A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed/favorited/followed my story! I wish I could send all of you baskets of kittens. I hope this chapter will be more interesting than the last.
"Ready to hit the bars tonight?" I open the door to find two people- one of my very best friends and a complete stranger- standing outside my apartment.
"Oh dude, Kenny, I don't know if I can." I'm lying right now, but I really need a night to myself. So I'm a bad friend. Whatever.
Kenny's wide, hopeful grin dissipates almost immediately into a look of disappointment. Or possibly disgust; I can't really tell with him.
"Sorry. I really need to stay in to work on my book. I haven't touched it in a few days and well, that's not good," I mumble. As if my half-assed, although somewhat true, excuse lets me off the hook for being flaky. I've always been a bad liar. Kenny can tell I'm lying.
"You can come in," I barely have the chance to finish my sentence as Kenny, and the girl latched onto his arm, push past me. Kenny wrinkles his nose.
"I always forget how small your apartment is, Kyle."
I shrug. It is small. Luxury isn't cheap these days.
"You would probably have more space in a refrigerator box!" He laughs good-naturedly.
"Who's your friend?" I ignore his smartass remark and gesture toward the young, brunette woman equipped with a vacant stare, smacking loudly on a piece of chewing gum.
"This is Misty." He leans forward a bit. "She's the one I told you about." The girl nods slightly in my direction before absentmindedly focusing her attention at her extremely interesting fingernails. I'm starting to wonder how mentally present she is. I shake my head 'no' and give Kenny a confused glance. This is the first I've ever heard or seen of this girl.
"The one I've been staying with since I got here."
Okay, now the light bulb's gone off. Randomly two weeks ago, Kenny called me in excitement and told me he was moving to New York. I had offered to let him stay with me, even though my apartment is barely enough room for one, but he said he was staying with someone else. I didn't even ask why he was coming here; Kenny is like a ninja, always on the move. I should've known that this "someone else" is his latest girlfriend. I mentally try to come up with the number of girlfriends Kenny has had since college (at least the ones I know about) and lose track almost immediately. It's typical of Kenny- always a charmer with the ladies and a lot less shy since he shed that hideous orange parka like it was some kind of exoskeleton.
Ladies. Not really my thing. Men, either. Dating in general is just way out of my comfort zone; it was junior year of college that I began to consider myself asexual.
"So. How ya been, dude?" Kenny and Misty situate themselves comfortably on my sofa, and I turn my desk chair around backwards to face them. I raise an eyebrow at his question.
"Since I saw you two days ago?" I sigh. "Same…meaning not as well as I hoped."
"Kyle." He speaks with confidence and ease, but it's hard to overlook his admonishing tone. "You're doing that thing again where you're being an overachiever. Don't do that!" he says dramatically. Misty giggles.
"That's one of the things I love about you, Ken."
She smells like old cigarettes and piss, which I'm assuming is actually some really awful perfume. I'm inwardly kicking myself for letting this garbage into my apartment. Once again, I ignore his comment and smile brightly at his companion.
"So Misty. What do you do…you know, in life?" Besides Kenny, that is. I'm expecting nothing less of a total airhead answer.
"Not much. I'm nineteen years old and a high school dropout, hun." She pops her gum loudly. Of course she is. At least she answered my question, kind of. She's eyeing me fervently now- making me extremely uncomfortable.
"Say, you ever tried a threesome?"
She can't be serious. Apparently Kenny doesn't think so, either.
"Wha- Kyle?! You've gotta be kidding me!"
She shoves him lightly. "He ain't so bad lookin'."
"Sorry babe, but you don't know him like I do. If he's ever had a passion for sex, he hasn't shown it."
"Kenny." I sigh under my breath.
"My bet is he's still got his V-card." Kenny is clearly amused at my slight embarrassment.
"Godammit, Kenny. I'm right here!" There are no hard feelings; Kenny does this to everyone. Hell, if I was actually in a relationship, he would be pestering me for all the nasty details of my sex life. We chat for a few more minutes, sharing our various hardships- I lament my lack of publications ("I'm a fucking fantastic writer, yet no one wants to publish any of my work!"), and Kenny offers as much consolation as he possibly can. He really is a great pal.
"What you probably need is better ideas."
I wonder if my eye-roll is noticeable. That's exactly what I need to be doing- taking advice from a moronic, trashy high school dropout.
"Seriously though." Misty holds up a poorly manicured hand- really, almost half the polish is completely chipped off- and bites her lower lip. "Have you tried brain-enhancers?"
Brain enhancers. Fucking hell. I'm unsure how to respond. "Oh no, it's more structural problems than…lack of ideas."
"You know because I know someone that can help you out. Here I'll give you his info, but don't tell anyone you heard it from me, 'kay?" She pops her gum again and starts scribbling on the back of an old receipt that she dug out from the depths of her over-sized handbag.
"So he's your drug dealer," I say bluntly.
"He's my pharmacist, sweetheart. Perfectly willing to negotiate, too." She hands me the receipt. "And a real looker if you ask me."
An address is carelessly scrawled across the bottom of the receipt with a name above it- Ichabob Marley. Pharmacist my ass. This guy is a goddamned drug dealer.
"W-what's he look like?" I don't know why I even ask- felt obligated to, I guess. She pauses.
"I never seen his face. I'm only guessin'. Sounds rugged as hell but a perfect charmer." She's practically wetting her pants just thinking about this guy. I shoot Kenny a glance as if to ask, "doesn't this bother you?" If not for the fact that she's never seen his face clearly, I would've been willing to bet Kenny's girl had slept with this Ichabob Marley character a few times.
"I don't think this is a very good idea," I say sharply. Misty frowns.
"Think you're too good for this, Shakespeare?" She laughs curtly. "I know your type. Always thinks he knows more than me just 'cause he didn't grow up in some trailer." A flash of fury crosses her, and for half a second I think that maybe I judged her too harshly. Half a second, and then I'm back to hating her.
"Aw, come on Kyle." Kenny speaks with such reassurance, as if he's done this a thousand times. Probably has. "You need to chill out. Have some fun. It's just one time. And between you and me-" he lowers his voice- "only certain people get addicted!"
I hate to say it, but after we've all said our farewells and I'm alone again, I briefly consider it. But I suppose it doesn't really matter right now; my focus is honed in on the prospects of returning to South Park. Stan's party. All my old friends. And my family. I clench my jaw subconsciously at that last memory. I haven't spoken to my mother since we stubbornly argued over my career path. Apparently having a writer for a son isn't good enough for her. I pace my apartment for a while, a strange and annoying habit I'd picked up from God knows where- most likely a reaction to stress. I eventually find myself in the kitchen, which is never without full supplies of Dr. Pepper, gushers, and easy mac. I'm 23, and I still shouldn't be allowed to do my own grocery shopping.
"Shit," I mutter as I flop down on my bed and stretch my long arms behind me.
My thoughts gradually return to Cartman. For one ephemeral second, I consider googling his name to see if he pops up on a most wanted list or something- the mere thought makes me smile to myself. It's a little frightening- mostly to myself- but I've gotten insanely good at laughing over other people's misfortunes. As my stream of consciousness lends itself from one thought to another, my mind wanders into some formidable territory, and well, it starts to get dangerous when I think too much. I start to get anxious; I can't sleep. I pace my apartment some more. And that's how I find myself at the doorstep of one, Ichabob Marley. What am I so afraid of? This guy's name is so stupid. He couldn't have come up with something a little more original than that? What an asshole. As I approach his doorstep, I continue to think awful things about him- only as a defense mechanism to force myself to go through with it. Guess I'm the real asshole.
A/N: More craziness to come in the next chapter! Feel free to leave comments and/or critiques! =]