This ones longer, and a little more intense on subject matter. I don't know what happened, it kind of got away from me as I was writing.

TW: suicide/attempted suicide/death. Don't read the last section of this if you don't want to read something potentially triggering

Wendy and Eric fall out of the movie theatre foyer and onto the street, both busting a gut laughing. Wendy's guffawing so hard that she's forced to hold onto Cartman for stability, practically bent double as she clutches her sides.

"Oh my God," she wheezes. "That might have been the worst movie of all time."

He grins, keeping an eye on her. "You are not wrong," he agrees with a chuckle. "The way the shark just… bent in half?!" he roars, slapping his thighs. "Goddamn, dude."

"I was scared for my sanity, seriously. I'm amazed I even sat through that garbage…" she shakes her head, disappointed. "Why do you need sixteen Jaws movies, anyway? They should have stopped while they were ahead. After the second one."

Cartman grins, and there's a short silence. "So… I'll pencil us in to watch Jaws 17 next year, then."

They both pause their laughter to look at each other in awe, and then Wendy bubbles over with giggles again.

It was strange. She was actually with Eric Cartman and instead of wanting to punch him in the face, she was enjoying herself? It was a bizarre and novel experience to say to the least - but Wendy was game to have a little fun with an old nemesis. Besides, he's matured, and she isn't someone who lingered on the past.

When they'd chatted last week, she'd actually found herself interested to find out more about the new Cartman. They'd met up twice last week, and today she'd had a text asking if she wanted to join him to watch Jaws 16 at a theatre in the centre of Denver. Considering that she's heading back to university in just a few days, she'd figured - why not? It wasn't a far drive from her parents, where she's been staying. And it's not like they were ever going to see each other again once she returns to Harvard.

She figures it's be a nice way to say goodbye, and leave them on good terms.

Speaking of which, they laugh their way all the way down the street and find themselves outside a Denny's. Cartman hesitates, floating to a stop outside the entrance and tentatively jams a thumb towards the door. "Do you…?"

"Sure," Wendy beams. "I could go for junk food."

He opens the door for her, and she graciously thanks him. Within a few minutes, they're sat in a small, cramped booth looking out over the cold street.

Wendy regards Cartman with a cool intensity. "I'm surprised you wanted me to see a movie with you. It's almost like we're actually friends, or something."

Cartman just shrugs, flagging down a waiter. "Or something," he agrees. "I'm surprised that you can stomach hanging out with me for so long. Most people would have had enough by now. Don't ask me why, I think I'm a fucking treat."

"Hah!" Wendy barks. "You're alright. You can be salty sometimes."

"Salty?" Cartman asks, shaking his head. "I disagree. I'm not as easily annoyed as people always seem to think. I just have one of those faces."

"No… c'mon, that's not true." Wendy smiles, a small laugh escaping her. "You have the face of an angel. And you even look vaguely cherubic. Your evil is all hidden underneath," she comments, leaning forward to speak a little quieter. "

"You can hardly talk!" He splutters. "You have this whole chic graduate student vibe, but I bet underneath you're just as repressed and twisted as me."

"You nailed me," she rolls her eyes, turning to face the young, bespeckled waiter. His eyes bulge out of his sockets when he spies Wendy and his cheeks turn immediately pink.

"What can I get you two?" he says, his voice cracking painfully. He clears his throat and tries again. "What would you like to eat?"

"Uh… just a veggie burger and fries for me. With a diet coke," she smiles politely, gesturing to Cartman to say his order.

"Of course!" the waiter blusters, scribbling something down in his notebook.

"Same," Cartman says.

"So that's two veggie burgers, fries and two diet cokes," the waiter repeats, his eyes lingering on Wendy. "D-did you… want any sauces with that?"

"Ketchup," Cartman growls, glaring hard at the poor boy, who remains unphased. He barely glances at Cartman, his eyes are still glued to Wendy.

She coughs into her fist and raises her eyebrows at him. "Uh. That's the whole order. Thank you."

He smiles and nods politely - but doesn't move.

Cartman practically throws their menus at his head in frustration. "GO!" he hisses, one hairs breadth away from stomping on the waiter's foot.

He suddenly wakes up from his reverie, scrambling around to catch the menus and frantically apologising. "Sorry! Sorry! Thank you! Sorry!" he blurts out inadvertedly, and then when he's caught his balance; he wheedles away in shame.

Wendy watches the scene unfold with a glimmer of amusement, and then her eyes dart back to Cartman with her hand covering her mouth. Her eyes betraying her grin. "Oh my God," she whispers. "That was a little harsh of you."

Cartman scoffs. "Was it?" he asks a little dubiously. "I mean, the guy was eye-fucking you so hard I'm surprised you're not pregnant with his children."

"Ew!"

"What? I'm hungry."

"Yeah, me too," Wendy agrees. "Seriously, hanging around with you is starting to make me put on weight. All we seem to eat is fast food."

Cartman rolls his eyes. "Oh, shut up. You look great." He pauses. "Besides, you're going back to Harvard pretty soon, and then you can eat all the rabbit food you want. Meanwhile, I've still got you here in Colorado so I'm going to see that you eat properly."

Wendy's left eyebrow shoots up at that. "You're not my keeper," she splutters.

"Yeah, luckily. That sounds like an impossible task; to tame the shrew."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Wendy bites her lip, not taking his obvious bait. "You're going to miss me when I'm gone back to university, then?" she asks, a slightly teasing tone creeping into her voice.

Cartman sighs and blows air out of his cheeks, which turn a little red at the sides in turn. "Don't do that," he glances down at the table as her grin widens. He fiddles with the napkins there awkwardly, avoiding her gaze. When he does glance back up at her, his expression is markedly angrier. "No, I'm serious," he snaps. "Stop it."

"Stop what?" she asks. She's not sure what she's said to upset him. "W-what did I say?"

"You're trying to be cute," he replies brusquely. "And it just comes across as annoying."

Wendy blinks rapidly, confused by the sudden change of tone. "…well, alright then?" she says slowly. "I don't know what to say to that."

There's a silence. Wendy feels awkward, so she pulls her phone out of her pocket to check the time.

It's 7:16.

"It's quarter past seven," she hums.

"Oh," Cartman shrugs. He doesn't look up from where he's pointedly staring at the table below.

"It's quite late, isn't it?" she asks, leaning round to see where the waiter has gotten to.

The Denny's in question is fairly empty. The large screen windows betray a rapidly setting sun as the streets outside grow darker, and colder in typical Colorado fashion. There's a few dimpsy street lights but the harsh yellow glare of the industrial restaurant bulb keep the booth well-lit. There's a couple drinking coffee in the booth next door, and one older gentleman sitting on his own eating a burger in the corner and talking to himself.

"Yeah," Cartman observes.

The silence grows into a great big monster, threatening to swallow them up. As the conversation becomes lulled, every sound around them is amplified. The beeping of the deep fat fryers from the kitchens; the strange buzzing sound of inaudible speech, the sound of evening traffic outside.

"Um, Eric?" Wendy says quietly, placing her hands in the middle of the table as a sign of vulnerability, or maybe a truce or something like that. "Can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead," he says vacantly.

"What did I just now?" she asks. "To upset you?"

He grunts and crosses his arms over his chest. "Nothing. I just thought you were… y'know, being weird. You were making fun of me," he shuffles, his face flaming red.

"I wasn't making fun of you," she quickly responds. "I only asked you if you were going to miss me, when I go back to Harvard tomorrow."

"Yeah, and you know that I will. So… it's a stupid question. Designed to piss me off."

"I didn't know that, actually," she says, her voice falling soft; tender. "And it wasn't designed to do anything, except find an answer."

Cartman regards her. "Well. You got one. Laugh away"

"I think I'll miss you too," she replies, ignoring his latter comment. "Although my past self wouldn't believe that I'm saying it. I've been having a lot of fun hanging out with you the past couple weeks."

Cartman seems surprised. "Really?" he asked, chewing on his bottom lip.

"Yeah," she smiles encouragingly. "It's like… I can say anything to you. I can be as horrible as I want, or as nice as I want. You… you don't care," she says, her mind deep in thought. "It's liberating."

"Huh," he grunts. He's about to say something in response, but the sound of a third person approaching the table distracts him.

"Two veggies and fries, two diet cokes," the voice rattles off, placing the tray on the table in front of them, albeit nervously. "Just call if you n-need anything, I can-"

"We get it!" Cartman growls. "Leave."

"O-ok," the boy says, and scarpers.

He's almost loathe to look up and see Wendy's reaction, but when he does, her eyes are full of mirth.

"What's your problem?"

"He was staring at you…" Cartman explains with a heavy shrug.

"So what? You're jealous?" Wendy flips her black hair over her left shoulder and grabs her food, placing it in front of her and fingering her diet coke. "I'm not yours."

"I didn't say that you were," Cartman replies easily, shoving a fry into his mouth. "But he made you uncomfortable. S'not okay."

"Oh, uh. Well, thanks."

"S'ok," he says, chewing absently. Wendy looks at her food, suddenly not that hungry. She watches Cartman eat for a few seconds.

After a while, she speaks thoughtfully. "You know, you're kinda refreshing."

"You are too."

"Oh?" she asks, curious.

"Yeah, it's nice actually speaking to someone with half a brain for once." He stops, noticing that she's sitting upright awkwardly, not eating. He looks her dead in the eyes, and then shuffles in his chair. "Wendy. If you want to take out, we'll probably be a little more comfortable eating this on my couch," he suggests, the tip of his ears turning pink.

"Can I consider that an invitation?" she asks, the corners of her mouth turning upwards.

He shrugs. "Ball's in your court."

He's five drinks and four shots down when Kenny and Craig join him for a drink at O'Queef's, the equal parts feminist/irish bar in North Park.

"Hey, you guys!" he slurs, drunkenly swaying from side to side. He's sitting on his own, nursing what appears to be a pint of Guinness served in a pretty pink glass. Craig takes a seat next to Stan and observes him for a second. Then, he turns to Kenny.

"He's pissed as a newt already."

Stan largely ignores this. "Hey, you know what we should do?" he asks, too wasted to care that Kenny and Craig are sending each other looks. "We should totally head down to Stark's Pond. I've not been to Stark's Pond in fucking ages. I fucking miss you guys."

Kenny snorts. "I live with you, assface."

Craig just looks at him blankly. "How touching," he deadpans, placing a steadying hand on Stan's shoulder and glances over at Kenny. "Er, Ken? What should we do?" he asks, raising an eyebrow and jerking his thumb towards the liability of the group. "This one is already plastered. Or on his way there, at least."

Kenny shrugs, barely paying attention. "I say we catch up," he says firmly, slamming his hand down on the bar to get the attention of the bartender serving tonight. "Hey barkeep! Round of vodka shots please."

"How many is that?"

Kenny's eyes drift over his company and he grimaces. "Six," he replies. Two each would do fine, he thinks, maybe even three if Stan was still nursing his pint.

"So," Craig coughs into his hand. "We both know why Kenny's drowning his troubles tonight," he starts, leaning casually against the side of the bar. "And we all know why I'm drinking," he adds thoughtfully, a little dark shadow casting over his eyes for a split second "So I guess the question is… what do you have to be so depressed about, Marsh?"

Stan drags his eye level up to meet Craig's and burps loudly in his face. After sheepishly apologising, he takes a big sigh and groans. "Well, I lost my job, and my life is a fucked up mess. Is that reason enough?"

There's a notable pause. "You what?" Kenny asks, his shocked state causing him to blink a few times in rapid succession. "…are you kidding?"

"Nope!" Stan announces. "Only went and got fired today," he admits, a little reluctant. "I showed up drunk," he finally says, taking a large swig of beer to wash the words down with. His words are met with complete silence, and Stan buries his head in his forearms. He bites his lip hard, speaking in muffles as he barely bothers to life his head up. "I fuck everything up. Everything…"

Craig and Kenny share another glance of concern with one another. "Jesus, dude. That's heavy." Craig replies darkly, running a hand through his hair. "What's gotten into you recently?"

Stan barks a humorless laugh. He doesn't reply.

Kenny interjects. "It's more a question of who's gotten into him recently…" he says, murmuring the words conspiratorially underneath his breath.

Craig clasps his hands together. "Oh, really?" he exclaims, his gaze returning to a downtrodden Stan. "Oh, to be young and to feel love's keen sting," he says, in his signature deadpan. "Who's the lucky fella?"

Stan shakes his head and screws up his eyes.

Kenny speaks for him again, breaking the awkward silence. "Broflovski."

Craig grimaces, eyeing up Stan with some pity. "Ah, man. That's… that is unfortunate.

Stan looks up at him. "What does that mean?"

"Well, I just mean… you know, after everything that happened at high school. I didn't realise that you still had a thing for him, that's all."

"What do you mean, I had a thing for him?" Stan pipes up, slamming his beer glass down on the table with a little too much gusto. Kenny eyes up the bar in concern as the conversation continues without him, accepting the shots from the bartender gratefully.

"Put it on a tab," he informs the barkeep in a hushed whisper. "Thanks."

Craig raises his hands defensively at Stan. "Don't get your panties in a wad. All I meant is that you obviously wanted to suck his dick in high school," he pauses, gauging Stan's reaction. "Dude, the boy is as straight as an arrow. You're barking up the wrong tree."

Stan scowls, hard. "We kissed. We already did more than kissed."

Craig rolls his eyes. "Jesus, are you twelve?" he scoffs. "So, you fucked him up the ass. Or vice versa. So what?" he asks, prompting a rather confused look from both Kenny and Stan. He stares back at them for a few moments and then takes a shot from the bar, pouring the caustic liquid down his throat while they wait for him to continue. "Kyle likes girls. But," Craig pauses, sending Stan a look. "He also like to fuck around. He's a cock tease."

Stan blinks, his brain stumbling around this concept. "A… tease?"

Craig nods, letting out a small hum of agreement. He wipes his lips and takes the second shot from the bar, sending Stan a small and pitying look. "Trust me on this one, kid. You'll never get anywhere with that boy. Not in this lifetime."

Stan frowns, fingering his drink with a thoughtful look on his face. He turns to Kenny, who has been just barely listening to this conversation until now. "What do you think, Ken? You know him better."

Kenny locks eyes with Stan. "Honest truth?"

"Please," Stan nods.

"I… agree with Craig, dude," he admits, reluctantly. Stan begins to object but Kenny interrupts him, defending his point of view. "No, no. Don't get me wrong. I love Kyle, he's one of my best friends. But he's… he's not…"

"He's not what?"

Kenny groans, unsure how to phrase what he's trying to put out. "Look, I don't know what to say. You've been down this road before, Stan."

"That was in high school!" Stan protests.

"Yeah, and when you told him that you thought of him as more than a friend, he quit speaking to you. Dude, that's pretty clear cut," Kenny admits reluctantly.

Stan screws his eyes shut. "Then… what? You're seriously insinuating-" Stan drunkenly stumbles over this word – "That my best friend since childhood is leading me on just to screw with my feelings? Again?" he repeats, not opening his eyes. "You really think he'd do that?" he says again, quieter this time.

Kenny puts a hand on Stan's shoulder, his voice dropping quieter. "I don't think he means to do it, Stan. I just don't think he… I don't think he feels the same way as you do."

"How do you fucks know how I feel?" Stan suddenly blurts out, angry for some reason. He places his forefinger and thumb on either side of the bridge of his nose and squeezes, attempting to relieve tension from the headache that is rapidly pooling in his prefrontal cortex.

There's a short pause and Kenny pats his friend on the back. "I know you, Stan." He hesitates, waiting for a reaction. When there isn't one, he carries on. "And I know Kyle. And I know that this… this whole thing between you guys, it's going to end with you getting hurt."

Stan sips his beer, taking a large gulp and then sighing despondently as he stares down into the dark liquid. "Alright," he says passively, his protests finally breaking. "Whatever."

"Sorry, man." Kenny offers, suddenly feeling a little guilty. "I… I just wanted to-"

"Let's quit talking about it," Stan suddenly interjects. "Look, I…" he groans, and then forgets the thought, waving it out of his mind as if it were that easy. "You told me you had something to tell me," he quickly changes the subject. "What was it?"

Craig titters and now, it's Kenny's turn to groan. He turns to the bar and in quick succession, he polishes off one, two, three vodka shots.

Slamming the last one down against the bar side, he rests his face in his hands. "Ready?"

Stan stares at him hard. "Yes," he says.

"Alright, dude," Kenny starts nervously, cracking his knuckles and casting a cursory glance at Craig. "Here it is. Bebe is pregnant. It's mine. I'm the father. And… she wants to keep it."

Craig holds his breath, waiting for the reaction.

Stan falls off his bar stool.

At some point in the rather nebulous timekeeping of the evening - perhaps three o'clock – Stan has the wonderful idea that they should all wander back to his apartment to keep drinking. He a few bottles of whiskey in his room, and bars were expensive besides.

These are the series of events which lead three drunken idiots, in the early hours of the morning, to find themselves walking from North Park to South Park.

Craig, the slightly less intoxicated of the three, points out the railway station a few blocks away. "We should totally go there and throw rocks at trains," he suggests. "Me and Tweek used to go there all the time when he was feeling nervous about something. Sometimes it helped."

Kenny snorts. "When Tweek was feeling nervous," he repeats, folding his arms over his chest. "So; every night."

Craig scowls. "Hey, man. That's my ex-boyfriend. Leave him alone."

Stan snickers. "Yeah, emphasis on the ex, dude. That means you're supposed to be mean to him, that's how it works. Nobody in the history of the world is truly on good terms with anyone they dated. And if they are, it means that the relationship can't have been that serious."

Craig frowns harder, shaking his head. "Shut the hell up. What do you know about relationships? Have you ever been in one?"

Stan pauses for a second, his mind slow and stupid. It takes him a full five seconds to think back past his scattered and rather depressing dating history, and realise that Craig is, in fact, correct. Well, except for one. "That's not true!" he exclaims. "I was seeing Wendy for years."

"Your middle school beard doesn't count," Craig scoffs. "Did you ever even kiss her without puking?"

Stan shakes his head. "Nope."

"Then the point stands, now quit giving me advice. I didn't ask for it," Craig berates him. "The last time I followed what you guys wanted to do, I ended up in fricking Peru."

Cue a slightly drawn out groan from Kenny and Stan.

"Dude, are you still salty about that?" Kenny asks. "You got back safely, didn't you?"

"Giant guinea-pirates destroyed my house!" he rages.

Stan titters, and shortly after, Kenny joins in. "Yeah, good times."

"It's not funny!" Craig continues. "My family had to live in a shelter for weeks! My cat died! Tweek had anxiety for years about that fuckin' ordeal…

"Tweek had anxiety about everything."

Craig shrugs. "True. Still."

They trudge on, Craig's words reverberating in all their drunken minds as they reach the top of the hill they were climbing. Stan spies a railway crossing and decides to sit down a few metres from the tracks.

Kenny and Craig join him, either side.

"Whatever," Stan shakes his head, glad to be sitting down. His head is spinning, as he realises he's probably had one too many for a walk of this length. He turns to Craig again. "You should be glad you were involved in the Peru thing. It was the most interesting thing that happened in South Park for the entire month of July that year."

Craig snorts, resting his chin on his knees. "The problem with you two," he starts, his voice rather haughty. "Is that you don't give a shit about other people, because you have it so damn easy."

"That's not true." Kenny frowns. "I have it pretty rough. God seemingly hates me. I die constantly, in painful and creative ways. I'm about to have a kid that I don't want with a girl I'm not even dating. And I grew up poor as shit."

Craig shrugs, conceding to his point. Then, both eyes fall on Stan as they wait for him to bemoan his own life. Stan pulls his knees in close to him and wraps his arms around them, feeling a little childish. He looks at the two pairs of eyes expectantly on him and sighs. "I'm an alcoholic whose in love with his best friend," he says, almost dropping his voice down to a whisper. "And as of earlier today… I'm unemployed."

Kenny grimaces, leaning back so that his back is resting in the dust and propping himself up on his elbows. "Ye-ouch."

There's a short, heavy silence, and then Craig breaks it.

"Is it really so bad?" he asks Kenny. "Dying?"

Kenny shrugs, not looking him in the eye as he absently fiddles with a weed planted in the dirt. "I'd much rather be normal, if I had that choice."

"Why, though? You're immortal," Craig scoffs. "Most people would kill for that."

Kenny swallows. "The reality is actually kind of shit. People forget about you," he bites his lip and then observes his friends with a look of reckoning. "It took years and years for you guys to finally start remembering my deaths. When I was in middle school, I died constantly. At least a few times a week, anyway. In stupid, horrible, painful ways. One time, I had my brain speared by a flagpole," he explains, making Craig wince. "And when I came back… you all just forgot. You forgot I existed while I was dead. Nobody even cared enough to hold me a funeral. You know I never had one? Not one?" he reiterates.

Stan bites his lip. "I'm so sorry, Ken," he says quietly.

Kenny shakes his head. "Look, I'm not trying to get sympathy, or whatever. You get used to it. It's like… it's been like this for so long that I don't know what it's like to not die all the time…"

Craig and Stan make eye contact and Stan clears his throat. "It's alright," he answers.

"Hey, what happens when you die of old age? Or will you just live forever?" Craig wonders, scratching his stubble. "Like, does that count?"

Kenny shrugs. "I wish I knew," he replies wistfully, staring up at the large, flat sky filled with stars. "I wish anybody knew," he whispers. "All I want is for this baby to not be like me. To grow up normal. I don't want to be a dad. I just want…" his face screws up and he takes a few seconds before taking a deep breath. "I want to die forever, sometimes, man."

"I think everyone feels that way sometimes," Stan points out. "It's okay. Life sucks."

"Amen, you bleak fuckers," Craig echoes, holding up a toast with an imaginary bottle. Kenny holds up his, too, and they clink their invisible glasses together.

They lie down on the grass, enjoying the cicadas chirping. The night is crisp and cold, but not cold enough to hurt. Besides, they've all got pretty substantial beer jackets. The stars are out, and the surrounding ground around, aside from the wooden tracks, is soft.

The tranquillity reaches a breaking point a few minutes later, a faint sound of a moving vehicle emanating in the far distance. Stan stares after it, eventually realising, once he spies a bright, white light – that the train is about to cross.

He ponders it for a second. "I didn't know that trains ran this late," he comments. "I guess it's probably a freight. We should move," he says, standing up rapidly.

Craig stands up slow, stretching up his arms and yawning before shifting himself a few yards clear of the oncoming train. "This is probably enough room," he says, barely cracking open an eye.

"C'mon, Ken," Stan places his hands on his hips and softly budges his toe into Kenny's side. He doesn't move. "Move. Train," he enunciates.

"Who cares?" Kenny responds, deadpan. "In fact…" he shuffles a few metres in the opposite direction, so that he's actually sitting flush upon the tracks. Stan's eyes pop out of their skull as Kenny takes the last dregs of beer and then throws the bottle away. Grinning, he says: "This is a nice night as any to die."

Craig groans and slaps his palm on his face. "Let's not go there. Just move, Ken. I don't need to scrape your carcass off this track. Not now, not ever."

Stan stares hard at Kenny, and then turns to face Craig. "He's got a point," he says slowly, drunkenly. "It is a nice night."

He sits down next to Kenny.

"Dude," Kenny looks at him, his relaxed expression suddenly turning to sheer terror. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I want to die," he says, his voice cracking uncomfortably. "I do."

Kenny and Craig share a wild look and Kenny jumps up, the situation suddenly seeming much more serious than it did ten seconds ago. Kenny starts to beg him, pulling on his arms. "The train is actually coming, man. Seriously, get the fuck off the tracks."

"Yeah, dude, this isn't funny," Craig growls, his signature deadpan giving way to something else entirely. "Quit messing around."

"It was your idea," Stan points out, snatching his arm out of Kenny's reach. "Let me do it."

"I was just kidding around, man, c'mon," he repeats, pulling on Stan's leg. He stumbles backwards as Stan's shoe comes off in his hands. "Please, dude. You won't come back like me! You won't come back!"

Stan pulls back, hard, his chest suddenly pounding as the noise and the lights get brighter. "No. No. Stop it! LEAVE ME ALONE!" his words start coming out jumbled and shouted as the conversation quickly becomes more serious.

Craig slides either arm underneath Stan's armpits, lifting him and shoving him forcibly off the tracks. Stan slams onto his side, hard, tumbling a few metres as he does. "What the fuck are you doing?!" he screams at Craig, groaning and grabbing his side.

The sound of the train rumbles closer and there's the loud sound of a horn starting up. In a second, Stan straightens up from the floor – breaking free – and bolts back towards the track.

"Stan!" Craig yells out. "Fuck!"

He clenches his eyes shut, hard, and turns around. Maybe it's instinct, who knows. But he refuses to watch this. He misses what happens next.

On the other side of the tracks, Kenny's legs move before his brain has time to play catch up. He runs at Stan, full force, throwing him at least four of five yards clear of the tracks, down the other side. Stan goes flying, despite being about double Kenny's weight. He moans in pain, and then cranes his neck up as the train passes by.

Stan doesn't miss what happens next. In fact, he looks up just in time to see Kenny's body explode into a thousand pieces.

He keels over and vomits all over his socks.

The blare of the train's horn and the clashing sound that the metal makes on the tracks go on forever. It doesn't stop, though, it just keeps ploughing on and on for what feels like an eternity. It grinds Kenny into smaller and smaller parts; worse than any roadkill.

Even after it passes, and silence returns over the dark field, there's a long, protracted period where nobody says anything at all.

And then Craig walks over the tracks, over to where Stan is lying in the ground. Stan thinks for a second that Craig is going to kick him, but he doesn't. He reaches a single gloved hand out. Stan stares at it for a second, and then gratefully accepts as Craig hauls the boy to his feet.

"Thanks," Stan whispers, the sound coming out as just less than a whimper.

Craig fixes him with the most bizarre look that Stan's ever seen. He takes off his blue hat with one hand and runs a hand through his dark hair with the other. "Great job, you bastard, you killed Kenny," he utters in his famous deadpan.

"Did I?" Stan asks, dazed and confused. He reaches up to his face, feeling something warm there. When he sees that it's Kenny's blood, he promptly passes out.