Kay, it's a kinda long chapter, but I suppose it doesn't warrant being divided into two parts. ... It's wordier... wordier? No way that's a word. Andywhoo, it's got more words than I had anticipated. But it's, like, my favourite chapter so far... but chapter... 8? 9? One of the two... that chapter is truly frightening... the plot will indeed thicken.

Kyle Broflovski found school painfully easy. He was at the top of every one of his classes, tied only with Cartman in World History, Wendy in Law, and Gregory (attending SPH because Yardale was "sharing" their students with "lesser" schools) in pretty much everything. All of his classes seemed idiotically simple. Except for one. One class confounded him with its methods and practises. One class that no matter how hard he tried, he just could not master it. As far as Kyle was concerned, this one class had been created for the express purpose of torture.

Art.

Sure, he enjoyed the class; all the scratching of pencils on paper and the swish of paintbrushes against canvas was profoundly soothing after a day of academic brainwork. But he just couldn't do any of it. When asked to draw a realistic animal, Kyle had ended up drawing something that resembled a spiky pile of mud with one large eye (he had, in fact, been attempting to draw Stan's dog Sparky). When asked to shape something out of a lump of clay, he simple ended up scratching a face into the block's surface. No matter the project, however simple or childish, he could not seem to get a grip on it. Everyone else in the class seemed to have no problem with the complex techniques that the "artistically impaired" teen (as his art teacher had so tenderly put it) couldn't wrap his brain around. It bothered him greatly that everyone in his class – including nasally, sarcastic, UNCREATIVE Craig Tucker – was doing better than him. His was only thankful for two things about his otherwise dismal art class. 1. Eric Cartman was not in it. 2. Kenny was.

Kyle would swear on his own life that the filthy minded teen was an artistic genius. Every last piece that the blonde did screamed professional, so much so that Kyle demanded he do an entire project in front of him so he could make sure that he wasn't sneaking off to have someone else do it. The angry redhead soon wished that he hadn't said anything, for, within minutes, Kenny had produced a "rough" ("Rough my ass," Kyle had said), and startlingly realistic, pinup sketch of Red.

"I could colour her, too…if you want." He said, gesturing to the skillfully shaded drawing.

"N…no…" the Jew answered, defeated and fearing further embarrassment. "It's fine as is…"

"Alright…" the blonde had shrugged and looked up from the drawing to stare at Kyle," now stop staring at my girlfriend." With that lighthearted comment, he rolled up the paper and took it to his art drawer at the back of the room.

Kyle pulled himself out of the memory as he reached the worktable he shared with Kenny at the very back of the large room that has once been an auto class, and sat across from the current one. With a sigh, he heaved his stuff-to-the-point-of-breaking satchel (which everyone oh-so-lovingly referred to as his "man purse") on to the table and began pulling out his art supplies. One extra large sketchbook filled with poorly drawn animals and written conversations between him and Kenny about their heavily-accented Russian teacher who looked suspiciously like a man ("Is that a hair?" "A hair? U crazy? It looks like a forest of hair!) A large pack of barely touched Prismacolours (except for the peacock blue, which had been worked down to an unusable nub) that he set gently on top of the sketchbook. Finally, he pulled out an eraser, a sharpener, and a pack of presharpened-to-perfection pencils, all of which he set delicately beside the pencil crayons.

Once everything was set up exactly how the moderately OCD teen liked it, he looked up to glance around the still-empty room. He was always the first person there, unless Kenny had a project he wanted to finish, in which case he appeared to simple materialize in the art room after his fifth period English class. Kyle had come to expect it in the open level classes that he took; people frequently signed up for classes like art because they were searching for an easy credit, and very few cared enough to actually show up in general, let alone on time. After him would usually come Butters and Kenny (unless the latter pulled his after-English disappearing act), laughing and joking in hushed tones. They had become very close since their intermediate years in grade school, and frequently turned to each other for help when their family situations got particularly bad. Kenny was also the only one out of their little group of friends who hadn't said a thing against the smaller boy when he was having trouble "discovering" himself.

As Butters walked through the classroom door by himself, Kyle realized that Kenny wouldn't be showing up. He would have suspected something was up at lunch, but he had gone straight from English to the library to type up a science report that he had forgotten to do over the weekend. He hadn't even stopped to talk to Stan after class.

With a tired groan, Kyle put his head down on the table. He was having conflicted feelings about his constantly upbeat friend's absence. On one hand, it meant avoiding awkward situations and highly confusing feelings… but on the other hand… well, Kenny wasn't there. He continued to wallow in what could only be described as self-pity, entirely forgetting the reason he had been so eager to talk to Kenny earlier on.

He carried on in such a way until a high, musical sound reached his ears. It was a sound he knew all to well, and belonged to the reason for the majority of his odd behaviour.

Bebe Stevens.

Kyle slowly lifted hiss head up off of the paint-splattered table to stare at the door, which was where the laughter was coming from. Sure enough, the curly haired blonde (blonde, blonde, blonde. Why was everyone blonde? He had no luck with blondes!) came bouncing into the room, talking animatedly to Wendy. Her black jeans clung to her hips, which seemed to dramatically flick from side to side every time she took a step. The red blouse she wore cinched and flared in all the right places, and was unbuttoned dangerously low, leaving little to the imagination. The quiet nerd (Cartman's words, not his own) had no idea how he had ended up with her.

He also didn't know why she was there. She hadn't been in World History, so why would she show up to art, the class she almost always skipped? Yet there she was, her soft ringlets bouncing as she threw her head back in an exaggerated display of laughter. The light that shone in from the window across the room (for their were windows everywhere in SPH, allowing ample light in and leaving the children to stare forlornly out at that which they were missing) seemed to focus on her, reflecting off of her hair in an almost meaningful glare. Kyle imagined she was what an angel would look like.

An angel of death… he thought bitterly to himself after a moment of awestruck puppy love. He remembered that he was mad at her for cheating on him with Clyde. Of all the people on the world… Clyde! He reeked of tacos and new shoes.

Bebe continued to laugh and swing her hips all the way over to her desk in the opposing back corner. The now-angry redhead watched her from his table, grinding his teeth and balling his fists – both angry coping mechanisms he had learned from Kenny. He wasn't particularly mad at his girlfriend; she had simply begun to follow in her mother's footsteps, and he brain cells appeared to be dying. He was mostly mad at Clyde. Everyone knew about the Broflovski/Stevens relationship; it was almost as well known as Stan and Wendy's precarious pairing (which their friends had affectionately named Stendy). He knew that they had been drinking, but that knowledge didn't ease the pain. He still expected them to show at least a little common sense.

Kyle felt betrayed. He felt isolated and used. Bebe was the first girl that Kyle had every really felt anything for (he didn't count the home schooled girl, because her brother was evidently crazy). In fact, Bebe was responsible for a lot of Kyle's first. He attended his first real party as her date. His first drinking binge (and subsequent hangover), his first kiss, first date, first relationship, first… time. And now, his first broken heart.

At least, he knew he was supposed to have a broken heart. But all he managed to feel was a dull throb and a sort of hollow anger. Lost in his thoughts, he didn't hear Butter's carefully pull back Kenny's chair and ease himself into it.

"Hey, Kyle!" the much too chipper blonde piped, startling his friend and causing him to jump. "Ken's n-not here today, huh?" his bright expression wavered and he began to bump his knuckles against each other, a habit he had been trying (unsuccessfully) to break. "Well, I-I went to his house this mornin', 'cause we always walk to school together, a-and Karen, his little sister… well, shucks. I bet you already knew that. "Kyle did know Karen; Kenny had brought her to his house once when Stuart was going on some sort of drunken rampage. Guessing that Butters had nothing really important to say, he went back to stewing in his confusing swirl of emotions. Unaware that he had lost his only listener, the boy in the turquoise sweater continued speaking. "She told m-me that Ken was sick. An' I thought that was awful weird, 'cause Ken never gets sick." It was true – despite substandard living conditions, the poverty-stricken teen rarely fell ill. And, when he did get sick, he'd come to school anyways so he could avoid his parents. "When I asked if I could go in an' see 'im – he does that for me, y'know; visits me when I'm sick – Karen shook her head and closed the door real quick. I thought that was awful strange, too. What d'you think, Kyle?" Butters looked up from his work to look at the redhead, only to find that he was staring across the room at Bebe. "Kyle?" he repeated, frowning.

The teen started at the second urging, looking away from the preoccupied girl to acknowledge Butters. "Huh?"

"Well, gee, Kyle. If ya didn't wanna listen, you shoulda said somethin'. I probably l-loked awful dumb talkin' to myself…" the quiet blonde looked scorned as he continued to bump his knuckles together.

Kyle's heart always stung when Butters looked as he did then. He knew that the timid teen had lived through plenty of tough times – currently at the hands of his parents and, years ago, at the hands of Kyle and his friends. Everyone tormented Butters. Everyone but Kenny.

Kyle's stomach flip-flopped itself up onto his ribcage at the though of the two unfortunate teens and their seemingly never-ending kindness.

"Sorry, Butters," he managed through the increasingly apparent lump in his throat. After swallowing a few times and clearing his throat to the point of wanted to vomit, he sat straight up in his seat and faced Butters. "My mind was elsewhere…" slowly, a though wormed its way into the teen's head. "Say, Butters… you have a class with Bebe, right…?"

Hell wasn't really as bad as everyone kept saying. It really wasn't. Kenny's theory was that, after years of torturing souls, Satan basically said, "fuck it – let's party".

Sure, there was the fire, brimstone, and people in chains that the preachers warned everyone about… but the fire was great for s'mores, the brimstone was great for getting the smell of vomit off the streets, and the people in chains generally enjoyed it. Hell had houses, streets, stores, and one slimeball fast food place that always seemed to be full (Kenny knew it was just an illusion, and that the food was free if you had the brains to skip the line to the counter).

But the part that the perpetually dying blonde found most surprising was where he constantly woke up. Everytime he landed in Hell, he'd wake up in an absurdly plush bed in a room postered with scantily clad and naked women. The rest of the house was similarly decorated, and the fridge was filled with enough alcohol to kill a man several times over. Kenny always wished he could stay forever.

The blonde's eyes snapped open to stare at a ceiling as familiar as the cracked and water stained one he woke up to at home. He leisurely stretched and glanced around the room at all of the posters and pictures. Though some were rotting or mutated (Zombie and Demon porn were big in Hell) Kenny adored them all. They were always there for him. With a grunt and the snapping of many joints that had evidently settled into their positions, he sat up. Looking down at his newly uncovered body, he realized he was completely naked. It didn't surprise him much, considering he always woke up naked in Hell. He was certain that demons were stealing his clothes, but kept his mouth shut for fear of sounding like Tweek on the subject of the accursed Gnomes. After pulling himself out of bed and into a pair of clean boxers (orange, of course), he made his way over to the closet and slid open the door.

The closet always amazed Kenny. The thing was so full of clothes (arranged by colour in a rainbowesque pattern, with an abnormally large orange section), that the financially challenged teen had to take a moment to take it all in. His eyes roamed over the impressive selection, seeing everything from suits to shorts. Almost involuntarily, he reached out and grabbed a multi-article hanger that held four pairs of orange shorts, each of varying lengths. He unhooked a pair of board shorts with multiple pockets and slid into them. He was closing the door when he noticed a sleeveless orange hoodie with brown faux fur around the hood. He pulled it over his shirtless torso and sauntered down to the main floor.

Bottles clanked as he dug through the fridge for a simple coke.

Time moved in weird ways in Hell. By the time the blonde had found his drink and opened it, Kyle was waking up Tuesday morning.

Kenny whistled some unknown tune a she reluctantly left the air-conditioned house to brave the summer heat of Hell, drink in hand. At first he walked aimlessly, observing some shameless couples humping like dogs in the streets. Eventually, he found himself on Damien's doorstep. The two Hellbound boys had become close friends after a preteen Kenny repeatedly shows up at his house looking sad and lonely.

"Hey, Ken," the black haired teen held the door open with a smile. Kenny was no longer bothered by the other boy's natural appearance, simply seeing the small horns, spade-ended tail, minute wings, and forked tongue as part of his friend.

"Hey." He returned the smile and slinked through the door into the thankfully cool house.

"What happened this time?" Damien asked, pointed tail twitching. Despite what everyone said, the Son of Satan was a gossip whore.

"Dad" Kenny replied simply, shrugging. "I have a few questions for you, dude." Blue eyes were cast down in embarrassment at having to discuss the most chick-like of issues.

Emotions.

Being utterly immune to awkward moments such as the one he was currently in, Damien flopped onto the couch and motioned for the shamed blonde to continue.

"Well… you and Pip are an item, right?" he sat in a plush armchair facing the couch, forearms resting on his knees. His friend nodded, eyebrows raised with intrigue. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Y'know… stay together. You're stuck down her 7 months a year, so it's obviously not because of the sex." Kenny's confusion was plain as he struggled with the concept of a not entirely physical relationship.

Damien snorted and laughed before finally calming enough to answer the question. "Easy," he said, smiling. "I love him."

"What?" Kyle asked as Butters finished. "What do you mean?" he twisted his paint brush anxiously between his fingers.

"Ye-yeah…" the blonde stammered, rubbing his knuckles against each other once more. "She said she wuh-wasn't sure if she loved you or Clyde more. I'm real s-sorry, Kyle." He bit his lip nervously, fearing any anger his recon may have incurred.

"Me… or Clyde…" the redhead wrinkled his nose at the thought. "Are you sure that's what she said?"

"Yup." Butters mumbled, sounding a bit more confident after apparently deeming Kyle unlikely to explode.

"Okay. Thanks Bu-" Kyle's expression of gratitude was cut short by a stern-looking man hitting the front desk with a weather-worn cane, demanding silence.

Kenny stared at the large, blank television, attempting to figure out exactly what Damien had meant. He had said that he loved Pip, and that was how they stayed together.

"Love…" the shaggy-haired blonde tested the word by saying it out loud, allowing it to linger in his mind for several minutes. He was certain the he didn't love Kyle. But he did like him. Did he like him enough to love him? He had never even said the word before. Not even to Karen.

Karen.

An image of the small, brown-haired girl flooded his mind's eye. She was scared and crying, tears cutting paths through the thick grime on her face.

Karen.

Her name pulsed in his head like the beating of a ritualistic drum. She was looking at him, tears slowly stopping, stuffed cat swinging almost imperceptibly at her side.

Karen.

She opened her mouth and began speaking. Kenny had to strain to make out what she was saying. One word repeated over and over again. Chanted to a familiar tune. A name. His name.

Kenny.

He barely had time to prepare himself for The Pull.

Kenny.

The Pull was horrible. It felt like a harpoon hitting Kenny in the guts and dragging him upwards. He would know; it's happened to him

Kenny.

His vision began to flicker, and he knew it was a matter of seconds before he was torn from Hell.

Kenny.

His head swam and he began to feel sick.

Kenny.

The harpoon pulled hard.

Kenny.

And everything went black.

Yeeeaaaaahhhhhh... ._. This story looks like it's starting to run away from me, and that frightens me. Eventually, the characters will be the ones writing the story and I'll just have to let them. You can't control rampaging South Parkians. Now REVIEW. REVIEW. R.E.V.I.E.W. REVIEW