story to tell, and time's a-wastin'.

I wake up feeling like crap. If you've ever had a hangover, you might have some idea what it was like. I had the headache….well, really, the everywhere-aches, the stomach pain, the nausea…but also, breathing hurt so much I nearly cried when I made the huge mistake of trying to like, inhale. Which doesn't usually happen just from throwing back one too many…and if it does…the fuck man, what are YOU drinking?

"Fuck!" I gasp a breathe like fire and try to grab my abdomen, but find my arms full of assorted needles. I feel kind of green at the idea, 'cause this one time, I saw a movie about vampires. They put needles in people and used 'em to suck out all the blood, so they could bank it away for later. But when I actually open my eyes and take everything in, I ascertain that I am in a hospital, not a vampire lair. Which might have been preferable, 'cause fuck, it's bright in here. I wince and shut my eyes again.

"Morning," I hear a familiar high pitched voice, "oh good, you're awake! Although…I don't think you outta move too much. You had five broken ribs and a ruptured liver."

I blink and squint in the neon white hospital light.

"Who the fuck are you?" I rasp dryly—my voice sounds a million years old. My throat hurts, too, and suddenly I'm dying for a glass of water.

"I didn't want you to wake up alone."

I snort, or attempt to, but it sounds more like a wheeze. Squeaky pats my shoulder sympathetically as I hack away, and I give up trying to talk. Hurts too much—I'm already out of breath.

"I want to help you," Squeaky says like it's really that simple, "And-and I'm Butters, by the way. Butters Stotch." I turn my head (which turns out to be more difficult than it sounds) and let my eyes adjust to the light.

That's when I get my first good look at this guy, Butters. Little blurry at first, but when things straighten out, I can see him clear as day. One look and I already know everything about this dude. Got this apologetic expression on his face, eyebrows knit and mouth small and tense. That expression is probably a permanent fixture by the look of him. Freckles and blonde hair sticking out every which way. Not a button out of place, and he's buttoned all the way up his neck. Straight slacks, shiny shoes—he looks like one of those guys that sell bibles.

…This is the guy that stood up to the mindless muscles about to smear me last night?

"Name's Kenny," I grunt, bewildered.

Also, the fuck kind of name is Butters?

"It's nice to meet you, Kenny," Butters says warmly, then fidgets uncertainly for a moment. "Are…are you feeling better today?"

"Better," I break off, coughing again—it feels like being stabbed in the ribcage,"…better than dead."

"Aw geez," Butters looks upset, "can…can I get you anything? Water? A nurse?"

"Water," my eyes widen appreciatively, "fuck…please. Water."

Then he pulls out this big old bag, and I'm like, "man purse, much?" But he ignores me and shuffles through it, and it must have a lot of shit in it, 'cause it takes him awhile before he looks up again. And when he does, he's got a water bottle. It practically shines heavenly light, and I ain't kidding. I've never been more grateful for a drink in my entire life, which something coming from an alcoholic bum.

"Here," he says holding it to my lips. He squeezes out a few drops into my mouth, and the cool beads sliding down my throat is the fucking essence of relief. I seize the bottle gulp the whole thing down in a few seconds. When it is finished, I sigh and pat my water-bloated stomach.

"Thanks," I look gratefully at this Butters, who takes the empty bottle and sticks it back in his gay-ass man purse.

"Better?" he asks. And I'm a little waterlogged, but shit yeah I do.

I nod.

"Good," Butters smiles, and fuck—he really smiles. His whole FACE smiles, you know?

All lit up bright and shiny like a goddamned Christmas tree. I stare for a few seconds, cause I can't even remember the last time I saw someone smile like that. 'Specially at me.

I settle into my pillows, let my eyes drift shut. As I do, Butters pulls something else out of his sack.

"What's that?" I ask, not bothering to open my eyes

"Poetry," he explains happily, "Why, I thought I'd, uh, read it to you while you heal up? We can do a chapter or two a day. It'll make the time go quicker."

"You're going to visit me every day? What the fuck? Why?"

"I-I already told you," Butters says, "I don't want you waking up alone."'

Thanks for reading! This will be updated regularly, so don't forget to come back to look for new chapters.

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…Just saying.