Conspiracy — Style

"And now! For the president of the United States of America!"

Cheers echoed wildly through the air as the announcer stepped back to allow the forty-eighth president to take the podium. The president—a pale, lanky, red-haired man—waved to the crowd, a grin plastered on his freckled face, as he stepped up to the microphone. He was just about to speak when a bullet ripped through the air and cut into his shoulder, sending everyone into a frenzy.

"Mr. President! The president's down! Secure the area! Move, move!"

A raven-haired bodyguard ran to the fallen president's side. "Mr. President? Mr. President, are you okay?" he demanded as soon as he reached the ginger-haired man. He elevated his pale leader with his arms so as to get a better look at the gunshot.

The freckled ruler's eyes fluttered open when the black-haired man called his name. "Yes... Yes, I'm fine, Stanley," he tried to assure the man. He attempted to hoist himself up, but winced at the pain that shot through his arm when he put pressure on it. However, he didn't want Stan to see that he wasn't actually okay, so he gritted his teeth against the pain and lifted himself up the rest of the way. "I'm alright, don't worry," he panted, smiling gravely.

Stan's eyebrows furrowed with worry and he lowered his voice so the other agents that were rushing around the two couldn't hear him. "Are you sure, Kyle? You look like you're in a lot of pain," he whispered, addressing the freckled man by his first name.

Kyle waved Stan's distress away with the flick of his wrist. "Oh, calm down, Stan. I'm fine, okay?" His eyes softened when he saw how worried Stan really was about him and he hugged him with his good arm. Stan, taken aback by his friend hugging him despite the fact that his arm was hurt, tentatively hugged him back. After a second, Kyle pulled back and queried, "Now do you believe me?"

Stan nodded although he was still a little uncertain. He's known Kyle long enough not to argue too much which him, but that still didn't mean he couldn't worry silently about him. "If you say so, Kyle," he murmured, despite his thoughts.

"Would you two get the fuck up and come on before whoever shot at Kyle tries to finish the job?"

The pair jumped at the sound of a voice behind them. When they turned to see who had spoken, they came face-to-face with the crotch of a still-unknown man. They looked up, twin blushes creeping across their noses, to get a better look at the man in a way other than one that could called sexual. This time, their gazing heeded better results, and they realized that the man had light brown hair, with matching hazel eyes, and was stout in stature. He wore a light brown suit with an even lighter tie, and he seemed quite annoyed at something.

"Yes, we will, Eric," Kyle answered, ignoring the man's obvious agitation. He stood up (quite painfully) with the help of Stan, and he leaned heavily on the raven-haired agent's shoulder. "Stanley here was just checking on me, is all."

"Well, it seemed more like some kind of faggy scene in a movie," Eric scoffed, rolling his eyes. He glared at his red-haired superior as if him getting shot had somehow pissed him off, then turned around and walked off without another word.

Stan and Kyle watched the retreating form of the vice president silently, then Stan murmured, "Come on, let's get you to a hospital."


Stanley Marsh and Kyle Broflovski had been friends for as long as they could remember. They'd met in first grade after the Marshes had moved to a small, country town in the mountains. Stan had just had a bad bout of the cold that turned into pneumonia, and was still rather weak. The air from the big city wasn't helping his condition any, so the family of four moved to where the fresh air and calm atmosphere resided to see if that helped him in anyway.

Stan's family had moved into the house next to the Broflovski's, so it was only natural that the two began to hang out. They were so much alike – they even enjoyed playing the same games and eating the same foods – so that only added to the blooming friendship. They shared a class every year up until middle school, in which they rarely shared a class other than gym. When high school rolled around, they shared a few more classes, and they had free period together.

It was at this time that the two began… experimenting. Stan had long ago come out that he was gay—much to nobody's surprise—and Kyle… well, he did everything and anything he could to spite his bitch of a mom. From fucking everything that moved to flunking his tests to getting high after school in his bedroom. You think it, he did it. Of course, his mom would always find out somehow, and of course, she always grounded him for it. But, in all honesty, that never stopped him. If anything, it made him spite her more.

Okay, so Kyle had already done some experimenting, but that was to piss his mom off. What he and Stan did was a different story. They did the things they did because they had feelings. Not the I'm-so-horny-let's-fuck feelings; the I-need-to-feel-you-against-me-now-because-I-love-you-so-much-and-need-you feelings. Of course, the two never really considered what they're feelings meant, but they skipped classes—and sometimes school altogether—just to explore these feelings.

College slowly crept up on the two, and they parted ways, much to neither's pleasure. Stan joined the police forces in Washington D.C., and Kyle made himself a name in business and politics. He eventually earned himself the title as 'Governor,' then moved on up the ladder to 'Senator,' then, after so many years, he earned him the topmost title in the country—President. Stan, on the other hand, also made himself a name, except it was in the career of crime fighting. He eventually got accepted into the CIA after years of hard work, and he climbed up the stairs to 'Executive Director.'

When Kyle started to run for president, he and Stan met up for the first time in ten years. They discussed how the other had been doing for the past while, and went out to a bar to celebrate their success. Of course, the two got drunk.

oOo

"You know, Stan," Kyle slurred after his umpteenth shot of scotch. He set his glass down and looked fuzzily at his black-haired friend. "I want to make a pact with you." His cheeks were flushed from drinking so much, and he hiccupped every-so-often. Stan merely gazed back, his gaze nearly as fuzzy as his red-headed friend's. "If I become president, then you have to work as a bodyguard for me."

Stan stared blankly for a second, blinked, blinked again, then said bluntly, "What?" It wasn't like he hadn't heard his once-upon-a-time-lover, he just merely didn't comprehend what the ginger was asking.

"I want you to – hic – be my bodyguard if I become president," Kyle repeated in the same cool and collected manner as before. He moved his hand to rest on the raven-haired man's and squeezed it gently. "Please?" He looked at Stan through half-lidded eyes, and Stan sighed, giving in to his friend's pleas.

"Alright, Kyle," Stan agreed with much disdain. "If you become president, I'll be your bodyguard."

oOo

Of course, Kyle became president and Stan stuck by his word. Even if the two had been drunk, Kyle had somehow miraculously remembered their little agreement. Stan was quite sad to leave his job as Executive Director—it paid well, after all—but he didn't mind all that much after thinking about it for a little bit. He got to spend as much time as he wanted with his friend and not be called a fag for it (not that he cared, mind you), plus being the bodyguard of the most important person in the country had some awesome perks to it. You got paid extravagantly, had complete access to the White House's many great rooms and pools, and all the food you could wish for. Stan, of course, actually found it pretty cool to work for the president, and has worked with him since.


Stan stood next to Kyle (who had just gotten his shoulder cleaned and patched up) as he was questioned on what had happened when Kyle had been shot. Normal questions like "What did you see just before the shot was fired?" and "Are you sure that's all you remember?" basically summed up the whole interview. It wasn't long until the officer/CIA/FBI/whatever-they-were left and left the two alone.

An awkward silence passed between the pair, and it was Stan who broke it. "Is your arm feeling better?" he queried, slight worry clinging to his otherwise-harmless words. Kyle blinked, a bit confused at first, then nodded.

"Yeah, it doesn't hurt as much now," the ginger answered, lifting his arm (which was in a sling) to look at it, and sighed. "I don't see what's the big fuss. So I got shot? Woopdy-fucking-do." He sneered at his injury, as if it could make the wound disappear.

Stan looked at his boss, stunned. How could he say that? "Kyle, you almost got killed! Of course it's a big deal!" he nearly shouted in frustration. Kyle just merely looked at him calmly, and the raven-haired man's anger immediately subsided. That red-head had such a controlling gaze… No wonder he became president. "Sorry," Stan apologized. "I… When you got shot, I was scared for your life. I mean, we're best friends, right?"

Kyle patted Stan's arm understandingly. "Of course we are, dude," the ginger assured his bodyguard. He smiled at using such informal speech after so long. "Super duper best friends until the end; you know that." He linked his good arm in Stan's and started out of the room. "I won't be dying on you anytime soon; you can be sure of that."

Stan smiled slightly at Kyle's comforting words. 'You can't promise that, though,' he thought sadly. Then he steeled his thoughts against thinking like that. 'Maybe not, but I can believe him, and if I want that to be true, I'm going to have to find who tried to kill him in the first place.' He listened quietly to Kyle telling jokes that weren't proper for young ears and came to a resolve:

'I'll find whoever hurt Kyle. And when I do… I'll make him pay.'