Um... I sure hope none of you are taking this story seriously, cause... I'm not. I thought the chapter titles would be a tip-off. XD This is really more of a parody.

Also! The hired killer from Follow That Egg was far too awesome of a character to NOT reuse him. And all will be resolved next chapter, don't you worry.

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Stan watched with a detached interest as the wrestler dressed up as Peter Pan kicked the wrestler dressed up as Michael Jackson in the throat. Tonight, they were fighting for the right to never grow up. Trust Kyle to drag him to the weirdest shit imaginable. He'd just seen a pirate ninja sucker punch a cowboy, and the next match was going to be between God-only-knows.

Kyle'd disappeared to get some refreshments nearly twenty minutes ago, and Stan was leaning as far over in his seat that he could to avoid being crushed by the hairy forearm of the man next to him. Why had he bothered to come here, again? He'd already spent a weekend fighting with Kyle to get his temperature. Between burning his thumb making soup and having his life threatened by an imposing elbow, he was running the risk of having too much fun. He ought to pace himself.

Of course, Stan was asking himself this rhetorically. He knew exactly why he was here. It was for the same reason that it bothered him so much that Kyle seemed to think it was endlessly amusing to joke about their relationship - that Kyle thought the idea of them together was laughable.

"Enjoying yourself?" Kyle called brightly, not apologizing to the other spectators as he crawled over their knees to get back to his seat. Stan glanced at him as he collapsed next to him with a contented sigh, then passed him a soda. "Sorry it took so long; you wouldn't fucking believe that line. What is it about sports that makes everyone want to eat? Are they trying to compensate for the calories the athletes are burning?"

"You're calling wrestlers athletes?" Stan questioned. "Bit of a stretch, don't you think?" He took the drink Kyle handed him and took a sip, then made a face. "Ugh - this is root beer."

"Sorry, that's mine," Kyle said, taking it back and switching cups with him. Stan watched as he slurped a generous gulp from the straw, and beat back his pang of straw-envy. Don't get pathetic, Marsh.

"So," Kyle said, with the air of one who was reopening a discussion, "Enjoying yourself?"

"Oh yeah," Stan said, only a little sarcastically. "You know how I love cage matches."

Kyle made a face at him. "C'mon, man, I know you don't like wrestling."

Stan blinked at him. "Eh?"

"I've known you for nearly fifteen years. I'd like to imagine I know a little about your likes and dislikes," Kyle huffed.

"O...kay," Stan said, trying to work this out in his head. "So then why'd you invite me to something you know I don't like?"

"I thought you'd get a kick out of costume night," Kyle said, pouting. "No one points out human stupidity like you do."

Kyle grinned at him and he finally grinned back, and they began snarking about the wrestlers. And Stan found he was enjoying himself - though he suspected that was because of the magical ability of Kyle's presence that always made him enjoy himself, no matter what they were doing together, and not the badly choreographed wrestling.

The only problem was that a hairy elbow was still occupying his seat. Stan had to lean farther and farther over into Kyle to avoid it, and then without warning the elbow swung out and quite predictably knocked him right into Kyle's lap. The lid popped off his soda and doused Kyle in the face, and Kyle blinked rapidly, looking at Stan stupidly. Stan looked back just as stupidly.

He glanced down Stan's hand, which was gripping his inner thigh like it had been stapled there, and then he looked back up and arched an eyebrow at him. Stan very quickly jumped off of Kyle, snatching his hand away as if it had been burned and turning a lovely red color. He'd always been rather proud of his self-restraint, too - he'd never 'accidentally' felt Kyle up, no matter how tempting it was. Or how many, many chances he'd gotten to do it.

When Stan had jumped back into his seat, however, he's knocked into The Elbow. This had resulted in the owner of The Elbow to choke on the hot dog he'd been just about to take a bit of. He whirled around to glare at Stan, after a self-induced Heimlich maneuver, and shouted, "You just made me choke on my meat! Apologize!"

"Er," Stan said, who would have found that incredibly amusing and broken into hysterical, immature laughter, if not for the simple fact that the man who'd just said that looked like he could kill him by sitting on him. "I'm sor-"

"Like hell he's going to apologize! It was your fault!" Kyle barked at him. Stan twisted around and gave him a horrified look.

"Ooo, a tough guy, huh?" The man with The Elbow said, standing up and cracking his knuckles. "You want me to make you apologize?"

Kyle, being short and Jewish, was not very intimidating. He apparently decided the best way to combat the other man's height was to stand on his chair. He did so. "Bring it, bitch!"

"Kyle what the HELL are you doing!" Stan cried.

"You can't let people push you around, Stan, Jesus."

"You're going to get your ass handed to you!"

"What, don't you have any confidence in me? I'm insulted."

Elbow Man advanced, and Kyle leapt from his chair and, employing what could only be referred to as 'Jew Kung Fu,' planted his foot in the other man's face.

They proceeded to roll around in the stands, throwing punches and, in Kyle's case, biting. The surrounding spectators turned away from the wrestling match to watch because, really, it was far more entertaining.

"Kyle!" Stan shouted, very nearly ripping his hair in exasperation. He noticed security making their way toward them and, deciding he really didn't want to have to bail Kyle out of wrestler-jail, he dove forward, grabbed Kyle by one of his failing ankles, and dragged him off of the guy.

"Hey!" Kyle said indignantly, glaring up at him from the floor. Stan dropped his foot and seized him by the wrists instead, hauled him to his feet, and dragged him out of there.

Kyle stopped struggling after about a block or so. Stan let go of his hands somewhat reluctantly, and was a little startled when Kyle promptly threw his arm around his shoulders and leaned his weight on him.

"I think," Kyle said very seriously, "I might be a little drunk."

"Might?"

"Yeah, that's the thing. I haven't had anything alcoholic to drink."

They puzzled over this in silence for a little while, and then Kyle said, "I missed this, you know."

"Making an ass out of yourself and getting socked by large hairy men?"

"No, smartass. Hanging out. Just the two of us. We're always busy with other people now, and I keep fucking up the time we do have together," Kyle said mournfully. He glanced up at him and said, smiling briefly, "I miss you."

Stan gaped at him and fumbled for a response that was neither a callous brush-off nor a screaming declaration of love.

He settled with, "Me too."

--

Kenny looked at the number on the mailbox, then he fished the paper out of his pocket and checked it to make sure he'd gotten it right. He'd ended up not eating the paper like the Mole had wanted.

But now he was starting to doubt that the Mole had written down the right address. Because this house looked so... normal. The way Stan had gone on about it, he'd expected an alligator pit or something. It was an average house, nestled between two other average houses, on an average street. A old lady was taking her dog for a walk, and a big man with bigger sunglasses was watering his yard without a shirt on.

The door swung open and the Mole scowled at him from the doorway. "Oh, hey Mole," he said cheerfully, smoothly slipping the paper back into his pocket so he didn't know it hadn't been digested. He didn't want to witness one of the Mole's famous freak-outs, after all.

"Don't say my name so loudly!" The Mole hissed at him. "You came alone? Were you followed?"

"Who would follow me?" Kenny asked, bemused. The Mole strode forward, seized him by the wrists, and dragged him back into the house, where he promptly locked the door and checked through the blinds for... something. Kenny really had no idea what the Mole thought was out to get him, unless he thought that little old lady out there walking her poodle had some sort of sinister intent.

"Why are all your lights turned off?" he asked curiously, looking around the dark room. "Parents forget to pay the electric bill? Been there."

The Mole, who'd apparently been convinced the little old lady wasn't plotting his demise, stepped away from the window and shook his head. "Ambiance."

"Ambiance?"

"Yes, ambiance," the Mole confirmed. "You're stepping into unknown territory, i.e., your desire to peetch for the other team, which ez represented by the unknown territory of my house. It's all very dark and mysterious."

"Really."

"It's a breelliant literary technique."

"Sounds pretty heavy-handed, if you ask me."

"I didn't."

Kenny shrugged. "Do you have food?" he asked, making his way toward the kitchen. The Mole hurried after him. "I haven't eaten in-... Who's that?" Kenny asked, coming to a dead halt as he stared at the man bent over the stove.

"Zat's-"

"Jacartha!" the man barked, whirling around to face them in his army boots and frilly pink apron. "The greatest killer the world has ever seen!"

"-my father," the Mole finished with a sigh.

"Wow," Kenny said. "That answers nearly as many questions as it raises."

"He hasn't been the same since he got hired to keell this egg." They both watched as he cracked eggs into the pan and whisked it, crackling evilly. "Let's go upstairs," the Mole suggested a little wearily. His father was a bit of an embarrassment.

"But I'm hungry," Kenny complained. The Mole made an exasperated noise.

"Fine, here," he said, grabbing the first thing he saw, stuffing it into the other boy's hands, and dragged him up the stairs. It wasn't until the Mole closed the door to his bedroom and locked it that Kenny had enough time to read the box.

"... Cake mix?" He glanced at the Mole. "I don't suppose you're going to unlock the door and let me go back downstairs and get something else?"

The Mole looked at him like he was the crazy one. "After I secured ze perimeter?"

"That'd be a 'no,' huh," Kenny said. He shrugged, opened the box, and began eating the cake mix by the handful. "Okay, tell me how to seduce a dude. Just, uh, don't tell me any specifics of your and Stan's relationship. I don't really want that particular mental image."

"You didn't draw ze map," the Mole said matter-of-factly, stepping away from the door. Kenny frowned a little at him.

"I already apologized. Not that it was really my fault."

The Mole shook his head. "I don't care about ze map. But I agreed to geeve you gay lessons in exchange for sometheeng. And now I want-"

"You're not going to make me give you a hand job, are you?" Kenny asked, his eyes widening a little. "Or - oh, you want me to go down on you, right? That's why you locked the door."

The Mole was, for once in his life, driven completely speechless. Then he finally blinked. "... Non."

"No?"

"Non," he said more firmly, making a face at him. "I have a boyfriend."

"... Oh," Kenny said, having the decently to look abashed, "right. I mean, obviously. Uh. Sorry. That was a really stupid thing for me to assume." He tipped his head back, knocking some cake mix straight into his mouth. "I mean, of course you aren't looking to cheat on Stan. So, uh, what did you want?"

The Mole was momentarily tempted to say, 'I want you to keep that Jewish manslut off of my boyfriend,' but he'd always known Kyle was nonnegotiable when it came to Stan. Were he ever to give Stan an ultimatum, his own ass would be the one kicked to the curb.

"I just want to know more about zese deaths ov yours."

"Why does my dying interest you so much, anyway?" Kenny asked, casually reclining on his bed.

"I've died before, too."

Kenny fell off of the bed.

"Woah, wait, WHAT?" he said, dragging himself off of the floor and staring at him, his hair doused with cake mix. "Seriously?" The Mole nodded. "Seriously. Wow. Shit, WOW. I never thought..." He stood up and reclaimed a seat on the bed. "How many times?"

"Just once."

"Just once?" Kenny repeated, looking a little disappointed. "Well... still. Jesus. How did it happen?"

"I was hopeeng you could tell me," the Mole said, scrutinizing him. For eight years it had been haunting him - not his death, that hadn't really fazed him, and not seeing hell, that had sort of been a let down - but just not knowing how he'd come back. He wanted to know. Hell, he needed to know. It was driving him crazy.

... Well, his father probably had a hand in his current mental state as well.

"No, I didn't mean how'd you come back - how'd you die?"

"Oh," the Mole said. "Guard dogs."

Kenny whistled. "Ouch. Yeah, mauling hurts like a bitch. I've gotten mauled a good... fourteen times, I think."

The Mole frowned at him. "You're not sure?"

"It all sort of blends together after the two-hundredth time," Kenny said, retrieving the box of cake mix from the floor. "I couldn't keep track if I wanted to."

"'Ow does it 'appen?" the Mole demanded, because he'd always wanted to know, and... Kenny shrugged.

"Hell if I know."

"You don't know," the Mole said flatly, staring at him.

"Nope."

"You're not even curious?"

"Nope."

They stared at each other for a moment, and then the Mole let out a low, slow groan and gripped his forehead.

"I 'ave a headache."

"But you're still going to give me gay lessons, right?" Kenny asked hopefully.

"Just... ugh. Fine," he muttered, rubbing his temple. "Who were you planning on seducing?"

"Butters."

The Mole frowned at him. "Butters is straight."

"He tap dances. He can't be that straight."

The Mole rolled his eyes and made an exasperated noise. He pinched the bridge of his nose, a trait he had picked up from Stan. He suddenly understood why Stan did it so often. "Fine... well... you've apparently had plenty of experience seducing women. Just do the same to him."

"That's it? That's all you're going to give me?" Kenny huffed.

"You gave me a migraine. I think it's a more-than-fair exchange."

--

Clyde was one of the rare few people that didn't completely hate Cartman.

In the summer before seventh grade, Cartman, Kyle, Stan, and Kenny had all been split up for the first time. Cartman sent her letters from Lil' Dictator's Camp, keeping her updated, and expressing his bemusement that as big a crybaby as Clyde had also been sent there as well.

(In addition to the letters, he had sent her many a macaroni and glitter and glue homage to Hitler. Wendy had hung them up on the fridge just for the look on her mother's face. He had also, apparently, been sending them to Kyle, who'd been shipped off to Jew Camp. Kyle, reportedly, burned them all.)

When Cartman took over the camp and ruled with an iron fist, he'd turned Clyde into his errand boy. When the authorities finally broke through the walls and infiltrated Cartman's war room, he'd blamed the entire thing on Clyde and gotten off scott-free. When he got back home, he'd told her that Clyde was a 'pussy crybaby with no spine.' The fact that Clyde had not ratted him out, however, seemed to win him some points with Cartman, and Cartman treated him halfway decent most of the time.

Like right now, Wendy thought, as she tried to burn a hole through Clyde's head with her eyes from across the room.

Cartman had gone to the principal, cited creative differences, thrown down a little blackmail, and gotten him to switch the student council around so that he was organizing the dance with Clyde instead of Wendy. She'd been reduced to keeping track of who'd bought tickets, and it was her job to weed out the people who would inevitably show up at the door with photocopied ones.

She wished fire and brimstone on Clyde every time Cartman said something amusing and he laughed. Supplying Cartman's laugh track was her job. Chastising him for his evil plots while doing nothing to stop him and then laughing when they fell apart or succeeded was HER job!

When Cartman got up to yell at the only Mexican student in the school to go get him a soda, Clyde stood up and made his way over to Wendy. Wendy immediately bent over her ticket receipts and pretended she hadn't been staring at them unblinkingly for the past two hours.

"Hey, Wendy?" Clyde said, standing over her table. Wendy looked up and gave him a look that, she felt, properly conveyed her general desire for him to be thrown into a wood chipper, feet-first.

Clyde didn't take the hint and sat down next to her. "I wanted to ask you something about Cartman."

She inclined an eyebrow at him, and his gaze dropped to his hands. He picked at his fingernails and took a deep breath. "Cause... you know him best... and guys with girls as friends are pretty much all... you know..." he glanced around the room to make sure Cartman hadn't snuck back in, but they could still him outside the door, shouting that he didn't care if Pedro was a citizen, he'd find a way to deport him.

Clyde licked his lips and leaned in, lowering his voice. "Do you think I'd have a shot with him?"

Wendy gaped at him. Then Wendy burst into maniacal laughter, because her brain had, finally, broken.

--

TBC