Swagger Like Us

Chapter Ten: I Don't Like It If It Don't Gleam Clean

By: Jondy Macmillan

In the Ferrari or Jaguar switchin' four lanes with the top down, screamin' out money ain't a thang. Bubble hard in the double R flashin' the rings with the window cracked holler back, money ain't a thang. Jigga I don't like it if it don't gleam clean and to hell with the price 'cause the money ain't a thang. Put it down hard for my dogs that's locked in the bang. When you hit the bricks, new whips, money ain't a thang. Come on, y'all wanna floss with us 'cause across the ball we burn it up. Drop a little paper, baby toss it up. Ya slackin' on your pimpin', turn it up. See the money ain't a thang.

-Money Ain't A Thang by Jermaine Dupri ft. Jay-Z-

My masculinity's at an all time low. Who lets their male best friend kiss them senseless and then ditch them like yesterday's news? Seriously? Since when has my self esteem been so low that I actually let that happen?

Don't answer that.

I don't know whether to be completely disgusted with myself or to be grossed out with Stan, or to take it all as some sort of weird ass prank and let it be. So basically, I know nothing.

I hate knowing nothing. The entire Broflovski family is full of busy-bodies and know-it-alls. It's my genetic inheritance, man.

When I wake up the next morning, I'm pretty much feeling like maybe moving out of the country and changing my name is a suitable alternative to ever showing up at work again. Ever.

It's the weekend at least, so I decide to give myself two days to think about it. I mean my French just isn't that good, and my Spanish is limited to what I've learned from Cartman, which basically consists of words that will get me shanked on the streets of Madrid.

About nine hours later, I'm still sitting on my butt surfing google and CNN news and trying to figure out how the world got so fucked up. My mom's been screaming at me to leave my room for the entire day and I've steadfastly refused, with the exception of bathroom breaks and a quick game of war with Ike over lunch.

Being home is like being in stasis. Nothing ever moves forward, and everything feels the same. You know outside this world there's things happening, moving, changing, but here at home, not even the seasons change.

"What's got you all hellfire and brimstone, dude? You look like crap."

I jump to my ceiling, nearly, at the voice emanating from my window. Kenny's hanging on the ledge out there like some kind of specter, lit by moonlight and the back porch lamp down below.

"-the fuck, dude?" I hiss, widening the crack that Kenny spoke through to a full on entrance. He clambers in, scrawny enough and hard enough in all the right places, making it an easy task.

"I didn't want to have to go through your mom. She gets scarier with age," Kenny wiggles his fingers and makes a ghost-story face.

"You could have- oh, I don't know," I drawl, "Called?"

"Yeah, but then you would have been a pussy and screened me. Seriously Brof, don't you know friends don't screen friends?"

"I don't screen your calls, Kenny."

"Liar," he snorts, "I forgive you though."

"Oh really? How'd I earn that?" I ask sarcastically.

He grins, "I was hoping you'd ask. We're going to a bar."

How am I not surprised?

"I don't know, Ken. Tonight's kind of…"

"What, you have more fruitful hours of staring at your ceiling ahead of you? God, this was all having a bachelor's degree would get me, I wouldn't have angsted about not going to college so much."

"You're such a douche."

"And a fantastic drinking buddy, so c'mon. Let's get this show on the road," he jerks a thumb towards the window.

"I'm not climbing out that way."

"You want to go past your mom?" Kenny raises an eyebrow.

"I'm a twenty three year old grownup. I'm perfectly capable of going out at," I check my watch, "Eleven on a Saturday night."

"Well, yeah, but," Kenny shrugs, "She's your mom."

I think it over and concede, "Good point."

We go out through the window.

At the bar I break down and tell Kenny what's what. Mostly because I can't take the stupid jokes he keeps hurling my way in a feeble attempt to make me spill.

The place we're at is a hole in the wall near the old elementary school. It's basically a breeding ground for perverts and hobos, and I doubt a chick has ever seen the inside décor. I'm not really sure why Kenny chose the place.

"Tell me," Kenny goads, "You know you want to tell me!"

"I don't. Really, I don't," I can't stop my cheeks from burning. What the hell is Kenny going to think? If he knows Stan and I made out like a couple of teenagers, will he freak? Plus, I mean, it's not wholly my secret to tell. Kenny's Stan's friend too.

"You do," he urges, his voice almost whiny, "You want to!"

"Look, I'm going to feel horrible if I do, Ken. My conscience will kill me."

"C'mon, Kyle. Consciences are useless. Consciences are what hurt when everything else feels so good," Kenny purrs the last bit.

"You stole that."

"From who?"

"I don't know."

"Then you can't prove it. Quote's as good as mine!" Kenny crows, like he actually even cares about a string of stupid words. He was being goofy just to cheer me up. It's kind of working.

Something about it transports me back to when we were all fourteen and the world was our fucking oyster. I had all these floppy curls and muscles that I hadn't grown into, and Stan wore pants so tight we were scared he'd become a eunuch, the budding jock inside him fighting for dominion over his inner emo musician. He never really did sort that out; even now he's blended, half masculine football player, half guitar strumming pussy.

And then there was Kenny. When we were fourteen, Kenny was a gangly train wreck. He was filthy and devilish and everyone loved him; he might as well have been named Huckleberry Finn. The only problem was, he liked everything too fast; cars, women, even drinking. He was completely out of control.

Then, one day during our sophomore year, he up and settled down. He started showing up for classes and landed a part time job, and even though he knew he was never getting out of town with anything resembling a degree, he worked on making something of himself. It occurs to me that I don't really know how far he's gotten. I think he's taking classes at the community college in North Park, but I don't know what he's learning or even if he likes it.

I resolve to ask him when he says, "So really. What's wrong?"

I'm kind of a sucky friend. At the very least, I can confide in Kenny.

"Stan kind of…kissedme."

"Dude, what was that last bit? Stan missed you?"

"I said," I take a deep breath, "Stan kissed me."

"Oh."

"Oh? That's all you have to say?"

He raises an eyebrow, "Um, congrats?"

"Congrats? Kenny, I'm not fucking gay! And neither is Stan, if the way he bolted after is any indication."

"He'll come around," Kenny says vaguely.

"I can't believe this. I tell you I got kissed, by a dude, and your reaction is oh, he'll come around? What the fuck, dude?"

"What, you want me to act surprised?" Kenny screws up his face into an expression of mock-shock, "Oh my god, Kyle. Stan and you did the tongue twister? Really? Wow, I never would have guessed."

My mind is reeling.

I say flatly, "Except you did."

"Well, that huge ass hickey you got is a big clue in. No chick has a mouth that big," he gives me this look that says 'trust me, I know', and it makes me think I really don't want to know.

I'm still skeptical, "That can't be the only reason you're not putting on your 'o' face and doing a happy dance, Ken."

"That's what you think I'd do in this kind of situation? Have some kind of fangasm and do a jig? You're seriously fucked in the head, Broflovski."

"You know what I mean," I roll my eyes, "Any chance to mock and disparage; you usually jump for the chance."

"While I do think B. Little would be a kickass stripper name, I'm hurt that you think so low of me."

Yeah, still not buying it.

Kenny was tight with Cartman for years before he started to recognize douchebaggery would only get him so far with the ladies. He knows the ins and outs on how to psych a guy into thinking he's safe and then dropping a humiliation bomb.

"Okay, look, this isn't really a surprise."

"Well…" I gape, "Why the hell not?"

"Dude," Kenny slides in close to me, tilting his beer, "I see the way you look at Stan."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm just saying, I see it. And I wonder what it would feel like sometimes."

"What?"

"To be looked at like that. To have you look at me like that."

I deadpan, "You're kidding."

"I'm not."

"You have to be."

"I'll admit it," Kenny murmurs, staring into the amber liquid in his cup, "I'm smitten with you, Kyle."

"Kenny," I warn.

He cracks up, "Okay. I'm kidding. My gay tendencies don't run towards albino Jews."

"Gee, thanks," I consider murdering him.

"I like joggers though," he grins, "Have you ever noticed how some dudes' packages bounce when they-"

"Enough," I clap both my hands over my ears, praying to never hear the end of that sentence.

"God, lighten up Broflovski."

"Can we just get back on subject?"

"Well yeah. But didn't I already say it? I've seen the way you look at Stan."

"I have no idea what you mean by that though. I look at Stan the same as everyone else, Ken."

"False. You totally hero worship him. It's sickening, even."

"I don't-"

"I wouldn't worry though. He looks at you the exact same damn way."

What?

I echo my thoughts, "What?"

"Look, whatever drama Stan's going through- and don't lie, that boy has a lot of fucking drama- he'll get over it. It's what you two do."

What we…do?

He sees my blank expression and continues, "I'll give you the rundown. You and Stan are best butt buddies, right? So you love each other, and then every time you get even a step too close to that realization, one of you bucks and runs like a filly at my uncle's ranch in Tennessee."

"You have an uncle in Tennessee?"

"So not the point, Kyle. Anyway, one of you runs, you bitch and you moan, and then you reconcile like its frickin' confessional time at church on a Sunday. A confessional is-"

"I know what a confessional is you idiot. I was raised in a town full of Christians."

"No need to get tetchy. Jesus, Kyle."

"Your analogy is just so- wrong. It's wrong, Kenny. Stan and I have never been in a fight as bad as the one we just had, and we've certainly never thought about kissing each other before."

"You might not have, but Marsh definitely has. I've seen him check out your ass in the office like, three times since that party in North Park."

"You've only been to the office three times since then," I point out.

"Exactly," Kenny nods sagely, "And he's checked you out every goddamned time."

I take a long swig of beer, because maybe if I drink enough I can drown out every ludicrous word coming out of Kenny's mouth.

"You're wrong."

He shrugs, "If you say so. Say, look at her, man."

Standing outside the bar, barely visible through the blacked out windows is a girl. She's this bombastic blonde with legs that never end and candy apple red lips that gleam like plastic in the neon lights outside.

Kenny turns to me and asks, "Are you going to tap that, or am I?"

Looks like I'm in for a long night.

A/N: You guys rock. Have I said that lately? Your reviews all make me so happy. I hope I can return the favor with this chapter, and you know, the next. I will give you a heads up- I'm using the Wendy angle, sure, but what I have planned (we'll see how if it works out the way I want it to) should be pretty different. It's not going to become apparent for another four chapters or so if I do my job well- but I already did a Stan dates Wendy during the whole course of the story fic, and thus don't want him doing that here. So, no worries on that front- this isn't YCNGB with a twist, it's its own show. Anyway, please review!