Leftovers
Summary: Kyle's a little less than amused when Kenny's not dead after all. If the rules of the universe don't apply, then what else has Kyle been wrong about all these years? K2, M for language.
Disclaimer: I just make awkward plotlines out of Matt and Trey's stuff. I own nothing.
I'll be the first to admit I didn't tackle the issue with nearly enough grace. After all, I did kind of make it seem like a joke. So while I was contorting madly with happiness in the snow outside, Kyle was probably inside thinking he'd lost his marbles or contracted Mad Cow or something like that. I'm sure that's how Stan saw it, at the very least.
But, in the meantime, I was in a state of disbelief. Kyle had been home mourning me, for christ's sake. Looking back, that was funny. If he ever got over the fact that I may very well be the living, breathing undead, I could use that in any instance of blackmail against him.
I laughed at my own stupid ideas for a while, until the sky was saturated with a murky grayish-black cloud covering and the sun went down. Although I really should've been getting home for what certainly would've been another dinner of back-yard beef (I haven't seen the neighbor's cat in a while, if you catch my drift), I was kind of compelled to sit complacently in one place for the rest of the night. Yeah, sure, actually staying in Kyle's yard overnight would've been fuckin' weird, but something in me wanted to take in the fact that for once, for one odd moment in my usual shitfuck of a day, something uncanny happened. It was surreal, and almost cool enough for me not to sound faggy.
Eventually, I forced myself up and walked home. Though I'd just got decked a few times, and locked out of the Broflovski's place, I considered myself extremely lucky and was in a heightened mood. Maybe I'd luck out again, and it'd be a fast food night.
Or, scratch all of that, and I'd lose my house key on the way home and would have to break in through the window. Hey, story of my life.
But I was halfway done with getting the screen off the frame when I heard someone (or more likely, a something) approach me from behind. Instinctively, I made for a crotch shot, because if it was a dude, I'd get him in the balls, and if it was a girl or an animal, they'd at least be pretty annoyed.
"AGH— motherfucking— KINNY!"
I watched as Cartman took to the ground, and started rolling around like he was in a goddamn fire. Well, there went my good mood.
"What the fuck, man? AUGHH you killed me!"
I ignored him and looked to his right, and suddenly became very glad I didn't hit Butters instead. It would've been like punting a puppy or something. He offered a meek smile, and seemed to be carrying a fat wad of pamphlets. He wasn't wearing a tie or a bike helmet though, so at least that was a good sign.
"Well, hi Kenny," he offered, sneaking glances at Cartman who was yelling out something regarding testicle insurance. "Sorry if we scared yuh or anything."
I gave him a "hey".
"Kinny. Kinny, listen to me—" Cartman barked, still on the ground. I wasn't about to help him up, if that's what he was expecting. I honestly don't think I've ever had enough upper body strength for that. "Okay. I'll forgive you for PUNCHING MY SACK if you'll join me for a moment of conversation. Listen."
It was that obnoxious sort of business-voice he used every once and a while, when he wanted something. Okay, well he always wanted something, but that's aside from the point.
I unwillingly gave him an "okay", like I always do. I learned a long time ago that it was better to let him talk and get it over with than to bother saying no. And I really wanted to get this over with.
"Okay, get ready for this. Are you paying attention? Alright. Picture this: thousands of children dying, Kinny. They're so hungry. They're calling your name!"
I tried not to roll my eyes or anything. Cartman was waving a hand in midair, and I was really wishing I could get inside faster.
"They're so hungry, Kinny! I mean, okay, come on, you of all people should know what that feels like," he said flatly. "But what? What's that? You can SAVE them? You can SAVE the children?"
I looked at Butters, who was captivated. I assumed Cartman used the same speech on Butters a half hour ago to get him to hold the pamphlets.
"You can feed them, Kinny! In fact, I have a product here that will revolutionize South Park AND get rid of the homeless Mexicans down by the drugstore, and half of the proceeds will go toward kids in Madagascar! How wonderful, right Kinny?" He nudged Butters in the side, and I was handed a tri-fold advertisement for some sort of pesticide.
"So, what am I supposed to do? Buy this shit?"
"Okay, look," Cartman said, dropping his salesman charade. "I need fifty dollars down on this. You'll be an investor, and I'll get some startup."
"No way, dude." I pulled at another corner of the window I was slowly tearing apart.
"Kinny! Look how many times I've helped you. You totally owe me."
"For what?"
"I bought you that concert ticket that one time, remember?"
"I bought that."
"Nuh-uh! I went on Ticketmaster and everything. I even used my credit card!"
I didn't bother recounting the fact that I'd used my own money for both our tickets. And I paid that money to the National Bank of Fucktard, so we could use his debit account. I didn't even bother asking why Cartman had a bank card at age eleven.
I popped off the screen and was working on getting the glass pane to slide up when I decided I was running out of patience. Normally, I can take extended doses of Cartman, but for some reason I wasn't expecting it to be him behind me in the first place. I don't know, I guess I had this weird idea that it'd be Stan or Kyle. It wasn't a hope, really, it was just that I thought they'd want more of an explanation out of me.
Then again, I'm sure Kyle wouldn't explain anything to Stan that made him look like he was going insane. He'd probably force himself to swallow his pride completely, and if that was the case, he'd never talk about any of this weird shit ever again. I didn't want that to happen.
Not until I had an answer.
In the meantime, I was stuck with this fatass until I could duck my way into my living room.
"E-Eric? I don't think Kenny's that interested. I'm sure we could find the money somewhere else," Butters said, twiddling the corners of the pamphlets.
"Goddammit Butters, shut up! Don't give him the option."
"I already said no," I told him.
"Kinny, you're going to pay me back for all the times I helped you and your welfare-cock-sucking family, and you're going to do it tonight!"
"Fuck off." I hoisted myself up into the open window frame.
"Fine!" Cartman spat, his hands surrendered to the air. "Fine, Kinny! I'll go home! I'll stop wasting both our fucking time!" He made a sort of angry spasm, and kind of looked like he was about to regurgitate an alien before he turned to walk back toward the sidewalk. "But don't think this is over! Fuck, Butters, hurry up!"
I've known Cartman for ten years. Once I was completely inside my living room, I reached under the end table and grabbed my dad's pellet rifle.
Cartman turned around before he left the yard. "Mark my words, Kinny! I'm giving you fair warning! I'll be back when you least expect it, and you better have my cash for me by then! You hear me?"
I smiled as my first shot grazed his ear. He made some loud noises and directed a few 'fucks' at me before I shot in his direction again.
I've known Cartman for ten years, and I knew he'd be back as soon as he'd had dinner, and maybe after an episode of Maury. I slid the window shut.
I really just wanted to sleep, and as much as I would've liked an actual meal, I toasted a pack of off-brand Pop Tarts and headed for my room. Seeing Cartman's ridiculous gut, which had only managed to grow proportionally with his height, sort of took away my appetite. And having him beg for money from me, of all people, only took away my patience. I'd had a really long fucking day.
The gun I'd been messing with last night was still on the floor, and I kicked it toward my closet. It came to a rest against the wood paneling with a hard thud, followed by two more thuds from throwing my shoes off. Normally, seeing my dad's household weaponry wasn't that big of a deal to me (at least not since elementary school— back then, I actually went the extra mile to prevent myself from dying, so sharp objects and automatic glocks tended to freak me out). But for some reason, I really didn't want to deal with any of it today, unless it was necessary to fend off Cartman. Otherwise, I wasn't in the mood.
Was it because I was feeling a little better today than I was the day before? Yeah, so shooting myself was a stupid idea in retrospect, but it wasn't like anything bad came from it. It wasn't like I was depressed or anything. I was just, well, apathetic.
A pang of guilt took priority over my hunger, and I leaned back into my bed. Of course I didn't want to look at the goddamn gun— I'd already thrown Kyle down a black well of unwarranted grief. And despite that, I felt very selfishly happy over the fact that he'd missed a whole day of school because of it. Would Stan have done the same? I wondered, seeing if the same sort of happiness would come from imagining that scenario. And when it did, I felt really sick for enjoying it.
I bit a mouthful of Pop Tart and pulled at the bedspread. Okay, so I was becoming a sadist. That was the explanation. I simply enjoyed the idea of Kyle, or Stan, or anyone really, crying their fucking eyes out because of me. I'd figured out that much . . . until my conscience kicked in again, and made me feel like shit.
I sighed. No, I could never really enjoy Kyle's grief. Not for long anyway.
I figured I'd have to apologize to him tomorrow, if he still acknowledged the fact that I had "come back from the dead" and accepted that he wasn't balls crazy.
Yeah right. He probably wouldn't ever talk about it again.
And then I heard a noise.
My doorknob suddenly twisted and my door jerked open, and my concentration was drastically interrupted when I rolled sideways off my bed to avoid whatever weapon Cartman surely had with him this time around—
"Kenny?"
I had half a Pop Tart sticking out of my mouth, and I was under my bed. I'd nearly asphyxiated myself when I realized it wasn't Cartman.
"Kaiihhr?" I managed to hum through all 200 calories of my S'mores Sensation, staring back at Kyle like he was Lord Buddha himself.
"Um— is this a bad time? Or should I?—"
"No," I quickly said, freeing my face of all things toaster pastry. "I mean, no, I thought you were Cartman."
"Why would Cartman—" he started, but he quickly raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "Never mind, I'm not even going to ask."
I hesitated for a moment, unhooking the sleeve of my parka from one of the bedsprings, and slid out from under the mattress. I wasn't sure why Kyle was here in the first place, and I wasn't sure how the hell he'd managed to get in my house (when I had to break in through the freakin' window), but it all felt incredibly convenient.
And then it immediately felt incredibly awkward.
"So, then . . . " Kyle started, looking much better than he had the first time I saw him today, but still like he needed to vomit. A few hours ago, I'd laughed in his fucking face. I took one look at him and felt horrible all over again.
"So," I agreed, if you could really agree with a word like that. "What, um. What's up?"
Kyle didn't make eye contact, but he checked the time on his cell phone before doing anything else. "I wanted to apologize for earlier. For, you know, locking you out and everything," he said, diminishing in volume and not bothering to look up from his Evo (sure, he just got the damn thing last week, but he couldn't have been that invested in it, could he?).
"Oh," I said, sitting back down on the edge of my bed. "It's cool." I unintentionally watched him pocket the phone. He glanced around the room, and I did too, even though I see it every day. "You want a coke or something?" I asked.
Kyle's line of sight rested on the gun by my closet.
"I think we only have diet, though," I continued, though my eyes locked on the closet too. "It's all my mom buys, since it's usually on sale—"
"Kenny."
I shut up.
"What did I see last night?" Kyle asked quietly.
I didn't say anything right away, but I broke off the corner of the other Pop Tart that was still on my nightstand. "You saw me being stupid. That's all."
"Kenny," Kyle said more deliberately this time, and my throat tightened. Even though I've told the guys thousands of times, even though I've insisted I've died thousands of times, it was hard for me to bring it up this time, right now. "Kenny, I saw you die. I saw you die, Kenny."
"I was just being stupid, that's all—"
"Kenny! Will you answer me seriously?" Kyle said, louder than I was expecting. "I don't know if this is some sort of joke to you, but I know what I saw!"
I didn't say anything. I'd seen Kyle angry before, but this wasn't angry. I didn't know what emotion this was.
"Well," I finally started, "I guess it is a joke to me. Or at least a joke on me." I shrugged, giving a half-hearted smile like it was an apology.
Kyle parted his lips, like he was going to say something, but retracted the statement and stared at me. It made me kind of uncomfortable, really. "Why are you still alive?" he asked in a hollow tone.
When I finally gained the courage to look back at him, I immediately felt the weight in his eyes. One— two— three seconds passed, and I shrugged again.
I thought he wouldn't like my answer. I thought he'd get fed up with my awful explanations, or lack thereof, and leave. I thought at the very least, he'd study me like I was a goddamn insect for any sign of an answer or clue, or glare at me like I was withholding information. But he didn't.
He didn't do anything.
I sat patiently, albeit with unease, until he said something. And that took longer than I wanted.
"Stan doesn't know."
I hummed a not-word in response.
"He doesn't remember. He doesn't even have a record of me calling him last night after it happened." Kyle shifted his weight. "He doesn't even have my number in his call history, Kenny. Nothing. It's like— well, it's like," he said, apparently stumbling for the right words.
"Like it never happened?" I asked with an inappropriate grin. "Sounds about right."
Kyle finally made eye contact. "Why?" he asked. "What the fuck are you, Kenny? Some sort of alien?"
I almost laughed. "Poor as shit, underweight, devishly handsome, occasionally homosexual, and an 'accident' according to my mom, but an alien? No way," I said. "Well, not that I know of."
Kyle's expression was still greatly contrasted to my own. I dropped the smile. "Look, I wish I could give you an answer. I wish I had one. But the point is, I have no fucking clue, and for some reason, you're in on it now." I shook my head in disbelief. "You're the first to remember."
Kyle eventually nodded, and took in a big breath before speaking. "Okay. So you can't die."
"Nope."
He sniffed at some loose congestion.
"Great." He moved toward my nightstand and broke off a piece of my leftover Pop Tart. "And for some reason, I know about it, and nobody else does or ever will."
"Probably. Yeah."
Kyle, who still looked like an utter wreck, leaned against my bedroom wall and raised an eyebrow. "Alright." He took a bite, and chewed it in our mutual silence, staring straight ahead in his acceptance of all that was sheer madness.
I didn't dare say anything after that, but something inside of my chest cavity loosened up. I guess, somehow, we'd just come to terms with the fact that Kyle wasn't insane, and my life was eternal and shit-filled. Kyle hadn't cried since the afternoon, and I should've been in a casket by now, but hey, that's life. Horrible, terrifying, filled with lethal objects and illegal substances.
I was going to ask Kyle what time it was, since my clock battery died weeks ago, but he spoke first.
"Wait. Homosexual?"
And then I was going to give him some jackassy sort of answer, but I died first.
Cartman threw a brick through my window, and it cracked my skull.
Hey, it happens.
A/N: Was gunna get this written/online earlier, but my laptop decided to crap out on me. Hooray technology!
