Stan pounded on a yellow door with the adhesive numbers 204 peeling off right above the peephole. It was about 11 a.m., which seemed early considering Stan was nauseated and his head was throbbing. The cherry-red Rayban Wayfarers he was wearing (a 22nd-birthday gift from Loren) weren't effective enough against the sun. But Stan had lain awake all night, conjuring torturous visions of poor Kyle having his stomach pumped. (That was easy enough; Stan himself had been subjected to such a thing, the night he graduated high school. He'd chugged four 40s of Coors, sucked Butters' cock, took two shots of Jack, watched Kyle strip, watched Kyle jump off the Volmers' deck into the pool, another four shots, and blacked out in Mrs. Volmer's geraniums. All within two hours. Without eating. Epic.)

While caught in the haze of reminiscence, the yellow door flew open; Stan found himself facing a chubby girl — woman, maybe? — with fried-looking bleached hair, limp and straight. She wasn't wearing pants or anything, just a threadbare T-shirt, advertising the Park County High School spring production of Company. Stan recognized this the musical that was performed at his high school when he'd been a sophomore, but being able to neither sing nor dance nor act had prevented him from participating. Kenny, on the other hand, had been on the tech crew. Indeed, Stan could tell that this was Kenny's shirt, the one that was splattered with brownish bloodstains on the collar from when Kenny dropped a buzzsaw while attempting to make a wooden bong. (In retrospect, it was a stupid idea.)

"Who're you?" she croaked.

"Stan," he answered. "Um, Stanley Marsh?" He wondered why he said this as if it could be an open question.

"Oh. What from the bar last night."

"Yeah." Stan strained to steal a glimpse into the apartment, Kenny's apartment, around her, but she shifted so he couldn't. "Is Kenny home?" he was forced to inquire.

"Yeah, he's here." She sniffed. "Why, you owe him some money? You can give it here." She stuck out a clammy hand with the words toilet paper smeared across it in magic marker.

"I don't owe him any money," Stan corrected, batting her hand away from him. Women like this made men like Loren seem all the more appealing. "I'm just looking for him. We're friends."

"Oh, friends like that other one I bet," she sneered. "Kenny's in the shower. I'll let you in and you can wait for him. But if I catch you doing any freaky shit I'm calling the cops."

Stan could hardly believe she'd call the police. Trish probably already had a criminal record, and Stan reminded himself that Kenny was, in fact, a drug dealer. As Stan shut the door behind him, rattling the venetian blinds as he did, the reality of the situation sunk in: grease-stained carpet that looked as though it had not been replaced in decades; the television was blaring an episode of True Life, the same one Stan had caught his father watching when Butters brought him home the night before. The apartment stunk of Windex and canned pasta. Stan was already trying not to throw up, and the stench didn't help.

Declining to sit, Stan crossed his arms so he could avoid brushing against anything accidentally. "So," he said, listening to the shower running from behind a thin wall. "How'd you and Kenny meet?"

She flipped some hair out of her face, plopped down on the couch, and reached for what looked to be a ball of yarn with two plastic knitting needles plunged through the middle. "I work at the Peppermint Hippo. Well, used to," she corrected, clearing her throat. "Maternity leave."

Stan could barely tell she was pregnant. Or that anyone had been willing to pay this woman to take off her clothing. "When did you guys move in together?"

She laughed a laugh that made Stan feel stupid for even asking. "I don't live in this dump! I live with my parents in Conifer. You think I would raise a baby in Kenny's fucking shithole in fucking South Park? I just sleep over sometimes. What kinda low-class bitch do you think I am?"

It took a moment for Stan to realize he should not answer that question.

When Kenny materialized, his hair was dripping wet, and the shoulders of his T-shirt were soaking. "Hey," he said with a wave. "That was some crazy fucking shit last night."

"Kenny," Stan growled through clenched teeth. "You fucking son of a bitch."

Stan barely had Kenny in a chokehold before Trish clocked him in the back of his head with the remote control. It hurt, but Stan didn't care; he was busy slamming Kenny's head against the drywall.

"Stop it!" she shrieked. "Aw, why every time someone comes over they want to kill you, Kenny?"

"I have a propensity for getting killed, I guess," Kenny choked out. Then he kneed Stan in the thigh — not hard enough to seriously hurt him, but Stan let go and doubled over anyway.

"I'm too hungover for this shit!" he panted.

Kenny pushed himself up to his feet. "You know what you need?" he asked. "Something greasy that'll give you a heart attack. Some thin diner-brewed coffee. And probably another drink."

Hoisting himself up against the couch, Stan nodded. "Fine, fine."

"Trish!"

She put her hands on her hips and said, scowling and deadpan, "I'm right here."

"Oh, hey." Kenny flashed her a smile so bright, Stan was certain it was going to blind everyone in the room. "We're going out for a while."

"Well, my mom's coming to pick me up at 2."

"Then I think I'll just miss you," Kenny replied.

"Godammit!" she cried, kicking the couch, right next to where Stan was sitting. "Kenny, you know she wants to talk to you!"

Kenny shrugged. "So? I'll talk to her later, baby."

"Gah!" Trish stormed out of the room, making the entire apartment shake.

"Cool," Kenny said, bending over to grab a pack of cigarettes from the nearest of the wooden crates that together, formed his coffee table. "Now we can grab some food. And talk."

Stan groaned. He was so sick of talking.

XXX

You could still smoke at the Main Street Diner, and that was why Kenny picked it. The waitresses had more inches of hair piled atop their heads than teeth left in their mouths, and they didn't seem to mind the hours-long shifts of customers' cigarettes seeping into their bouffants and yellow smocks. Half of these girls — the menus affectionately called them this, as in "remember to tip your girl," as if a single one of these women wasn't a grandmother — smoked themselves, while on shift.

Stan and Kenny's girl had a cigarette, unlit, dangling from her mouth when she came to take their order.

"I'll buy," Kenny announced with bravado, looking Stan directly in the eyes like he had something to prove.

"I can buy my own $7 sandwich," Stan scoffed.

"Whatever, whatever." Kenny shrugged and handed his menu to the waitress. "Corned beef hash with two eggs — runny yolks, totally dripping, basically raw, like I want salmonella. Cheese on top, biscuit on the side. … Better make it two biscuits." Kenny finished his order by winking at the waitress, producing a lighter from the pocket of his puffy vest, and lighting her cigarette.

"And for you?" she asked through a mouthful of curdling smoke.

Stan thrust his menu into her face. "Surprise me."

Kenny rolled his eyes. "Don't be a shithead. Just order something."

"I'm not hungry."

"He'll have a cheeseburger," Kenny told the waitress. Her purplish hair was threatening to tumble down onto her shoulders. "Fries and coleslaw. Oh, double the coleslaw. He loves coleslaw."

She looked at Stan, as if to ask, really? And Stan just nodded back. He did love coleslaw.

They used to come here on weekends, smoke themselves sick, and drink glass after glass of root beer. That was in middle school — when they got older, they preferred to get high in Butters' basement and then roll down the street to the diner, usually without inviting him. Then Stan and Butters had begun their tryst, or affair, or whatever — whatever one calls secret gay sex with someone he doesn't actually like at all — and Stan felt bad about not inviting Butters to come along. But there were more important things to think about on those weird nights — sometimes Stan snuck into his parents' room and dug his dad's flask out of the sock drawer, bringing it along to dump gin in his root beer. More than once he'd vomited in the bathroom. Once after a party at an older kid's, he caught Clyde going down on Red in the men's bathroom. They'd had to move so Stan could barf; there was only one stall.

Now he really didn't want to be here. Kenny was just staring at him, smiling, smoking a cigarette that he tipped into an amber glass ashtray every few minutes.

"Come on," Kenny said, butt of the cigarette barely touching his lips. "It's not so bad."

"It's awful," Stan insisted. "Everything is falling apart on me."

"Kyle is going to be okay, if that's what's bothering you. He's not — he's not like going to kill himself or anything." Then Kenny shrugged, and his smile cracked into a look of utter misery. "Well, he could, I suppose. But not intentionally. It would be like an overdose, I guess, totally involuntary—"

"Stop!" Stan cried. He had to put his hands over his ears, and nearly knocked over a glass of water when he did so. "I don't want to hear that, you sick fuck!"

"Well, come on. Like, someone who devotes so much intellect to self-destruction is bound to have a couple brushes."

"How could you give him drugs?" Stan dropped his hands from the sides of his head and began to tense them in his napkin. "Why are you such a fucking enabler? I trust you guys to keep him out of trouble for four years and I come back and somehow he's taking amphetamines?"

This pissed Kenny off. "Four years?" he asked. "Four years is a long time! Actually, fuck that. You're not fooling anyone — we all know you're not coming back. Four years is turning into forever! Cartman is right. He's a shithead but he's right — you're fucking gone. None of us even knows what planet you're on most of the time."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know! Look at yourself!"

Stan did look down at himself. He was wearing ratty jeans and the same yellow cassette tape shirt he'd been wearing the day before and a nice striped hoodie. He looked okay, he figured. A little hungover, maybe, but somehow guys found that sexy.

"I meant like introspectively or some shit!" Kenny smashed the butt of his exhausted cigarette into the ashtray. "Oh god," he whined, taking another one from his vest pocket. "I can't sit here and solve all your problems anymore! I'm having a kid! I got a girlfriend! People owe me money!"

"I had a boyfriend," Stan snapped, as if that made them the same. "I just dumped him."

"What was that guy like?"

"Pretty whiny."

"Oh."

They looked at each other in awkward silence until their food came. They heard the door of the diner jangling and the whir of the blender mixing milkshakes.

After taking a bite of a biscuit, Kenny softened, and slumped in his seat. "Look," he said, and it felt warm and somewhat relenting. "This is a shitty situation. I sometimes think you had the best instinct of all of us, to leave Colorado. I don't know how you could finagle it. The thought of raising a child here terrifies me — people go crazy here, lose legs here, die here. Sometimes, repeatedly."

"Disappear from here," Stan suggested, thinking of his older sister.

"Is that what you're trying to do?"

That caught Stan off-guard. "What?"

"I don't know," Kenny admitted. "We all wonder sometimes if we'll ever see you again. Then you come back, start shit, make us feel guilty, and leave again. You're fun, and I miss you. But lately you're not so fun, and I don't."

"That doesn't even mean anything!" Stan shouted. Some people at the next booth over stared at him. He looked down at his plate for a moment to avert their eyes, and it occurred to him that he hadn't eaten any of his cheeseburger, and he didn't feel hungry at all. Also, the anemic-looking pickle lying across his pile of french fries smelled like something inedible.

"Ken, okay, I asked you to do one simple thing when I left, and that was make sure Kyle was all right. And you can't even do that! I asked you to look out for him. I didn't mean, like, start giving him drugs that make him even worse. I mean, he has doctors for that."

"I tried! Oh, how I tried. But you kind of forgot one thing, actually." A scoop of hash went into Kenny's mouth, and he made Stan watch him chew and swallow it before he continued: "Kyle's a lot smarter than me. I can't keep up with that."

"I know," Stan spat, and then a moment too late he reconsidered his words: "I mean, I know how smart he is, he's really smart, that's not to say he's smarter than you, just that—"

Kenny laughed, bitterly. "I'm not insulted. Just, you know — he's not just insane, he's genius insane. Kyle can outwit anyone. He started asking me for these drugs, right? Things I didn't even know what they did, just where to get some. At first I was leery but he had all these explanations — this one does this, that one does this. I can't keep up with that, man. I just know where to find these things, not what they do. He said it would help and I believed him and I'm, well … I'm really sorry."

A miserable coffee Stan hadn't touched was sitting next to his plate, and he took a sip of it — the taste was bitter, and it had long since gone lukewarm. It was disgusting, disgusting coffee, but Stan forced himself to swallow his mouthful, which left a rancid taste he couldn't banish with a gulp of water.

"I'm sorry too," Stan said. "I don't know for what, though."

"I could give you some ideas." Kenny was cocking an eyebrow, obnoxious and insufferable, bits of undercooked egg stuck to the corners of his lips. "And I'm sure if you thought about it for a bit you'd figure it out."

"Oh." Stan tried to smile, but it made his headache worse. "What, uh — what do you think the problem is? I mean, how do you think I should fix this? Kyle is like super pissed at me, like you wouldn't believe—"

"Eh, don't worry about it. He gets randomly angry and randomly forgives. He probably feels worse than you do about it, whatever it is."

"But how do I fix it? Like, what is wrong with me? I try really hard, Kenny. I hope you believe me."

"Well, sure, I believe you believe whatever abstract crap you're talking about. To be honest, I'm not following you. Just, you know, stay away from Kyle for a bit. He'll come around. As for your bigger issues, whatever those may be — I'm not going to be your fucking Cassandra. Meditate on it for a while and an answer will come." Kenny clapped his hands twice and waved his fingers over his hash. "Woo! I'm fucking magic! Problem solved."

Stan rolled his eyes. "Is this how you decided to keep that baby?"

"What? Oh, hell no. She just wouldn't have an abortion. Couldn't be talked into it. I mean, you bang every slut between here and Denver, eventually you meet a pro-life pole dancer, am I right? … Oh, I forgot, you probably don't; you're into dick. Well, let me put it like this: Eventually you suck some Log Cabin cock. Right?"

Stan didn't have the heart to tell Kenny he rarely even knew the names of all the people he hooked up with, let alone their political affiliations.

At the diner, customers paid at the counter, where Kenny ponied up 3.95 for Stan's mostly uneaten burger, and 2 dollars for Stan's mostly un-drunk coffee. Kenny had finished his entire meal with gusto — apparently he hadn't drunk enough the night before to lose his appetite.

"Let's get out of here," Stan pleaded as Kenny made eyes at the middle-aged cashier. She had lipstick smeared all over her front teeth.

"But it's only 1 o'clock." Kenny tapped his naked wrist with his middle and fore fingers. "If I go home now I'm going to have to deal with shit."

"Not my problem," Stan muttered, turning around. "I feel so fucking sick it's like—" Stan shut up immediately as he turned around and locked eyes with Ike Broflovski, who was sitting in the booth nearest the door with another kid who looked maybe a year or two older — Filmore.

Ike had ordered a strawberry milkshake, but it remained virtually untouched — except for the whipped cream, which he was licking off the top in tiny increments. This was the first thing Stan noticed — even before he noticed that Ike wasn't sitting alone. There was a cherry on the milkshake, and Ike was licking around it. Stan's thought Ike looked adorable — there he was in his very binding, straight-legged gray jeans, sweep of bangs, and black rivulets of greasy tears streaking his cheeks where his eye makeup had run.

"Oh, it's that guy we bought pot from that time. And your brother's boyfriend," Filmore said.

"Ugh." Ike mocked a gagging gesture and pushed his milkshake away. "That's just Stan. He is not my brother's boyfriend."

"Shit, get touchy about it." Filmore rolled his eyes. "Everything is making you so panicky and reedonkulous lately."

"I don't want to talk about it." Ike slipped a hand into the bunched-up jacket sharing his side of the booth and produced a long, thin cigarette.

"Your brother is gay, though, right?"

"I don't know. I don't think so." Ike shook his head. "Actually, I don't want to know. I just want everything to go away."

Kenny cleared his throat. "Hi, boys. Long time no see. Enjoy the rest of your lunch," he said, waving. Then he pointed at Filmore. "You boys need anything, you call me. Right?"

"Sure." Filmore nodded. "Whatever. So long, guy we bought pot from. Other dude."

"His name is Stan. I know you know what his name is." Ike stuck the cigarette between his lips and make a quick jerking motion with a loose fist.

Filmore widened his eyes and nodded, just knowing.

Stan groaned. "I can't do this!" he snapped, storming out of the restaurant.

Filmore smirked. "Where's he going?"

"Probably to drown himself in a toilet," Ike theorized.

"Eh, he'll be okay." Kenny flashed a thumbs-up. "Take care, boys."

XXX

Kenny found Stan banging his head against the side of Kenny's truck. "Whoa, whoa," he cautioned, pulling Stan off of it. "They're just kids, man. Lame little kids."

"I can't do this anymore!" Stan cried. "I'm gonna freak out or something, oh my god—" Stan was interrupted by his phone chirping once, then twice. "Oh, what now?" he moaned.

"Well, it sounds like you have a text," Kenny suggested. "But what the shit do I know?"

"Ugh." Stan pulled his phone from his pants, flipping it open. Indeed, he had a text from Ike Broflovski, or at least the number he recognized as belonging to Ike, as he'd never bothered to even put the kid in his phone. call me later please. we seriously need to talk. Shrugging, Stan snapped the phone shut and stuffed it back into his pocket. Why wouldn't everything just go away?

"Who from?" Kenny asked.

"Oh. Ike."

"Ike, like, Ike the Ike we were just talking to before you lost it again and fled the restaurant and started banging your head on my car?"

"Oh, shut the fuck up! Yes, that Ike! Will you just fucking stop trying to know everything for once? Jesus! I have the worst fucking headache ever! Goddamit!"

"Well, you're supposed to eat the food the morning after if you want it to cure a hangover." Kenny rolled his eyes. "What the fuck is Ike doing texting you?"

For a moment, just a moment, Stan was on the verge of telling Kenny everything, letting it all spill out on the street like a bag of marbles that might roll anywhere. Stan even opened his mouth, all ready to talk, and then something — some kind of self-restraint he wished he'd developed prior to just this moment — stopped him. He clamped his mouth shut and crossed his arms. "Nothing," he said. "None of your business. I, like, don't even know."

"Uh huh." Kenny nodded. He sounded quite incredulous. "Okay, well, despite the fact you just called me a know-it-all, maybe you should take some of my advice: That kid is, like, all varieties of fucked-up. If I were you I'd stay the fuck away from him. Same goes for Kyle, natch, but I don't think that'd do a whole hell of a lotta good at this late date."

"Why? And when did I call you a know-it-all?"

"Just now. And, you know, no reason. No kid growing up like that is going to ever be normal. Frankly, I feel sorry for him. That's just how it is. … You need a ride?"

"Um." Stan looked around. He wasn't ready to go home. "Where are you headed?"

Kenny pointed behind his own shoulder, a direction that Stan recognized as toward the so-called 'nice' side of town. "Hang out with Cartman. Get high. Maybe his mom'll bake something. Don't really want to deal with Trish right now. Want to come?"

"No. I, uh — I think I need to be alone."

"Well." Sighing, Kenny crossed his arms. "Please get some help, Stan. Get out of here or come home to here or whatever it is you need to do with your life. But whatever it is, Jesus fucking Christ, just make a decision and stick to it, okay? I almost miss when you were like a sullen 15-year-old closet case. It was so much easier to have a conversation that wasn't unpleasantly deep."

"I do miss that too, sometimes. Weirdly. And, um — I thought you said you wouldn't be my Cassandra this time."

"Well, I don't want to. It's fucking exhausting. No fun," Kenny admitted. "But someone's got to be that."

They hugged, and Kenny hopped back into his vehicle and sped away, barely managing not to run over a woman jaywalking as he did. Stan, not wanting to be caught by Ike and Filmore when they finished their meal and left the diner, began to run toward the drug store. He needed aspirin immediately. It was freezing outside, a perfect 32 degrees Fahrenheit. In his green Converses Stan leapt over neat ice patches so he wouldn't fall over. He knew he had no traction.

South Park isn't exactly great or consistent with character's names, so let's just pretend I spelled Jimmy's surname correctly. Their website is really no help.