ALL CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS FAN FICTION – EVEN THOSE BASED ON FICTIONAL PEOPLE– ARE ENTIRELY MADE-UP. ALL LOVECRAFT REFERENCES ARE RESEARCHED… POORLY. THE FOLLOWING STORY CONTAINS LEWD SEXUAL HUMOR AND DUE TO ITS LONG INTROSPECTIVE MONOLOGUES IT SHOULD NOT BE READ BY ANYONE. _|_|_|
Kenny
It had been weeks. Months. Months, with only two accidental deaths, neither of which fucked up anything with Red. (I got shot in the head by a deer hunter coming home from school one day, and one afternoon during the summer some reporter in a helicopter dropped his camera on me. That one hurt.) I'd carefully picked a few days through the summer to experiment with dying and going to R'lyeh, planning them far away from other Mysterion activities and big date plans with my girlfriend.
Henrietta and I were really making headway with the Gate. She admitted that there were some passages in the Necronomicon she was still shaky on, as far as translation went, so we didn't touch those yet, even though we both knew they'd be key in our ultimate understanding of how that dimension worked. She said, though, that there seemed to be a sister couplet to the one that had haunted me since I was nine:
That is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons, even death may die.
That had to be it. That second couplet, whatever the translation was, had to be my answer. The thing that would finally make me understand my curse.
As for the Gate, though, the closer Henrietta got to making a complete pact with Yog-Sothoth (the deity I knew but still hadn't seen), the easier it was for me to navigate the afterlife and the in-between. I was able to 'feel' the entrance to R'lyeh from Purgatory. As soon as I died, Henrietta would read to Yog-Sothoth, who would open the Gate, and I could sense which direction I needed to head in order to find that black tar pit-looking void that sucked me through space into R'lyeh. I had seen Cthulhu's tomb a few times while there… heard the thing breathing loudly in its half-dead sleep, but had not seen the beast itself quite yet. I was getting a good feel for making my way through R'lyeh, all the same. The Goths were earning themselves a pretty detailed map from my excursions. It was the Gate itself I never saw. I wanted to know what the Gatekeeper looked like, what the Gate looked like, and where it let out, if it let out at any discernable place on Earth. Or if opening it would lead to Earth becoming a void of its own.
Coming back from R'lyeh was always tricky, because I'd be left with a reminder of how I'd died in order to get there in the first place. I shot myself in the head once, and when I came back, I not only had a scar on my temple, I also kept having awful migraines until I died again and told Henrietta not to read me out. If I cut myself—scar. Shot myself—scar. So on one instance, I attempted cyanide, and when I came back, I felt sick and couldn't taste anything. Each time left some kind of reminder. Only when I didn't go through R'lyeh did I seem to reset. It only caused me to wonder more about the logistics of the usual times… as well as how things would turn out if I did end up breaking the curse for good; I'd just have to hope I wouldn't get too badly cut up before.
In the Park County jail, under the semi-watchful eye of Sargeant Yeats, the Cultists we'd arrested during the drug busts sat waiting for bail. The fact that nobody from the Cult had bailed them out was kind of unsettling. Maybe they were considered safer there, I thought. In which case, what the hell was coming for the rest of us?
I, as Mysterion, had full access to their cells, since the force trusted me wholeheartedly. Johansen, the man we'd arrested with him, and the two sci-fi nerds all shared a cell, but Wilcox was locked up in solitary. Yeats informed me that he was prone to fits of laughter, sleepless nights, and seizures, all of which Wilcox had informed the force were hereditary ticks. And whenever I went to visit the haunted man, he never spoke. He'd shake sometimes, and mutter to himself, but he never looked me in the eye. He never said a fucking thing.
On one occasion, he did, however, mutter the words: "Cthulhu fhtagn."
Though their cell was far, far away from his, the other arrested men echoed back, "Cthulhu fhtagn!" The sound carried through several halls, and when I left Wilcox's private cell to see what was going on, a few officers could be seen having to restrain the men, who were putting up a little struggle against their cell door.
It put me on edge, enough to try to catch up with the Goths on how things were progressing in Cult meetings.
"We're getting close," Henrietta told me one Tuesday evening. The Goths were all crowded around in her room as usual, reading from their bleeding-heart tomes and smoking cigarette after cigarette to the delight of their tortured lungs and larynxes. "The Cult's been waiting for the right time to summon Cthulhu."
"Right," I said, from my position at the window, "so when is that?"
"All Hallows," said the kid. His sallow eyes stared at me behind a curtain of pitch black, half-washed hair.
"All-what?"
"All Hallows," the eldest repeated. "What you conformists call 'Halloween,' now that you've turned it into another commercial—"
"Okay!" I cut in. "Whatever. How are you going to do it?"
"What?" asked the red-haired kid, exhaling more smoke than the banged up tractor my father sometimes took to work, when he did work.
"Summon Cthulhu!" I shouted. Seven years of putting up with their shit and I still got worked up when they decided not to answer me in complete sentences.
"Probably a sacrifice," said… Craig. Whipping my head in his direction, I tried to hide my shock. I hadn't even noticed him sitting over in the corner, lighting up a new clove for himself, then holding out his lighter for Henrietta to catch the flame.
"Craig?" I wondered, almost accidentally slipping out of Mysterion's tone. "What're you doing here?"
He flicked his red Zippo closed and shrugged. "I was out of cigarettes," he said dully.
Had I not been Mysterion in that moment, I would not have hesitated to ask Craig (or, bug the shit out of him) about him and Henrietta. Ever since we'd started sending both of them in to spy on Cult activities, Craig and Henrietta had been spending an awful lot of time together, even around school, which was odd, since Henrietta never broke from her clicque and Craig had most certainly not gone Goth. Now, I myself had thought—on more than one past occasion—about attempting to hook up with the busty, curvy Goth chick, but there were two fatal flaws in that thought. One: she probably had no fucking clue who Kenny McCormick was, and I wasn't about to tell her, and two: she didn't believe in love. Which, oddly enough, made Craig kind of a good choice for her, since I'd never known anyone so irritatingly apathetic. Plus, I had Red now, so no harm done at all.
"Fine," I said to pass Craig off on his last comment, in favor of focusing on the first. "What makes you think they're looking for a sacrifice?"
"I dunno," said Craig. He stared blankly up at me from his seat on the floor as he exhaled smoke from his nostrils, then added, "Isn't that what cults always do when they want something? They sacrifice people. That's why it sucks that I just had to get involved."
"Why?" I wondered. "Are they going to sacrifice you?" For failing the drug cover? It wasn't improbable.
"Doubt it," said Craig. "I might be worried if I was one of you."
"One of… you mean the League?"
"That's right."
"Okay, can anyone back this up?" I asked, opening the floor to the Goth gang. I really did not like the way that younger kid was glaring at me. At all of, what, twelve, Ike's classmate was still the Goth I had the hardest time dealing with. I was pretty sure that, while the others were certainly not very fond of their fellow man, the kid hated everyone and everything that wasn't him or Cthulhu. He carried up to five pocket knives at a time, too, which were only occasionally used on himself. Kid had issues, but he was definitely someone I hadn't ruled out having to bring down once the Cult prepared to summon their deity. "You've told me Halloween. What happens on Halloween?"
The three older Goths all exchanged a look. Craig took a long, unimpressed drag. Finally, Henrietta, biting the tip of her quellazaire, said, "We don't know."
I groaned. "What do you mean, you don't know?" I snapped.
"We don't always hear everything," said Henrietta. "There are meetings within meetings."
"Yeah," said the eldest, "it's a fucking hierarchy, which makes it stupid."
"Then why do you still follow it?" I wondered.
"The hell else're we gonna do?"
Something productive, I almost said, but didn't. I didn't want to get them too pissed at me. "All right," I gave in, "fine. Craig and Henrietta, if you two can dig up any more on why this Halloween is important, inform me immediately."
Henrietta rolled her eyes, but I knew she'd agreed. "Assuming the elders in the Cult let anything slip, whatever."
Good enough. Besides, I had plenty of information to chew on.
Using me as a sacrifice would have been in the Cult's best interests, but I still had no idea whether or not they knew about me and my obvious tie to their deity. So if they just plain killed me, no harm done to anyone. I'd be back sooner or later. Unless, of course, they did know about the curse (they'd been the ones to curse my mother in the first place, after all, since the bitch had been drunk and followed Dad to that meeting while little fetus Kenny was still in gestation), in which case I wanted to know exactly how they'd do it and when, so I could make a plan or at least start writing a new will.
I wrote wills all the time, actually, just in case I'd get a reprieve and actually die for good. Final Death, as I'd been calling it for a while now, was one of the options for my future that I wasn't ruling out as possible. After all, it seemed that there were two options: kill Cthulhu, thus breaking my bond to the deity, or let Cthulhu or another Old One kill me. Seemed kind of cut and dry, but it all had to do with the Old Ones, and there was still too much about immortality that I didn't understand… still too much about R'lyeh and loopholes through death to be discovered. Now that I had more to live for, I obviously did not want Final Death to be the answer, it just existed as a probability that I needed to be prepared for.
Which sucked. The more probable it became, the less I wanted to say goodbye.
– – –
That fall, the exchange student was a blonde Canadian girl named Philippa. Yeah. Philippa. I totally wasn't missing out by making that the 'year of the real girlfriend.' Even if the exchange student had been hot (but I mean, foreign exchange from Canada?—why not, like… Italy?) (not saying Canadians can't be hot, just saying this girl wasn't), I wouldn't have done her, just because her name was motherfucking Philippa. My adoration of the Canadian comedy duo Terrance and Philip had never died, and doing that girl would've been like doing, y'know, Philip. So, no. Besides, Red was too damn perfect. I was so fucking lucky.
We'd kinda turned into 'that couple' at school (you know, the hot item nobody can shut the fuck up about, like everyone suddenly becomes a strictly verbal Us Magazine about it) (not that I ever look at Us Magazine and not that, assuming I did, it was just for those 'stars in bikinis' pages), and I kinda really fucking liked it. It was kind of great to be recognized as something other than 'the poverty kid.' And to have been elevated to Brad and Angelina status at school… fuck, I'd take it. Especially because Red was so Goddamn great.
I mean it. That girl was with it. When I didn't work, sometimes I'd go out to the field to watch the cheerleaders practice, and watch her limber up those tight arms and legs of hers, watch her cartwheeling and vaulting over other chicks and work herself into an alluring sweat before I walked her home. I spent a lot of time at her house, too, which was fucking awesome. Her parents were nice to me, and accepted me once I spilled it about my contract jobs (basically saying, 'I'm not my parents, your daughter does, in fact, not eat Pop-Tarts for dinner when we go out'), and she and I even got some studying done when we were together at her house. Red was an average but motivated student. She was on the fence about what she wanted to go to college for, and, admittedly, I was too. We just both knew we were going to college, no matter what. I just hoped we'd last past high school so that we could share those college years together, too.
And, yes, I was seriously thinking that. When I first started thinking about college, it was all, "Woohoo, sororities!" and that kind of thing. (Confession that, no, I would not mind at all if my girlfriend were to take part in, oh, a wet T-shirt contest or sorority Jell-O wrestling or something like that. Actually, I'd bring a fucking camera. For… posterity…) Now, though, I knew I really did want to go so that I could make something of myself. Assuming I'd live through it all, of course.
The only downside to Red's house was something I discovered about the second time I took a tour of her bedroom. Now, despite the fact that Red had gone into the relationship wanting to take it slow, we clicked pretty fast, and she consented to sex first a few days in. I, she'd told me earlier on that date, was her first, which I thought was too fucking adorable, so I made sure to make that first time memorable. And, see, that was when things started getting really good. I'd charmed the fuck outta that girl already, and damn if she didn't have a pretty strong hold over me, so adding a couple nights a week of great sex on top of what we'd already built up was just the icing on the best motherfucking cake in the world.
So, yeah, that second time, though. Man. Totally did not know Red owned a cat until that night. See, I have this thing about cats. Male cats in particular. Did you know one of the easiest ways to get high is to let a male cat spray in your face? I got addicted to that shit when I was nine, and have strayed far from male cats ever since. In fact, by the time I was sixteen I didn't use at all anymore, at least not while the Mysterion work needed keeping up. Role model and all that. I'd drink, that was about it; I just didn't touch anything my parents ever did… one more thing to distance myself from them.
Red and I were alone in the house that night. Because we were alone, we didn't care that the door of her bedroom was a little ajar. I sure as hell didn't care. I was too preoccupied with letting my girlfriend work her fingers on my skin, shoulders down. She wanted to try being on top that night, so I figured, what the fuck, we could give it a shot, and her magic fingers had just lightly touched my pelvic bones; she was about to do us both the favor of removing my boxers when a Goddamn meow came from the doorway.
Naturally, cats were not a part of my plan that night, so I kind of possibly flipped the fuck out. It went something like this:
"Oh, fuck!" I yelped. It was fight or flight for me, against cats, and this time I apparently thought it was a good idea to propel myself backwards, right into the wooden headboard of my girlfriend's bed, which meant that my next shout was a quick, involuntary, "Ow!"
"Kenny?" Red wondered. She sat back, alarmed, her face flushing pink and her hands finding a place on her bent knees, having, now, nowhere else to go. "What's up?"
To make things even better, the little black-and-white dustball of a cat walked in and leapt up onto the mattress, purring and eyeing me like it fucking knew. My voice came out a little strained when I said in a rushed sentence, "You didn't tell me you had a cat!"
"Um… oh…" said Red, giving me a funny little look as she scooped her pet up into her arms. That little fucker had no business being as close to her rack as I'd just been. Goddamn cats. "Yeah. Everything okay?"
"I just reeeeally shouldn't be in the same room as that thing," I said, hoping I wouldn't end up feeling guilty enough to have to explain the embarrassing addiction I'd once had (and would probably get right back on if it ever happened again).
"Sorry. Are you allergic or something?"
Oh holy fuck I'd never thought of using that as an excuse. Inga's host family had had a cat and I'd been an idiot and told her I had a past trauma involving cats (not wholly wrong) and had a fear of them. The truth is, I don't have a fear of cats so much as I have a fear of myself when I'm around them. "Yeah," I lied. "Allergic. Yep."
"Oh! Okay, totally didn't know. I'll let this guy out and wash my hands then, I guess."
"Sorry, baby," I apologized, gaining some of my calm back and giving her a little grin. It was enough to keep her pleased, and the cat never posed a bedroom threat again.
We always did use her bedroom, too. In fact, I wasn't even sure if my own parents knew I had a girlfriend; or, if I'd told them, they were too stoned at the time to remember anything I'd said. Whatever. It wasn't like I really wanted Red to know my parents anyway. And hers were so damn nice and never minded me spending the night and totally knew what we were up to and still didn't care. I'd struck gold.
Every time we did anything together, I kept thinking, This can't possibly get any better. And then it did, and it was amazing, and she was amazing, and I started to get very protective of her. Because I had a feeling that this Halloween thing I'd been warned about was going to lead to something of bigger proportions than we in the League had been thinking thus far; I wanted to keep Red safe through all of it. So everything I did for her was kind of like a promise, even if she only read it as open affection.
In the afterglow one night, Red pressed up against me, her skin soft and smooth, her hair ripe with the smell of the most intoxicating pheromones, and she said, "I was never expecting this, but you're, like, the best thing in my life right now."
Tell me that wouldn't make any man want to be more protective.
I grabbed her hair and slid on top of her, stimulated from the comment for another round. Before completely losing myself to feral impulses, I held her down and kissed her wildly; she nipped my nose impishly just as I slid back to tell her, "You, too." And then I entered, and we escaped, again, into this incredible thing we'd created. Having her was like a fortress I could always rely on.
But I was still scared. And every time we lay there together, waiting to coax each other to sleep, I'd think—hope—plead—pray: Don't ruin this for me. I'll beat Death for this. Just don't fuck it up before I can.
– – –
October brought with it the usual autumn chill in the air, and frost on the ground early in the morning. Things got colder in the school halls, too, once Stan and Wendy broke up. They no longer spoke to each other, and passed each other frigidly between classes. At League meetings, they'd interact somewhat to build on conversation, but things were still obviously strained. And it wasn't just Stan and Wendy. While things with my girlfriend got progressively better, things between a lot of my friends seemed to be getting more and more—for lack of a better word—off. Craig and Clyde, for example, were still not exactly best friends again yet, thanks to the trust breach that had happened that spring; summer had only seen them interact when Clyde was fully committed to being Mosquito and Craig was being forced (but paid) to help us out. Token, who was in the middle of it, tried to play peacemaker, mostly by ignoring the fact that there had been a problem at all, thereby showing that it was no big deal. Even Butters was in some kind of a funk—I hadn't seen Marjorine around as much, and he'd (as I heard Cartman saying once at lunch) suddenly shot to the top of the class in German, a class he used to struggle in. Cartman was… well, Cartman. He certainly wasn't succeeding in the Homecoming date department, and when he asked me to help, I just sorta laughed. Cartman in turmoil is funny. Just saying.
Wendy, though… God, I don't even know, but I picked up a little from what Red would tell me during some of our "how was your day?" talks. It was no secret that she was the one who broke up, which made sense, as Stan was (sorry, dude) too much of a pussy (read in his words: too much of a romantic) to call it off himself. I lost Red to a few 'girl days' that she, Bebe and the others took Wendy out on to cheer her up more. But still, Wendy was the one of the broken pair that was surviving better on her own.
Stan and Kyle were pissing me off. I really didn't get what was so difficult that they couldn't just talk it out. Or fuck it out, whichever came first. Yes, I said it; I've thought it before, and I'll stick to it. The more those guys fought, the more obvious they made themselves, at least to me.
This particular argument seemed to have stemmed from nothing, though, of course, it could all be traced to the breakup (which I'd seen coming but hadn't dared to tell Stan so—that guy is a volcano of emotions and he would've erupted if I'd said anything). And it wasn't so much an argument as it was just Stan not saying a fucking thing and Kyle shouting at him to lighten up or open up or sometimes even fuck off. Kyle had a high tolerance level for bullshit, but Stan was testing that a little too much by (again, in my opinion) not either sorting himself out or just plain giving rational thought a chance.
Because we still had lockers one right next to the other, I cornered Stan there one morning and demanded, "Hey, dude, what the fuck?"
"Kenny, what?" Stan muttered, loading a heavy textbook into his bag.
"Oh! Cool, you can still talk," I badgered.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"What's up with the silent treatment around Kyle?" I asked, attempting to get a good look at Stan's expression. It didn't work, he looked just as hollow as he had since the day it was announced his relationship with Wendy had ended.
Stan shook his head and grabbed something else out of his locker. "That's not important."
"Um, yeah, it is," I said. "It's kind of affecting everything." 'Everything,' of course, being code primarily for 'especially meetings.'
"Well, it's nothing you should worry about," said Stan, kind of abruptly. He shut his locker and leaned back against it to speak to me. "Obviously, I'm going through some shit right now. And it's just nothing I can talk to Kyle about, okay? I mean… it's nothing he'd understand, so—"
Fed up, I grabbed Stan down by the collar so that I could speak to him in strictest confidence.
"Look, you're a team and we need you," I hissed, on a volume nobody else could hear. "Whatever all this is, don't let it affect you guys in the League, okay? Especially not this week."
"Okay, Kenny, don't worry about it," Stan dismissed. "It's just… don't dig into it too much."
I suppressed a groan. "I will, whatever you say," I insisted. "You guys both know this fight is stupid."
"Kenny, I'll take care of it," Stan said, rushing his words together. As he slung his bag over his shoulder and turned to leave, he added under his breath, "If it's what I think it is…"
Huh. Well that meant shit was going to get interesting. Slightly satisfied, I wandered off myself, hoping things would sort themselves out before I had to stage any interventions.
I lost Red to the girls at lunch again that day, but we snuck in a good few minutes of making out (while we were in the back of the lunch line) and talking about nothing (as we progressed toward the front and kind of had to see where we were going). I walked her to the table she and her usual clicque occupied, and made my way down a couple rows to a table that was oddly unoccupied. Of our usual group, only Kyle was there, looking unenthused as he flipped through a book and picked at a pita sandwich.
"'Sup?" I said, sliding in across from him.
Kyle picked his head up pretty quickly, suggesting I'd startled him just by saying something. I guess if he was so used to getting the silent treatment lately, hearing someone address him would be kind of shocking. His expression relaxed after a second, and he flipped his book closed.
"Hey," said Kyle, sounding about half as energetic and awake as he usually did, "how's it going, dude?"
"Fine," I said, giving him a skeptical look as I started to brave the cafeteria's version of a taco. "You okay?"
"Me? Yeah," he shrugged. He glanced around the room, then leaned forward and asked me, "Hey, Kenny, this is kinda last minute, but d'you know of any girls still looking for a Homecoming date?" I've always thought it was kind of funny that the guys came to me as wingman before anyone else. What can I say, though? I pay attention.
"I thought you weren't going," I remembered. Homecoming had been a minor topic before a meeting one Wednesday; Clyde had brought it up. This was back when Stan and Wendy were still together, and Wendy had sounded pretty excited for the dance that always followed the football game, while Stan seemed not to care as much about the dance as discussing game strategies with Clyde. Kyle had voiced his opinion on school dances (not a positive one) and had said something to the effect of, "No offense, guys, but after the game, I'm done. I don't do dances."
"Well, I changed my mind," Kyle said, kind of quickly. "Plus, it's been a long enough time since Heidi. I think I'm ready to date again."
Aha. I got it right off. "Is this just to piss Stan off?" I wondered, resting my chin in one hand, my elbow propped on the table. "Because your stupid fight is getting old."
"No," Kyle snapped. "Stan can do whatever the fuck he wants. I want to date again. That's all."
"Whatever you say, man," I shrugged. I didn't like getting in the middle of conflicts, but this spat between Kyle and Stan did have me worried. Whatever the real story was, I didn't pry. Even though I basically knew. "I think Nelly's still looking," I said, getting back to my neglected soda. "She's always kinda had a thing for you, too."
"Nelly?" Kyle's face lit up. "The cute one with the pigtails?"
"That's her. If you wanna ask her, I think you've got it in the bag."
"Damn. Thanks, Kenny!"
"Sure." Just don't be too stupid about it, I added in my head.
In the next period study hall that we had together, I watched Kyle lay on the charm while talking to Nelly. It started off simple: he offered to help with her algebra (of course that bastard had already advanced to AP Calculus, but whatever), and then they shot the shit as things progressed from there. I would have been proud of him if I'd actually believed he was flirting with her for real reasons other than "Stan's being a dick." Which was totally exactly what it was, in reality. You don't spend your entire life growing up with your closest friends and not end up knowing exactly what's going through their heads all the time. Stan and Kyle were best friends, they always had been. They'd fought before, and sometimes they'd give each other the silent treatment for as long as a couple of weeks… but they'd always come out of it, after spending plenty of time backstabbing each other and whatnot. Kyle's advances were just payback. Or maybe he was bored. But nothing in the past year had suggested that he actually felt like dating again, since he'd really liked Heidi, and was focused too much on schoolwork to play the field. In my opinion, this was all sexual tension. From both of them. It sucked that I couldn't say anything about that, or I'd probably get bitched at. Nothing for me to do but wait and observe, and give advice when I was needed.
Plus, I was plenty busy keeping a steady girlfriend of my own. I was surprised by how well Red and I were doing, actually. Death still hadn't come between us, and as long as I kept up that streak through Homecoming, I'd probably have it in the bag for the rest of the year. It was nice having something consistent… and damn, was she good in bed, and she grew from nervous (because I'd been with quite a few other girls) to excited about the shit I could (and would) do. Not that sex was the be-all end-all of our relationship, but if I died again I'd have to go about losing my virginity for a fourth time. Tell me that doesn't suck. Not that I lose anything each time, it just kinda feels like every time I come back, it's a quote-unquote fresh start. Ugh.
Red was really cute, though, and we had a lot to talk about. I wanted really badly to tell her about my activities as Mysterion, since, if nothing else, that'd turn her on for sure, but I held to the vigilante rule. Significant others can't know. Bebe didn't know. Wendy hadn't known, until she joined. Heidi hadn't known, even Ike's little girlfriend had no clue what he did on Wednesday nights. Red couldn't be an exception. Maybe once I beat the curse, I'd tell her something, in strict confidence… assuming she stuck with me.
The shittiest thing, in that sense, about dating and dying all the time, was that nobody could fucking cover for me, since nobody ever fucking remembered. I kept thinking about that all through study hall, and found, by the time I snapped myself out of those thoughts, that the only thing I'd managed to do all period was scratch my pencil deep into my notebook paper, leaving a big grey graphite smudge in the middle of one page, which now had a rip in it since the pencil had eventually gone right through. Oh, well. I could never do homework during study halls anyway.
The end of the period marked the end of the school day, so I sluggishly gathered my shit together and got ready to leave. Kyle rushed up behind me before I could leave, though, and clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Dude!" he exclaimed, looking happier than he had in the past few days. Huh. Maybe he was playing the field for real reasons after all. Color me surprised. "Kenny, I can't thank you enough," he grinned. He held out a fist, which I bumped as was our general 'handshake,' and I felt myself laugh.
"You've got a date?" I guessed.
"Hell yeah," Kyle boasted. "Actually, we're gonna go grab something to eat right now. You and Red wanna come with us?"
"Like to, man, but I've gotta work," I said, which was actually not code for Mysterion activities for once. I'd lined up a chipping and painting job at one of the shops downtown, which promised to continue pretty regularly. Extra money was great, especially now that I had a girlfriend. I wanted to pull out all the stops for Homecoming since, as a cheerleader, I knew the ordeal meant a lot to her.
"Maybe next time," said Kyle.
We glanced over at the same time when Nelly called out for him, and he grinned over at her before saying to me, "Sorry, dude, gotta go."
"Go!" I urged, slapping him on the back. "Congrats, Kyle, have fun tonight."
"Thanks again!" he said, and then he was gone.
Well, good luck, I thought to myself. Stan had apparently, based on what he'd muttered earlier, come to some kind of conclusion, he just wasn't being vocal about it. Kyle had a date, which probably meant that Stan would regress right back into not saying a Goddamn thing. I was sure to be forced into the role of liason soon, which was sure to be a whole hell of a lot of fun. And on top of that was all this shit about Cults and curses.
So, basically, my brain was kicked into overdrive. I had too many roles to fill, and I didn't want to fuck up any of them, since I knew failing one would trigger a chain reaction of an absurd suck-level of failing the rest. First and foremost came Red. I'd been waiting too long to have a real relationship to let that go. But being Mysterion was right on par. Plus, I had a day now: Halloween. Something was coming, and I had to be prepared to hate, overcome, or possibly stop whatever it was. Then, of course, I had to play mediator between all my friends, in awkward places at that. I had a feeling Homecoming was going to turn into some kind of awful, testing event, but damned if I wasn't going to let myself enjoy it with Red.
The only way I could think to make the guys in strained situations talk (sometimes at all, let alone each other or rationally) was to call extra meetings and excursions. Besides that, the Goths were getting so on my nerves with all that 'we have no idea what's going on' bullshit, I decided one night to just take matters into my own hands and demand that we, once again, spy on a Cult meeting.
I did not inform the Goths that we were going to be lurking around, since a part of me thought that, if they knew, they'd avoid the meeting. But spying was fairly easy without inside help, especially given the teams I knew would work. The Cult always met in the basement of one creeper of a local guy, Jim McElroy, so it was already simple enough to access. I placed TupperWear, the Coon, and Marpesia around as guards. The Coon had, initially, been skeptical of adding Marpesia to the guard post (using the ever-popular "it's a bro thing!" argument), but after she'd kicked him across the face with her heavy boot and pressed him into the ground, he came around. Mosquito and Toolshed flanked me a good distance away as immediate backup, and of course the Human Kite was sent to the roof.
It had been a while since I'd spied on a meeting myself, and even longer since we'd done it as a team. This was not from lack of need so much as lack of availability—as we got older, not all of us were always free all the time. So I made damn sure to spell out to the others just how heavy things were getting. At that week's League meeting, I brought up Halloween as the date to watch out for, and that we needed to spy on the Cult to catch whether or not they were particularly planning a sacrifice.
And, of course, what exactly the sacrifice would be fore, and if it was going to be one of us. Specifically, me.
We left Craig on the perimeter with a wire as a lookout, placing him between TupperWear and Marpesia's positions in case he tried to bolt. His ear, however uninterested, would be helpful, in case he recognized any names or instances from when he had been doing work for the Cult. He'd already informed us of a 'Mr. Skin' from L.A… a name that had surfaced again decade after decade. If that guy wasn't another Immortal, I didn't know what to think. Whatever the case was, I had to keep digging. Maybe—assuming the Cult knew of my curse—he was the one set to kill me. In which case, no thanks. I didn't want to accept Final Death until I learned a few more things.
And that night gave me exactly what I needed.
The meeting (which I was in the best position to hear, cloaked in the shadows surrounding the basement window) began with one cloaked man reading minutes, and got things going right away. The Cultists' gathering was a modest basement with rows of chairs that had recently grown in number. As most places of worship do, a podium was set up in front of the rows, with candles on either side and several images of their deity around it. The bas-relief we'd missed out on nabbing that night that Craig had had it was on display. It looked just as I remembered it… a squat little figure of the awful Immortal I wanted so badly to bring down. That night, it almost seemed to be glowing.
The men we'd gotten arrested—collector Johansen and artist Wilcox—had been in jail all summer and into autumn, and their status was confirmed as idle by the man giving minutes. I was wondering why nobody had bailed them out. Apparently, they were exactly where they needed to be.
A hush then fell over the basement as the leader, McElroy, took the podium. I trusted the shadows to hide me as I listened in:
"My dear brethren," he began for the cloaked masses, "the time is at last upon us. The day we strike to awaken our new Messenger!"
"Iä! Iä!" the crowd echoed back their sordid amen.
"Messenger?" I muttered to myself.
"Mysterion, what's going on?" Human Kite asked over the wire.
"Hold on…"
"Yes…" McElroy continued, and I leaned in further to be sure I didn't miss a single word, "our Messenger has served our kind well for centuries, but at last, a new era is upon us! The Mist shall dissipate to the depths of R'lyeh as the Shadow rises, and the Gate shall open!"
"Iä, iä!"
"And as the Shadow rises, so shall our dark lord, Cthulhu!" McElroy cried out, raising his arms, fingers curved like greedy talons, his wizening face catching the worst of the light from the basement's candles. "Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!"
"Iä, iä!" sang back the captivated crowd. "Cthulhu fhtagn!"
They repeated the phrase ad nauseam, to the point that I got uncomfortable enough to want to leave. I was glad I stayed, though, since what happened then froze me to the spot.
"Now," said McElroy, his voice cutting straight through the room, straight through the cloudy night around us, "let us prepare ourselves for All Hallows. The day our new Messenger will at last be given his roam of Earth!"
"Iä! Iä!"
"To awaken the Messenger," he continued, "we must prepare one sacrifice."
"One to awaken!" the crowd sang back. I noticed, however, that Henrietta and the other two high school Goths were silent. They'd been telling the truth. The Goths had no idea what the Cult had been brewing up.
Those three didn't, anyway. The little kid spoke every word.
"Two to appease the Gatekeeper!" Shit…
"Three to summon the Great One, Cthulhu!"
"Let the three shed blood on the last day of this month! Three close to our new Messenger, to speed the awakening!" McElroy announced to his devoted crowd. My ears pounded with the words the masses had just chanted in such dissonant unison. A man nearby walked over to the bas-relief and held it above his head. "Let us free the heir of the artist and sing the Old Ones' names across the Earth!"
"Cthulhu fhtagn! Cthulhu fhtagn!"
I was done. We were so out of there.
I slipped into the night and told everyone to retreat and meet back at the base. I made it there first and stormed back into the meeting room, where Iron Maiden and Red Serge were eagerly waiting to take notes or orders. "Halloween!" I shouted at them. "They're busting Wilcox out of prison on Halloween!"
"Inform Yeats of a possible insurgence," said Red Serge, ticking away at his keyboard. "I've got it covered."
"Keep that guy under heavy lock!" I added. "Iron Maiden!"
"Timmah!"
"Are you prepared to be stationed on guard at Park County Prison that night?"
His response was positive and enthusiastic. Since Iron Maiden rarely saw action, he was always willing to spring on an opportunity. Nobody could get past him and his hidden swords.
"Mysterion!" I heard Toolshed shout from the door of the meeting room. I turned to see him entering with the Human Kite a couple paces behind. Five seconds later, Mosquito entered as well. "Why'd we abort so quickly? What the hell is going on?"
"What're you up to?" the Human Kite asked Red Serge, walking over behind him to read over his shoulder. His eyes, behind his goggles, went wide. "Oh, shit…"
"Oh, shit is right," I muttered. "Let's wait for the rest, and then we're making a fucking plan."
And in they came, not two minutes after Mosquito had arrived. First the Coon and Marpesia, then TupperWear, and finally Craig, angrily yanking his wire out of his beaten blue jacket. "What's going on?" Marpesia wondered. "There was no activity, as far as any of us could tell…"
"Everyone, sit," I commanded, but nobody did. We took our places around the table, but nobody sat down, except Craig.
"What'd you hear in there?" the Coon asked the question on everyone's minds.
"Sacrifices," I said. The room itself seemed to hold its breath. "Craig, you were the first one that mentioned the possibility…"
He shrugged. "I said I just thought it was possible. I didn't say I actually heard it."
"But you were on the right track. You and Henrietta keep up that research. As for everyone else…"
"So, wait, sacrifices, like, how?" asked the Coon.
"And why?" Mosquito added.
I took in a deep breath, shuddered at the image my mind still had of the man holding up the slightly glowing bas-relief, and told the League, "The Cult is going to go after three sacrifices to summon Cthulhu. They mentioned something about a Messenger, and I think I have a pretty good idea who it is."
"Who?" the Human Kite wondered.
"This guy," I said, pointing to the image of Wilcox we still had printed out and hanging on the corkboard. "He's the descendent of an artist who sculpted an image of Cthulhu, so he's obviously linked. And the Cult is planning on busting him out of jail on Halloween. He hasn't said a fucking word to me when I go question him.
"They also said the three sacrifices had to be close to the Messenger," I went on. I'd shuffled through all of the possibilities in my head on the way back to the base, but hadn't sorted any of them out until I got them out verbally. "There are four other people in prison with Wilcox now that are part of the Cult. It's pretty safe to say three of them are going to die."
"Shit," Toolshed muttered. "So, what, did we do them favors by arresting these guys?"
"Why would they sacrifice their own people?" the Human Kite wondered.
"Cuz they're a fucking Cult," the Coon pointed out.
"It's true," Marpesia confirmed. "Cults have historically killed their own for the group's greater aims. And sacrifices in those cases usually go willingly."
"So, what, we've gotta protect those guys in prison now?" TupperWear asked.
"It's looking that way," I sighed. "The Cult wants to open the Gate and summon Cthulhu on October 31st. That gives us a little time to prepare, which is good."
"Yeats has been informed," said Red Serge, looking up. "I'll get on telling Barbrady and the local force, too."
"Good." I drew in a deep breath, glared around the table, and said, "I'm not ready to let this Cult awaken that power. I don't want them with fucking any power. If we stop them on Halloween, we can stop or at least stall this attempt, and we'll know the means by which they'll be trying to get what they want. We need to strategize. Next meeting, we're going to the Park County force's central office. We'll scope out the perimeter, figure out what we need to do for our counter."
"It's a good thing we can really work for a while on this," Toolshed agreed. He seemed almost nervous, but hid it well. "I will tell you all that I witnessed Cult activity outside that bookstore of theirs recently, and I think it's a safe bet to say that they know we'll be ready for them."
"Right," I said. "So we go in knowing that and still kick their asses. It's a fortunate location, too… the cops can put up extra security."
"No offense," said Marpesia, "but they won't be very discreet about it."
"No kidding," I realized. "But we've got time to work that angle, too. Let's just count ourselves fortunate that we have this much time to prepare, and give it everything."
For the rest of the evening, we sketched out a preliminary plan. Red Serge printed out an aerial view map of the Park County station, and we began marking areas we thought needed to be most covered. Naturally, Human Kite would take the roof. Iron Maiden would be needed inside, and we'd test blind spots later to see where TupperWear, the Coon, and Marpesia should be. Mosquito had to be the one keeping an eye on the cops and on the action, while Toolshed was most needed at the back entrance. There was an alley back there, with a gate that only he'd be able to break through… plus, he was the fastest, and would be able to make himself available in other areas quicker. I'd take the side of the building, toward the front, in case the Cult really would be able to just walk right in. Red Serge would man the base, and we would probably make Craig and Henrietta help out as well, but I'd work on those logistics later.
Last year, my Halloween plans had involved stripping my foreign exchange girlfriend of the time naked in her host family's hot tub. This year, my plans involved stopping an evil Cult from destroying the world. Life's weird that way.
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Authors' Notes:
South Park is -c- Matt Stone and Trey Parker!
Man I'm getting excited about this… :D We're on the verge of the next major arc! I keep saying this, but I love writing as Kenny. XD
We hope you're all enjoying the story as it progresses~! ^^ I'm updating early today as I need to rush off (and miss Rosie Denn is traveling), but I'll close by saying be prepared for more than one chapter to be posted next week, on Wednesday, August 31st!
See you then! As always, thank you all so much for reading~~ :3
~Jizena and Rosie Denn~
Addendum! Addendum! I almost forgot, ack! Little message to any 'Style' fans out there... Rosie Denn has penned an adorable one-shot called 'Perfect'~ check it out here: .net/s/7308386/1/Perfect :3
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