Chapter one: Too busy dying again
AN: Ah, the first chapter (2742 words). Maybe the plot (what there is of it) starts up a bit slowly in favor of purpleness. If so, I do apologize. Hopefully I can hook you into reading with some witty banter instead (or clever author's notes). Otherwise, just try to enjoy. And please don't get confused by the story title yet. It will become clear... hopefully.
DISCLAIMER: Undo safety switch before use. Aim away from the head.
It was the wind again. It never failed. Five thirty in the morning. Nails of wind, cold as death, creeping through creaks into the attic. A stirring beneath a tattered blanket, then another. A frustrated groan and a shifting of cloth, and a boy emerging from his bed. Eyes fluttering pointlessly through the darkness, he cursed the wind for tearing him from his dreams.
Sensing his way through the black, he found the clothes that cover his frame. A hoodie, its orange cloaked by yesterday's dirt, assuming the color of smoldering embers. Jeans of a tattered fabric, holes at the knees a reminder of their previous owner.
Alone, the boy would be sitting at the breakfast table, fooling himself into believing his meal was something it was not- edible. He would imagine the whiff of steaming pancakes, doused in ample syrup. He would try to solidify their taste as frozen milk lashed at his throat, triggering an inevitable frostbite.
He glanced at the only photograph in the room. The frame kept two muddy boys, shoulder-to-shoulder and smiling broadly, the smaller of them presenting a gigantic fish. Glancing at the photo, Kenny took a letter from his front pocket. He read the words he knew by heart, and it was with effort that he kept himself from shaking.
Pounding on the door. Loud pounding. Sound that nobody but the most inconsiderate of bastards would let ring at this early hour. Kenny ruffed, put back the latter and tapped it, then answered the noise. He was instantly greeted with a "morning asshole,"
He gave his burly guest a shove. "Keep it down, Cartman. My sister's still asleep."
The visitor's features contorted as he walked in, as if the smell of this home was too horrid for him to keep a straight face. "The fuck dude. She still has the AIDS or what?"
"Shut the hell up, fatass. That isn't funny."
"Sure it is," Cartman eyes darted for things to insult the tenant with, "just not as funny as, say, the holocaust," he proceeded to snicker like a broken record plate. "Good times, man. Good times."
Kenny jerked away and grabbed from the corner of the room his backpack, the smears and tears of which were sloppily patched. "Don't jizz yourself over it," he opened the bag and selected his books.
Cartman halted at the cupboard, opening and closing its doors with considerate force, intent on having them come loose. As he did he hummed. "Kenny thinks he's tough but he's hella underfed, livin' on a junkyard with a dead girl in his bed, In the ghettoo-" his drawling 'o' was cut short by the momentum of a trigonometry book.
"Fuck's sake skank," Cartman rubbed his redding cheek, "forget about your ride then, ungrateful bastard," and he gruffed back to the door.
"Do that, and I'll tell the principal who it really was that wrecked her office," Kenny bend over to pick up his book, pushing Cartman out of the way.
Cartman huffed. "Make my day. Bitch ain't got nothing on me," but he made no further steps towards the exit.
His shoes had barely more substance than a pair of slippers. He wrapped on a flimsy jacket before he ushered outside. They sat down in Cartman's car, a birthday present from his mommy. The ogre turned the radio to max volume and sped off, making sufficient noise to wake up everyone in the vicinity.
"Dude, you want to skip first period and have a smoke?" Eric had to yell to be heard over the aggression from the boombox.
Kenny leaned hard into his seat, getting as far from the speakers as he could. "No way. I have to at least try to visit some classes, or I'll be expelled."
"It's only history. You're never going to pass it anyway. That teacher totally hates your guts."
"I'm not skipping," Kenny punched at the radio to turn it off. "You go ahead if you think that makes you cool."
"Woah, did they nail your ass another chastity ring?" Cartman rolled his eyes, tearing them from the road they should be focused on. "'I'm not skipping'. Bitch shows up for two classes a week but oh no, he's not skipping."
"I have my stuff to do, fatass. Unlike you, I still have some goddamn ambition."
"I don't know what your poor-ass parents taught you," Cartman stepped on the gas and they sped up, Kenny's skull slamming against the headrest because of it, "but huffing paint and jacking it to Penthouse – not ambition."
"Go die somewhere," Kenny cast his gaze towards the window, meaning to spend the rest of the car ride in silence.
Cartman double-parking his wheels surely would have ignited the junior girl driving right behind them, if it wasn't for the fact that Eric Cartman was the biggest, meanest looking senior around. Easily over two-hundred pounds, he sported a studded biker jacket and skull rings with several dents. His massive frame was emphasized all the more by the skinny kid trodding next to him. Understandably, the girl decided she might as well take the spot a few yards over.
Eric grunted a "see you at recess" and walked off to the back, where he would go and poison his lungs while Kenny sat in history class.
It actually was his favorite subject. No, you wouldn't expect Kenny to have a 'favorite subject', but he did. That wasn't, mind you, because his teacher was such a charmer. Eric was right: The gent did hate him.
"Mr. McCormick, can you tell me why the liberals thought the working classes deserved to be exploited?"
Way in the back of class, Kenny's attempts to blend in with the many propaganda posters along the walls seemed to have failed. The teacher spot him, and proceeded to assault him with the kind of question that will get you lynched in the bigger part of the world.
What was there to say?
"No, sir," Kenny admitted softly.
"I see," an indulged smile played on teacher's lips, "I suppose you were too busy dying again to learn your history, Mr. McCormick." He chuckled at his own joke.
The girl a seat in front dared attack the comment. "Mr. Locke, I ought to inform you that your question hints of political bias, and should be rephrased."
The teacher jumped, as if somebody had thrown a brick at him. The accuser took a deep breath and continued. "Furthermore, Kenny's special conditionhas been acknowledged by the board, and is not to be subject to skepticism."
As she let out a self-righteous puff, Locke gathered himself. "Of course," he muttered, turning his back to the chalkboard and intently glaring into the field of students. "I suppose that maybe you and Kenny, could explain that to the principal, Miss Testaburger."
"Excuse me?"
The teacher lifted himself with all the authority he could muster. Which, admittedly, was an impressive amount. "I will not allow anyone to interrupt my class, or lecture me on matters they hold no say over. Not even you, Wendy. Go!"
Wendy rose, fighting the urge to shrink away from Locke's compelling stance in favor of opposing this injustice. However, when she realized Kenny was packing his books and about to stomp out, she decided to follow suit.
Once they were out in the hallway, Kenny spun towards her. "Great going, Gandhi. Now you got us kicked out."
Wendy flinched backwards, the nicks of outrage deepening on her visage. "Take it out on me, why don't you?" she slightly spread her arms, palms pointing to the ground. "I'm on your side. That man has no right to single you out like that. It isn't fair."
"Shock to you, sugar pie, but life isn't fair. It never has and it never will be. Accepting that tends to take the edge off it."
Her features recoiling, the girl was left with parted lips and uncertain breathing. "Well, we better just head to the principal's then."
"You go," Kenny grunted, "I'm out of here."
"No you're not," she grabbed the escapee by the sleeve. "You're going there and you're going to tell her about this."
"Why the hell would you care?"
"Because I do," she defended simply.
"No you don't," Kenny shook his arm to make the girl let go. "I know this trick. You need a bad guy so you won't take the heat."
As she considered this, Kenny broke free of the hold and sped off.
He escaped through the back door and met up Cartman, who was smoking well enough alone. When he saw Kenny he grinned. "Well well well. Glad to see you came to your senses."
"Yeah whatever," Kenny shrugged, and pulled a cigarette out of his pocket.
Kenny McCormick had his first cigarette at age six, when he stole one out of his brother's coat and managed to light it. Kevin had been furious, earning the infant a bleeding skull. He gave it another try at age eight, but when the entire town raised Cain over it he was quick to stop. Then, at twelve years old, Cartman had confronted him, and had practically been jamming cigarettes down his throat till he was addicted to the habit.
Nowadays, it was only natural. Smokers were outcasts, and outcasts were smokers. His fingers were black and withered anyway, and the sight of a cigarette between them just felt... right.
"What made you come out here, anyway?"
Kenny looked up from his stick, glancing at the mass of lard sticking to the wall. "That bitch Testaburger, man. Threw this hissy-fit right in the classroom which got me kicked out."
Cartman gave a snicker, dropped his cigarette and jammed his foot on top of it. "I hate that slut. You watch yourself, po'boy," he gave the other a warning finger, "she's totally wet to have you."
"Fuck no."
"Fuck yeah. Just you wait. She'll get you," Cartman lunged himself forward, mimicking a sudden abduction, "and before you know it you're the new posterboy for some kind of ghetto awareness rally."
"Sounds fun," Kenny interjected sardonically, his brow knitted to deeper pondering.
"Like hell it is," Cartman leaned back into the wall, sparking up another cig. "Being Wendy's new project. I'd rather suck Heidi Turner's saggy tits."
"You'd be sucking those right now if it wasn't for your girlfriend."
"Yeah right," Cartman shot. "Tramp can kiss my black ass. I told her, if I want to bang other ladies, she better not call a squirt of shit on it. We agreed on that."
"Because she knows no other girl will ever have you, fat-for-brains."
Cartman teared open his jaw, but was interrupted by a weak ringing. The bell above them used to out an ear-splitting noise like oncoming apocalypse, until Cartman got fed up with it and smashed the thing to pieces. Now, a pitiful whine was the only thing to signal them for recess.
Soon the rusted backdoor swung open and let out a third boy. We know him as Draik, last survivor of the former 'Goth Kids' (bringing a gallon of vodka to a drive-in cinema in Denver is totally nonconformist. It is also stupid). Draik had quit using red dye on everything he owned, but still abhorred getting a haircut. His greeting to the others was minimal, and with an audible moan he sat down on the garbage container stacked against the wall.
The amino of the forth smoker was far better. He walked onto the lot, grinning broadly from beneath his navy chullo, and gleefully nodded at the three. "Dude," he addressed the orange, "Wait till you see what Rebecca's wearing today. She'll be here to check out Stan's new wheels, and she's looking fine."
Cartman raised an eyebrow. "That's what you're so faggy about, Craig? Fuck, how sex-depraved are you?"
Craig raised a finger at the tub of lard, then shot both hands in the pockets of his coalblack jeans, practically skipping on the spot. "No it's not, fatass. I'm happy because I got decked with detention, and I have this badass firecracker with 'mischief' written all over it," he lifted a lighter from either pocket and flicked them both, judging which one cast the larger flame. "Any of you losers doing time too? You'll have to check this shit out."
Draik took a long drag from his own cigarette, his eyes never flickering. "Not me. No way will the Machine trap me into its thought control."
"I'll act like I know what the hell you're saying. Kenny, you?"
"Maybe. Depends on what went down at-" he was cut off as Craig threw the more violent lighter on the floor, where it shattered with a bang.
Cartman lifted his head, puffing out his cloud of smoke. "Well look there. There comes Fags Incorporated now."
They all turned to see a large group of peers coming around the building. It was Stan and Kyle walking the front, alongside Token, who was liked for his charisma and ample money. Right behind, a large flock of girls, including Bebe, Rebecca and Wendy. On the outskirts were Clyde, Tweek and Jimmy, happy as pumpkins they were allowed to hang with these most splendid of chums.
Of course, noticing the spot of green looked at peace, Cartman had to step up; he had to yell, in his most burly tone: "Oh snap. Somebody call Hitler. I think I've spotted another one!"
While his friends were more than willing to step up, Kyle, the jewish compadre, remained stoic. He never even looked for the source of the insult, knowing full well what he would see. Cartman never relented, making snides about grandma Broflovski's gassed body being violated by dogs (a thing which, regrettably, did happen).
Craig patted Kenny on the elbow and pointed somewhere in the passing group. The other howled; wheezed like a dog in heat. Falling on his iris was Rebecca, or Red, no doubt the hotter girl of the group, dressed in her new, semi-revealing purple tank-top and fur-lined skirt.
"What'd I tell ya," Craig puffed, "I'd sure like a piece of that."
"Hell yeah," Kenny chimed in, "I know what I'm jerking it to tonight."
Draik blew a puff of smoke onto the others' faces. "Get real," he moaned, "skimpy clothes are just another tool for the Machine to get to you."
"The Machine can bite me," Kenny declared, "and so can she. I like it kinky."
Cartman had moved on to insulting the Jew's ex-girlfriend. Kyle still didn't get visibly worked up, but Token and Stan were still taking the precaution of restraining him. Behind, sun-blonde vixen Bebe was berating her firehead gal-pal for being too sexually liberated, raven Wendy nodding in half-agreement.
"One day," Kyle omened, "one day he will get what's coming for him."
Stan led the lot back inside, keeping a grip on his buddy's shoulders. In his calm, almost hypnotic tone he helped his friend keep his cool. "Just don't let him get to you. That's what he wants."
Cartman snickered to himself. It was quite the feat, how Cartman could laugh so malicious; so without mirth.
It should be noted that although these guys separated themselves from the 'main crowd', they were not necessarily outcasts. All right, maybe a little, but they didn't interact with the others in a Jets-n-Sharks way. If, however, there was any hostility between them and the rest of their year, surely Cartman was to blame.
The rest of the classes were a little better. Kenny did visit most of them, Cartman did none. When the day was over Kenny shot out like a bullet from a barrel, on his way before anyone, especially Cartman, could catch up with him and see where he was heading.
He wasn't quick enough, because soon he found he was being followed. Hot on his heels, calling out to him, was his first-period savior, Wendy Testaburger.
