South Park GAZETTE
Wednesday, July 26 2017
MYSTERIOUS ILLNESS SICKENS TOWN
10 cases of an illness with a likeness to the plague have been confirmed. Symptoms include vomiting of blood and other substances, with frequent fainting. The Department of Health advises that people wash their hands frequently and have their vaccines updated (and their pets) until more information about the disease is found.
...
Sometimes when he closed his eyes, he could still see it. The three-paneled altarpiece, resting on a gray shelf in the Denver Art Museum. This was their family outing- a day in Denver, where Gerald and Sheila thought they might soften their wild boys by unmasking them to bumpy paintings and sleek sculptures.
A flock of flaming curls fell into the sink. He wasn't a stranger to feeling the buzz of a razor on his scalp.
The piece that Kyle remembered most was that Keith Haring work: silvery-gold hieroglyphics with various arms and legs, cast in bronze. The bodies so tight together, shaking their spoon-like arms, twisting lines and dashes filling the vacant spaces.
Carefully, he snapped on black gloves.
The altarpiece was meant to detail the life of Christ, but at the time, Kyle thought it looked like a music festival. Falling bodies, halos and angel wings, tear drops the size of finger tips. Now that he stared at it more when he closed his eyes, yes, it's Christ. A small child in the center. A heart. A cross. It's an altarpiece, of course, he chided himself. Contemporary Christ.
Coolness surrounded his fingers as he dipped into the purple goop, squishing it in the palm of his hand.
According to an article he read, Haring carved out the images freehand in one session. Total freedom left him breathless, exhilarated, moved. Wild.
Kyle loved this piece. He loved this artist. But the more he pictured the intermingling bodies, the claustrophobia, the chaos, he couldn't help but wonder, if he made an altarpiece showcasing his own life, what grand image would be etched into the top? He couldn't think of anything.
Right now, it was blank.
...
Kenny McCormick crawls into Kyle's window to find that Kyle isn't there. But he knows that he can't be far. In the murky lighting, he can make out the clutter of his desk and resolves to steal a look while he waits.
Taped on the wall was the tarot card: The Fool, above a stack of wire-bound notebooks, a large Ziploc bag of sympathy cards and wilted flowers in the corners. Some had dwindled to the floor.
In a 5 by 7 inch silver frame was a photo of Stan and Kyle. A selfie where both of their faces were scrunched, illuminated by a bright light. Kyle's eyes glowed red. The background was black. Kenny figured they forgot the flash was on but Kyle decided to keep it because it was funny.
Next to it, a photo he didn't expect to see: himself and Kyle on the first day of kindergarten. They were outside in the early September sunlight. Kenny had his arms flung around Kyle's shoulders, his gap-toothed grin peeking just above the cotton of his hood. Kyle's hands held onto Kenny's arms as if he was holding onto the chest guard on a roller coaster, squinting with his equally gleeful gap-toothed smile. Once, they stuck each end of a Twizzler in the other's teeth to see if it would hold. After a couple of tries it did, and neither of them stopped talking about it for the rest of the day.
In an open pocket book, random chemistry notes (no doubt from the study sessions with Karen) were scrawled in his cursive.
Dopamine
Serotonin
Oxytocin
Metathesis: a change of place or condition: such as
Transposition of two phonemes in a word
A chemical reaction in which different kinds of molecules exchange parts to form other kinds of molecules.
Kyle opened his bedroom door in nothing but Terence and Phillip boxers, drying his hair with hand towel, droplets of water still clung to his chest like crystalized pears.
"Kenny…" the name breezed out of his mouth like a soaring kite, "Hey."
Kenny tilted his head and folded his hands behind his back, "You don't seem surprised I'm here."
"I had a feeling you were creeping around in my bedroom. Intuition, I guess," Kyle said, closing the door behind him.
"Holy fuck, your hair."
Kyle tossed the towel to the floor. "Yeah… I mean, I ripped most of it out, so why not just cut it all off."
"Uh, sure. It's very short… and purple. Why purple?"
Kyle shrugged, "The lady at Sally Beauty said it was the only color that would take the brassiness out of my hair. You don't like it?"
"No, no, I do. I think it looks nice with your eyes."
"Well, thanks. I like it too," he sat on the side of his bed, "So, what's up?"
"Nothing. I missed you."
"You saw me this morning."
"I know, but… you know."
Smiling, Kyle crossed his legs and ran a hand through his freshly done hair. "I know. I missed you too."
He sat next to Kyle in a satisfied silence. Using his fingers like legs, he walked down Kyle's thigh. Kyle rolled his eyes, bumped his head into Kenny's shoulder, "What do you think you're doing?"
"I'm not thinking at all."
"Do my parents know you're here?"
"No, I came in through your window."
"Of course you did."
"Are you complaining?"
"No," Kyle leaned into his touch, "I just didn't realize you deliver."
"Oh my god, I'm not a pizza delivery dude."
"Really? You wouldn't give me a Meat Lovers' Special?"
"Oh-kay," Kenny suddenly stood, hands clasped over his head, breathing deeply, "I don't think I can do this."
"Kenny, we're not doing anything. I'm just teasing you. Like how, you know, you tease me all the time."
"I know, I'm sorry. I'm flaky."
"Flaky? I don't think you're flaky. You're the most reliable person I know."
"Don't say things like that to me."
"Why?"
"Because it makes me want to fuck you."
"What? Telling you the truth?"
"No… because you're nice to me."
"Why wouldn't I be nice to you?"
"Because. I don't know. I'm not…" he peered over at the photo on the desk, "How long have you had that picture out?"
"I found it after you dropped out. It's been awhile since you've been in my room."
"Yeah…" he sat back down on the bed.
"If anything, Kenny, you're just fidgety. Not flaky," Kyle's voice dove into softness, a gentler tone, "Are you really that scared of me? I'm confused."
"Not scared of you, just nervous. And tense. Super tense. This is different for me. I feel different with you."
"I understand… I get tense too," he scooted back, pulling Kenny in front of him.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Kyle dug his fingers into Kenny's shoulders, "Trying to decompress you- dude-" He felt Kenny slump over, laughing. "Are you okay?"
"Mm-hmm," Kenny leaned back into him, "I'm just not used to being touched like that."
"Well get used to it."
As he felt Kyle's fingertips graze over his scalp, down across the borders of his neck and shoulder blades, he thought of one of the last times he died. It was the fresh hours of the morning. The sun was peeking out, and he had been stabbed in the head. Amongst the crisp, blue, cloudless sky he saw the person, a young man, no one he knew, run off into the distance. The boy, likely around his own age, was scared of Mysterion and acted on pure impulse. The act was so pure, so instinctual, that Kenny couldn't be mad. He fell into the grass with solemn acceptance. One singular vulture floated in circles thousands of feet above him, watching, waiting to make his ribcage a home. Warmth trickled down the back of his head, clinging to his neck and creeping into his ears. He watched the vulture swoop lower and lower. A deer licked the sweat off his face. His fingers twitched. His breath weakened. His eyes closed.
A whisper from the sky: "I love you."
Then a kiss on the top of his head.
He opened his eyes.
Kenny turned himself around and hugged Kyle tightly, pressing him down. He touched his neck, behind his ear, feeling raised bumps of skin.
"That's where the racoon bit me," he said.
"I remember," he leaned down and kissed the bite mark, leaving hot breath hovering over Kyle's skin, then moved to his lips, staying there for a few minutes.
"Kenny?"
"Yeah?"
"Lock the door."
...
"Ugh, Kyle. Your hair." Gerald looked at his son from the kitchen table, who was leaning against the counter, eating an apple. "No one in Shakespeare times had purple hair."
"I didn't realize you were there, Gerald," Kyle didn't even look at him, breaking off the stem and throwing it into the sink. He heard his mother huffing in the living room at use of Gerald instead of 'dad.' "The play has murder, rape, and some thoughtfully-placed cannibalism. No one will care about my hair." He bit and swallowed another piece of Ambrosia.
Gerald rolled his eyes and returned to checking his emails.
Sheila came around the corner and began pouring water into the coffee maker, "You could've at least dyed your eyebrows to match. And whatever happened to sleeves?" She tugged at his gray tank top, "God, the opening goes all the way to your waist- I can see your boxers."
"Yeah, stop dressing like a slut, Kyle," Ike walked in and immediately rummaged through the fridge.
"Oh, good, the other dumbass is here now," Gerald announced as if he were introducing guests at a garden party.
Ike smirked, raised his casted arm like a robot. The other day he attempted to jump off the trampoline and into the swimming pool, but misjudged the distance and shattered his arm on the rim of the pool. Signatures swarmed the wrapping: Kenny, Butters, Mom, KAREN (in all caps surrounded by hearts), Kyle (who also drew a small dick), Sharon, Randy (who also drew a smiley face after deciding it would be too weird to draw a dick on a 13-year old's arm) and any random people that Ike ran into downtown.
"Oh, stop it, Gerald," Sheila said, grabbing her #1 MOM mug from the cabinet.
"It's fucking torrid outside," Kyle countered to Ike, "And who cares if I look like a slut. At least I'm a slut with substance."
"I don't think you look like a slut, Kyle," Sheila said, before Ike could open his mouth. "I just liked your old clothes better. And your hair," she reached up and tried to ruffle it, "You had such pretty hair."
"It'll grow back, Ma. You're being dramatic," Ike said, attempting to pull out milk, eggs and orange juice with one hand. Kyle reached in and pulled them out for him, one at a time.
"First of all, this is Stan's shirt," Kyle explained, a tinge of defensiveness sprouting from his throat, "Secondly, the color will come out after 40 washes."
"40 washes?! Did that dye have Elmer's Glue in it?" Gerald asked.
Kyle shrugged and took another apple bite.
"That's ridiculous."
"You're just mad because you barely have any hair left," Kyle finished the apple and threw it in the trash. Ike stifled a laugh.
"Joke's on you, Kyle. You have my genetics."
"Then I'll make sure they die with me."
"Oh, whatever, I've had enough of you this morning," Gerald picked up his tablet. "I'm going to the computer room."
Kyle called after him, "Yes, because the last few times you were alone with a computer worked out REALLY WELL."
Gerald scoffed and walked upstairs. Once he was out of earshot, Kyle turned to his mother. She was now sitting at the table, face in her hands. She rubbed underneath her eyes and looked up at him. "Ike, can you go somewhere else for five minutes?"
"But I'm about to make an omelet!"
"I'll finish it for you, just go," she rose and turned on the stove, and sprayed a pan. Ike shrugged with one shoulder. He whispered good luck before leaving the kitchen and going into the backyard to sit idly on their old swing set.
Kyle poured his mother's coffee and mixed it with coconut milk before moving it lightly down the counter to her.
"Oh, thank you," she said, cracking an egg.
"What's going on?"
"Before I say anything else, I want you to know that this is a conversation. Not a fight. Can you agree to keep it a conversation?"
"Sure, I guess."
"No, Kyle, none of this you guess. Tell me straight up if you can say yes or no."
The image, like a hologram now, of Stan getting down on one knee before him: I wanted to wait until your birthday to do this, but the ring finally came yesterday and I couldn't wait.
Then his own, bastard of a response: I don't know.
Kyle sighed, "Okay, yes."
"I've been noticing some things about you… besides the physical changes. I'm worried."
"About what? I'm fine."
"I've noticed that you haven't been eating as much. Are you planning on having anything else besides that apple?"
Kyle frowned, thinking about all of the food, the soil, God knows what else he threw up. He could have sworn he saw a rabbit's foot at one point.
"I just don't have much of an appetite these days."
She lifted the bottom of the egg with a small spatula, "Maybe- and don't take this the wrong way, Kyle- but maybe we should look into therapy for you It could help you a lot."
"Oh. Well, I know Father Maxi said-"
"-It doesn't have to be Father Maxi. It doesn't have to be Rabbi Yachel either. We can go to someone, somewhere else. As soon as the Shakespeare stuff is over with, I want you to at least consider it, okay?"
"I will. And you know, Ma, doing the play is kind of helping too."
"Is it really?"
"Yeah, it's… it helps to be a part of something."
"Well, good. I can't wait to see it," she scooped Ike's omelet onto a plate, "You can tell him to come in now."
"Wait, what part of that did you think would be a fight?"
Sheila turned off the stove. Her nose twitched slightly, "I hate to ask you this, mostly because I don't want to know, but has Kenny been in your room at night?"
Kyle opened his mouth, figuring whether to lie or tell the truth, his face reddening. If he lied, it wouldn't be a very good one, and if he told the truth, it would still come out sticky with excuses. He couldn't speak. If Kenny were here, he might laugh, grab Kyle by the waist and say something like Yeah, that's my bad.
"I'll take that as a yes."
"I… I am so sorry."
"Can you just. Maybe. Warn us. Warn us when you have… friends… over. Okay?"
"Um, yeah. Sure. Sorry," he turned to fetch Ike.
"Oh, and Kyle?"
"Yeah, Ma?"
She pulled him into a tight hug. "I don't care what you do or what you look like. I'll always love you very much. You'll always be my baby boy."
...
Also, I can kill you with my brain.
Spoken from a character on the television screen in the Rec room- Cartman sat in the corner, at a table, smashing peanuts between his thumb and forefinger. The character was psychic, unstable. Untameable.
"Also, I can kill you with my brain," he repeated to himself.
...
With a sway of his long, red robe, he walked onto the stage, adjusting his crown in the kingliest manner he could muster. At this point of the play, he was used to a hundred pairs of shining eyes on him. A small brisk of fire in his belly rose up and parted his lips. The black eyeshadow and kohl eyeliner, new to his tissue-like skin, stung his eyes, but he kept them wide open.
"Along with me, I'll see what hole is here and what is is that is now leapt into it," he announced, making his way to the painted cave in the center of the stage, garnished with a sheer curtain. Taking a knee before the opening, he caught a glimpse of Kenny in the audience, beaming at him, "Say, who art thou that lately didst descend into this gaping hollow of the earth?"
Another actor whose character had fallen in the pit, answered with a weak cry: "The unhappy sons of Old Andronicus; brought hither in a most unlucky hour, to find thy brother Bassianus dead."
The memory of Ike, tumbling down the hill and into the sinkhole entered his mind. He blinked hard, shook his head quickly, "My brother dead! I know thou dost but jest…"
Kenny watched with awe as Kyle, the unfortunate King Saturninus, come to terms with his brother's death, even as his wife (who will betray him later), asks where his brother might be. Kyle looked out at Kenny, as if speaking to him directly: "Now to the bottom dost thou search my wound: Poor Bassianus here lies murdered."
WHAT HAST THOU DONE?! UNNATURAL AND UNKIND?
Kyle's screams rang through the auditorium. The main character, driven to psychopathy, stabbed his only daughter. A small gasp came from Karen. Her only experiences with Shakespeare so far had been Romeo and Juliet and The Taming of the Shrew.
"I don't understand…" she whispered to him as delicately as she could, "She was raped so they had to kill her?"
"I'll explain later…" Kenny whispered back.
He wasn't a big fan of the ending either.
The stepsons of Kyle's character had been the rapists, or the "ravishers" as named in the play, and in turn, were murdered and baked into pies, now being consumed by Kyle and his wife at a kitchen table coated in purple cloth. All of them watched, mouths open, as one after the other, the characters killed each other, ending with Kyle being pushed back and forth between two men, and finally stabbed in the chest with a sword. Kyle collapsed to the ground, his crown rolling off the stage, the sound of clanging metal echoed throughout.
Kenny sighed and looked down at the small bouquet of daisies in his lap.
If one good deed in all my life I did,
I do repent it from my very soul.
...
"I didn't like that," Karen said, her arms crossed. "Not that Kyle didn't do a good job… I just didn't like that at all."
"That's okay," Kenny stood next to her in the crowded hall with all the other people waiting for their friends and family that worked on the production.
Ike slid next to her, "We can go see a movie if you want! Would that make you feel better?"
Kenny bit his lip, trying not to laugh. Ike had it bad, he could tell.
"Can I?" she looked up at Kenny with shining, pleading eyes.
"You don't need my permission. Just stay in big groups of people, if you can. Be safe, okay?"
"Cool," she grinned.
Ike took her hand, "Let's go see The Emoji Movie."
Karen immediately let go.
"I'm kidding!" Ike said, picking up her hand again, "I know you want to see Dunkirk, obviously."
"Obviously."
They wove through the throngs of people, out the double doors, and into the night. Sheila came out from the bathroom, shaking left over moisture from her hands, "Where are they going, Kenny?"
"On a date, it seems."
"What! Ike didn't ask me if he could go out tonight!"
"I don't know what to tell you Mrs. B, the hormones took over and he never looked back."
"Oh, for crying out loud… and you just let your sister go too?"
"I trust her. And Ike knows that if he messes up, I'll make sure his other arm gets put in a cast," he said, completely straight-faced.
Against her better judgment, Sheila laughed. "Yeah, okay. Sure. Good." She pointed to the flowers he was holding against his chest, "Are those for Kyle?"
"They are…"
"What did you think of the play?" she could sense that he was uncomfortable talking about the relationship at the moment.
"It was kind of difficult to watch at some parts, not going to lie. But Kyle did great."
"I agree. Speaking of which… where is he?"
They noticed some of the other actors had come out and greeted their families, but they had yet to see a tall, now violet-headed man come out to be embraced.
"I'll look for him."
...
Kenny entered the auditorium to see Kyle sitting on the edge of the stage, arms at his sides, legs crossed at the ankles, looking down into the seats.
"Hey, you," Kenny greeted.
Kyle looked up, a sad smile pasted to his face, "Hey, Ken."
"What are you doing in here? Your mom and I have been waiting?"
"I know. I'm sorry. I was just thinking."
Kenny walked in front of Kyle and put his hands on his knees, "Thinking about what?"
"The pit."
"In the play?"
"The one in the woods… Ike almost fell into it, and I… I'm just wondering if anyone else already has, and-"
"-Kyle… We saw the body. We know what happened to Stan, okay? He's not trapped in a pit."
Kenny studied his face, his eyes were still covered in dramatic make-up, working through what was being told to him. "Sometimes I still feel like it's my fault," Kyle said quietly.
"It's not. It never was, and it never will be." he brought the daisies up to Kyle's face, "Hey, these are for you by the way."
Kyle took the flowers and buried his face in them. "I love them." He gave Kenny a quick kiss on the nose before standing up, several feet above Kenny who was still on the floor. "I have something for you too. It's in my backpack in the dressing room. I'll be right back!"
"Your mom is still waiting!" Kenny called after him.
...
Entry from one Stan Marsh's journal
March 21, 2013
Last night I dreamt
I was falling from trees
The sky under me
In her endless chamber of blue
I heard birds like bells
Ringing for a wedding not to come
A path circled my head
The gravel digging my scalp
I still fall.
Downtown South Park
Friday, July 28, 2017
9:21pm
A cup of steaming coffee in his hands and a promise from Tweek and Craig that they would see the next showing of his play, Kyle walked down the street with Kenny, their shadows stretched before them through the street lights.
"This helps," he said, speaking into the cup, "I'm so fucking tired."
"I can imagine," Kenny chuckled. "You went through a lot up there."
"Tell me about it."
"I kind of like the make-up on you, by the way."
"Ha, really?"
"It matches your personality really well."
"Oh, shut up."
They continued walking down the street, past Token's house and the Senior Center, and the mall where the small theater was still operating. Kyle didn't want to go home just yet. He had asked Kenny to walk with him for awhile, enjoy the summer nights before they were replaced by mounds of snow and ice again. When they approached Skeeter's Wine Bar, Kenny stopped.
"Finish your coffee," he said.
"Already done," Kyle was shoving the cup in an overfilled trash bin.
"Good. This is my spot."
"What do you mean your spot?"
"You'll see. Get on my back."
"I'm sorry?"
"You heard me, Marsh. Put your arms around me."
"Dude, I'm so heavy-"
Kenny took Kyle's arms and wrapped them around his shoulders.
"Hold on tight," he said, before scaling the side of the building, lifting a bewildered Kyle with him up onto the roof. When he let go, Kyle could see the roof was indeed a miniature campsite. A medium-sized cooler and a pile of blankets and pillows were set up in the center. "Sometimes at night I watch for things here," Kenny explained. "Funnily enough, most crimes are committed by drunk people. But I can see everything from here."
"It's…" Kyle trailed off, looking out onto the town. The soft, glistening lights. A quiet breeze folded over the roofs of the little houses that lined the neighborhood. "It's a great view."
"Yeah, you are."
Kenny laid out the blankets into a comfortable circle so the two of them could look up at the dark sky.
"I don't think I could ever live in a big city," Kyle said, not taking his eyes off the Teapot constellation. "Too much light pollution. Too much noise."
"I feel that," Kenny agreed, though he wasn't looking at the stars.
"Oh, that reminds me. The thing I have for you," Kyle grabbed his backpack that now had the daisies sticking out of it. He put them aside and fished, pulling out a certificate and photograph. Turning on the flashlight of his phone, he read the certificate out loud: "A star has been named in honor of Kenny McCormick, the star is located at celestial coordinates Right Ascension six hours and 39 minutes, Declination 2 16' 22.7"."
"I don't… I don't understand."
"I know it sounds dumb, but I adopted a star from you. Look at the picture."
They huddled close together, the flashlight shining on a photograph of stars, a thin white box around one brighter star in particular, with the label Kenny McCormick.
"It's somewhere out there," Kyle said, pushing his palm up to the sky as if he were feeling a tapestry on a wall. He looked over to see that Kenny was crying, tears close to sparkling stars on his cheeks. "Oh my god, are you okay?"
Kenny sniffled, wiping them away, "Mm-hm. I'm sorry. That's the nicest thing anyone has done for me."
"Aw, Ken…" he put his arm around his shoulders and kissed his cheek.
"Why did you do it?"
"I just thought that… I don't know. You always think that people forget about you, but they really don't. I wanted you to know that you're a star in a lot of people's lives. Especially mine. And even after all of us are gone, that star-" he pointed toward it, "your star, will always be there."
"Kyle, I…" he turned and hugged him. Suddenly he wanted to admit everything: the letters from Cartman, the jealousy of Stan, the blood he was still coughing up, how every day he felt weaker, how each blow with death felt like it would be his last one. He cupped Kyle's face in his hands, "Kyle, are you happy?"
"I-"
The loud warbling of ambulance sirens turned a corner nearby, headed toward the mall.
"Oh, shit. We should go," Kyle stood. "The kids are there, aren't they?"
"Someone probably had a seizure," Kenny shrugged. "It happens a lot."
"What does Mysterion do when someone has a seizure?"
"Give them my cape to bite or lay on."
Kyle grinned, picking up his daisies and the papers. "I can just drop these off at your house later, since you don't have anything to put them in."
"Sure," he pulled him into a long kiss before they jumped back down to the sidewalk.
"To answer your question," Kyle huffed as they lightly jogged down the sidewalk, "I think, despite everything, I'm happy. I feel happy."
They smiled at each other before breaking into longer sprints toward the theater.
...
South Park Theater
Friday, July 28, 2017
8:47 pm
Bristling with warm chatter, the people standing in line at the concession stand wavered about, watching the giant screen above the popcorn machine play trailers for upcoming movies. Others walked through the lobby, stepping to the rhythm of paper tickets ripping, pointing at different posters with their friends and family (I want to see that! Me too!).
Heidi Turner stood at the counter, simultaneously waiting for Butters to return from the bathroom and Clyde Donovan. Clyde, now a seasoned "Corndog Expert" as he called it, to return with her large order of popcorn and Cokes. For now, she spent her weekdays as a counselor at Science Camp, crafting paper mache volcanoes and planet mobiles. It crossed her mind on more than one occasion if Kyle might want to work with her, but could never figure out an appropriate time to ask.
"Here you go, Heidi," Clyde plopped the bag on the counter.
"Thanks," she grabbed it with hands still graffitied by Crayola markers and glitter. "I like the uniform, by the way. They're really making a man out of you here, huh?"
Clyde shrugged, his polyester red shirt seemed to hang in the air like the ghosts of shoulder pads, "I guess. Sometimes I just stand in the janitor's closet and eat expired nachos and cry."
"Nachos expire?"
"Everything expires, Heidi. Hotdogs, popcorn, freedom, hope…"
"Clyde."
"Sorry. I shouldn't be complaining. It's nacho problem."
"Oh god."
Butters bounded up to them, touched Heidi's elbow, "Hey, are you done?"
"Hey man," Clyde greeted, "Sorry, yeah, just charging your girlfriend ten dollars for popcorn."
"Criminal," Butters laughed.
They made their way through the dimly lit rows looking for a seat. In the chairs behind them, they saw Karen and Ike sharing a jumbo popcorn.
"Hey guys!" Butters caught them off guard.
Karen beamed up at them, "Hey, Butters! And you're… Heidi, right?"
"Yes, hi, nice to see you. God, it's been so long. Do you guys mind if we sit in front of you?"
"Nah," Ike replied.
"What happened to your arm?"
"Oh, you know. Broke it on the edge of a pool."
Karen nudged him, "Go on, tell her why."
Ike tilted his head back with an exasperated sigh. "To quote Gerald, I was: showing off for my little girlfriend and tried to Superman from the trampoline to the pool. And failed because I am a dumbass."
"Wow," Heidi nodded, amused at how much Ike was like Kyle, "Well, looks like it worked."
She whipped around to sit, accidentally knocking over the bag in Butters's hands, sending popcorn everywhere.
"Oh, shit," she scrambled to try and pick it all up. "Oh fuck, I fucked up…"
"No, don't," Butters stopped her, "Baby, it's okay. Not a big deal. I'll get a broom from someone."
"I'll go with you to get a refill," Karen piped up.
They exited the theater, Heidi gripping the half-full popcorn bag.
"Are you okay, Heidi? You look a little pale."
"I don't know. I've been sick on and off the past few weeks. I feel kinda nauseous."
"I'll wait in line if you want to go to the bathroom."
"That's okay," they stood in line behind a group of teenagers arguing amongst each other about what they wanted, what they could afford. Heidi cleared her throat, "So, Karen, do you have a job right now?"
"No, I could probably get one though. I just need a worker's permit. I'm only 15."
"You're 15? That's perfect, actually. You know, you're old enough to be a Junior Counselor at South Park Science Camp."
"Really?"
"Yeah, you could help me do projects with the kids. They're all ten and under, but they're fun. It's only for the second half of summer, but the job is yours, if you want it."
"Oh my god, I'd love to. I mean, I'm not really good at- well, I'm re-learning some chemistry stuff, but- Heidi?"
Heidi swallowed harshly, her throat bulging like a cat about to spit up a hairball. "Not a-again," she gasped, then heaved into the bag. Heavy blood spatters smacked the walls of the paper, some of it landing on the side of Karen's face. Heidi dropped the bag, and Karen could see for a glimmer of a moment, that some of Heidi's teeth had fallen into the popcorn.
Heidi collapsed to the ground, head smacking against the concrete floor, sending flurries of feet to the far ends of the lobby, leaving Karen to stand over Heidi's now lifeless body. Screaming filled the building. Veins like the legs of blood-covered spider slithered out of her open mouth and gripped her jaw and cheeks.
Karen, eyes wide, arms shaking, slowly backed away. Someone takes her shoulders, lifts her up and takes her back completely- one of the employees that smells of cheese and elephant ears. She watched Kenny die before, but he always got up. He always did. She whispered over and over: get up, please. Get up, get up, get up, get up…
...
South Park Theater
Friday, July 28, 2017
9:54 pm
Not everything was like the movies, Karen was quickly realizing. No police officer offered her a blanket, no dramatic music playing in her ears. Ike couldn't speak at all. He sat by her, staring at his feet on the grass.
She couldn't shake the image of Heidi, chatting with her one second, cold on the ground the next. Gone. Just like that.
No one could find Butters.
...
It was like moving through a still life portrait, or figures engraved in wood. Dipped into bronze. The stands of people all gawking up at the center panel, the boy swaying on the roof hundreds of feet above them. On the edge, a hollowed out, taxidermied and flightless bird- his toes peeked out over the edge.
Kenny grabs onto his sister's shoulder, wipes the blood off her cheek, while Kyle picks up his brother, not if he were a teenager, but a baby again. At first, they don't know what is being stared at. Then spotlights find him, the boy in the blue tee-shirt, watching them back, his face burning with tears.
The screams instructing him not to plunge aren't enough to penetrate the desire, the infectious need to end it. Kenny rushes forward. He thinks he can catch him and take him to the hospital. He thinks that in a few weeks he'll be back at the garage helping him fix shitty cars. He thinks he's running fast enough.
He never gets there.
The chalk outline of Butters on cement reminds Kyle of those lingering Keith Haring figures, forever stuck, etched into wood, or a bold streak of bright paint, until the rain, the weathering of time, washes him away.
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