A/N: Hey y'all! It's been a hot second since I've updated and I'm terribly, terribly sorry about that. Trust me, I've been trying. I ran into some deep, personal issues with my family, and unfortunately, my love life. It made it very difficult to write something that relies on love when you're questioning if love actually exists for you.

But, some time has passed, and I'm getting over them.

Never, ever, try to chase people that don't want you. Don't pursue someone who doesn't even ask you how your day is. It doesn't matter how much you love them. Know your worth 3

The tyrant can always find an excuse for his tyranny.

The unjust will not listen to the reasoning of the innocent.

-lesson from "The Wolf and the Lamb" for The Aesop for Children

Kenny twisted away from the scene, leaving behind the shovel, the cigarette, the body that everyone thought was Stan's. Swiftly, he entered his truck and sped off, the engine whirring as loudly as his own stomach.

(do i tell kyle)

(what would i even say)

Movements of morning - store lights switching on, people sipping coffee and chatting on the sidewalk, parents shoveling their children into minivans - one of these movements now was Kenny, pressing on the gas, trying not to cry. So badly he wanted to pull over and cry.

Maybe he could let some tears fall at this upcoming stoplight.

...

Their mother tried to do something nice for them for once. One winter morning, when the snow was building up from mole hills to mountains against the windows, she burst into their bedroom and announced that they were driving out to see Aunt Cheryl and Uncle Kibbs.

Aunt Cheryl and Uncle Kibbs lived in Tampa. In fact, Uncle Kibbs wasn't even living anymore. He had been bitten, wrangled, and drowned by the alligator he found in their pool.

When the news about Kibbs reached them through their mustard-stained telephone, Carol announced it to everyone in the family room with wringing hands, visibly disturbed. Their father huffed, scanning the T.V. channels, and commented, "Good thing there's no gators here."

This pissed Kenny off. His father couldn't even muster a "Sorry about your brother."

It was clear that their dear mother was off her medication again. She urged them to stuff all of their belongings into black garbage bags and load them into the truck. Kevin and Kenny whined, scrunched their pillows over their heads to block out her incessant goading. She whipped their blankets off and said "Chop-chop, kiddos. I'm doing something nice for you."

The prospect of driving all the way to Florida in the middle of frosty January did not excite the boys, but they stuffed their clothes and toys into bags anyway, put on coats and snow boots and waded through the debris on the living room floor: a collective of beer cans, White Castle slider boxes, empty pop bottles, clumps of loose leaf tea (from when Carol insisted that they save up for a cast-iron pot, as if brewing tea together and sipping it from little clay cups would grease the gears of their dysfunctional family), and finally, the centerpiece of the trash palace, their father passed on the couch snoring heavily, his jeans pulled down to his ankles, suggesting that in his drunken stupor, tried to get undressed and go to bed, but failed horribly.

"What's daddy doing?" little Karen asked, still blinking sleep from her eyes, holding onto lopsided pigtails.

"Don't worry about it," Kenny took her hand and led her out the door.

Once outside, they would load up their trash bags and wait in the truck for their mother. She finally emerged after several minutes of the kids shivering in the backseat. Carol wore a long a knee-length faux fur coat and carried a small, clear bin of toiletries.

The unspoken pact between Kenny and his brother was this: let Mom run out her crazy moments. Just go with it. Don't say anything else. Don't make her upset.

Carol would drive, at best, a little past downtown, realize what she was doing, and turn back, they figured. There was no way she would go through with it and drive all the way to the land of swamps and golf courses.

They reached the corner of South Park Elementary and slid into a snow-filled ditch. Balding tires made it impossible for her to back out.

They watched their mother, who was only trying to do something nice, only trying to escape, kick the tires and scream un-Christian things, her frozen breath expanding and dissolving into the air with each curse.

"It must suck to feel so trapped like that," Kenny said lowly to Kevin.

"All of us are stuck here. It's too snowy to actually go anywhere."

"I mean to be trapped in your own head like that. Nowhere to go."

…

Still water runs deep, Ken.

Kyle had told him this in a moment of trust. Intimacy. He was trying to tell Kenny that he's a thoughtful person. A kind, selfless, introspective person.

(should i tell kyle)

The stinging of guilt pierced his heart.

Still water also harbors bacteria, he wanted to tell Kyle now. Still water covers disease, bottom-feeders, scavengers, bodies, secrets. Still water can kill a person if ingested.

(i kill)

(thats all i do)

For the life of him, he couldn't imagine where Stan might be. Kyle told him that Stan wanted to run away. So where would he be? California? Alaska? Corpus Christi? Right under their noses?

(probably)

The pit.

The one in the play?

The one in the woods… Ike almost fell into it… I'm just wondering if anyone else already has…

(holy fuck)

Cartman, he also remembered, never gave him a clear answer on if he had anything to do with Stan missing.

(i could go)

(i could go to the pit and see)

…

First, he broke the layers of yellow tape with his teeth. Then, he threw a rock the size of a newborn baby - it needed to be something large enough for a pit to swallow. He lay on his belly and tried to listen, to hear if the rock would make a sound, landing in a hollow cave below them. It sunk slowly. He listened intently, pretended to meditate, shut off all other sounds. He watched the stone become a pebble and finally disappear. For a few minutes, he waited for the drop. Almost like the New York ball drop. This time there was no countdown, no kiss at the end. He needed help.

…

He white-knuckled the steering wheel. The road seemed to tilt downward in front of him. People faded from view. Kenny pictured all the ways Kyle might react when he told him that he needed help - that he was right, Kenny was wrong. Kyle suspected him of having malevolent motivations before, how would he get around this now? I'm sorry, Kyle. I mean, I had a *feeling* that Stan wasn't totally dead but what was I supposed to do? I was too busy taking care of you. So really, this is probably your fault.

(my fault)

(stop i t)

(this is nobodys fault and now youre thinking like h i m)

(just stop)

(why would i think that about kyle though)

(just stop

let it go)

(how could i look at kyles face and tell him its his fault)

(ill break his fucking legs)

Kenny swallowed the extra spit that was starting to leak from his lips.

(theyre just instrusive thoughts they dont mean anything)

(i would never think this way)

His brain was on fire.

"Get the fuck out of my head, asshole."

The truck surged forward, blowing through a four-way stop, a few spectators yelling and honking their horns.

"Oh, fuck, fuck fuck fuck…" He pumped the brakes but the pedal was rigid as if something might be stuck underneath. Maneuvering his boot around the area but couldn't feel anything, not even a bottle. Nothing to kick. The pedal was stuck on its own.

(hes trying to kill me!)

(get rid of me for a few hours)

Panting heavily, he steered off-road, into a field near the school. He unclipped his seat belt and prepared to open the door to jump out. Two tires popped, plummeting the truck into a sideways tilt. It skidded on the side and rolled into a nearby ditch, forcing Kenny to violently swing back and forth throughout. The dashboard met his square, fair face right on the bridge of his pointed nose, shattering it.

That rusted, aqua and ivory he loved so much finally came to a halt. On its side like a beached whale - tires still spinning, the whining belt slowing down like a mechanical death rattle.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Kenny screamed again, one hand over his nose, the other curled into a fist, slamming onto the dashboard. "Why are you doing this to us?"

He meant the question for Cartman, but it could have been for anyone - maybe God. Whoever the fuck was listening.

He tried the door that faced the sky - maybe he could worm his way up - but it wouldn't budge. He kicked the windshield, forming glass spiderwebs around his foot, until it gave way.

…

Kenny knocked on the Broflovski's front door. Ike, pale and tired, slowly opened it.

"Whoa, what happened to you?" He examined Kenny's purple face with bulging eyes.

"I broke my nose, no big deal," he walked past Ike and into the living room. Soft crying came from the kitchen, and then don't worry Sharon, they'll find the bastard that did this. "Where's Kyle?"

"I thought he was with you," Ike shrugged. "Didn't you hear? Some asshole… dug up Stan. They smashed his skull in. There's a cop in there with my mom and Stan's mom."

"Oh, shit," Kenny swallowed, "I have to go."

"Huh?"

"Listen, Ike, I know that yesterday was rough on you, but I need you to think. Did Kyle say anything to you about where he was going?"

"No. Check his Snapchat location."

Kenny squeezed Ike's shoulder, "Smart. I keep forgetting we're in the 21st century."

Ike nodded sadly. Kenny opened the app, and zeroed in on Kyle's location.

"Son of a bitch!"

"What?"

The sound of footsteps inched toward the living room. Not Sharon of Sheila's. Authoritative ones.

"Is Kyle in danger?" Ike whispered.

Kenny was grabbing fistfuls of his hair, "He might be."

"He might be what?" The officer - a tall, muscled man with the eyes of a velociraptor approached them, thumbs in his belt. "Who are we talking about, boys?"

Kenny couldn't speak. He was usually good with officers, he was never a wrong-doer. But he felt as if Officer Eyes could look right through him.

"My brother," Ike spoke up. "And his boyfriend, is out getting ice cream for us."

"Bit early for ice cream, don't you think?"

"Pfft, people have donuts for breakfast, how is that any different?" Ike said this as if he'd been practicing lines from a play for weeks. He put his hands on his hips, "Kenny and Kyle had a stupid fight and he's making it up to him… with ice cream. Wouldn't you do the same for your wife?"

Sheila and Sharon appeared in the opening between the living room and kitchen. Sharon gripped a tissue in her hands, mascara rings around her eyes. Officer Eyes glanced quickly between the two of them.

"I'm divorced," he said.

"And that could have been saved with some ice cream," Ike said without missing a beat, "Could have avoided that "Rocky Road", if you will."

The officer shook his head at Ike, and stared directly at Kenny. "Aren't you Stuart's boy?"

Kenny nodded, looking him up and down.

"What happened to your nose? Did you get into a fight?"

"No, sir."

He walked up to Kenny, continuing his silent scrutinization, "You know, I pick up your dad a lot. That asshole is always drunk. Always picking fights with people. The man has anger issues."

"You don't have to tell me twice," Kenny murmured.

"Well," He looked closely at Kenny's bruised face, his red eyes, matted hair, "You've got that same look in your eyes as him. Both of you smell like dirt. Guess the apple really doesn't fall far from the tree…"

"Hey now," Sheila chirped, "Kenny's a good kid. He's nothing like his father."

"Yeah, you're being un-cone-stitutional!"

"Ike. Officer, with all due respect, I don't appreciate you interrogating my kids in my own house. It's my fucking house…" Sheila began ranting, hands raised, her yelling filling the house.

Sharon looked over at Kenny. He looked almost dead. Sad. For a brief moment, he met her gaze, then looked away. Stan looked like that sometimes, she remembered.

She pushed past the officer and threw her arms around Kenny, squeezing him hard, like how she did for Stan so many times.

Still holding on to Kenny, running her hand over his head, she joined Sheila in the yelling, "And when do I get to see Stan? You still haven't answered me!"

Kenny closed his eyes. He pictured Stan's fake body again, shattered like a vase.

"It's not for the faint of heart," the officer waved her off, "Lady, you wouldn't be able to handle it."

"I'll fucking say what I can handle, Officer Twat," she loosened up on Kenny put kept a hand on his arm, "Not even two months ago I saw my son on a fucking cold metal table, strangled to death - with, with- fucking maggots crawling out his face and now you want to tell me I'm too faint of heart? Is that all you do? Make assumptions about people all day?"

Officer Eyes scoffed, "Look, I'm just saying. It's really bad."

"I'm sure it is. But I need to see. I need to know. I want to see my son," Sharon turned to Kenny and whispered, "Go get Kyle, please. He should be home."

Kenny nodded and took off, Ike trailing behind him.

"Where's your truck?" Ike asked as soon as they ran outside.

"It's, um… in the shop. Broke down."

"How are you gonna get to Kyle?"

"I… run, I guess. I don't know. I can't think straight."

"Here," Ike dug into his jean pocket and pulled out a ring of keys, plucked one off and tossed it to Kenny.

"What's this?"

"It's for Stan's car," he gestured to the relic in the next-door driveway.

"Oh, fuck," Kenny groaned. "I hope it starts."

"It does. I tried the other day."

Kenny crawled in and started the engine. It was weak, but it worked. Ike poked his head in the window.

"Can I come with you?"

"No," Kenny pressed down on the brakes, shifted the gear to reverse. "The place where your brother is… you don't need to be there. He shouldn't be there either."

…

October 29, 2016

The makeup was beginning to itch, as well as the gel that slicked his hair back. Like tiny, tiny daggers in his scalp. He adjusted the Pope hat so he could scratch. Stan tripped on a rock in the driveway, startling him.

"You didn't see that," he mumbled.

"Sure did."

The Black's manicured lawn of lush grass and heavenly rose bushes was already littered with intoxicated teens, bobbing for apples and making out on porch steps.

A Bob Ross Bebe danced up to them, pushed her paintbrush into Kyle's neck and asked if he would "baptize" her. With his prop cane, Stan slowly pushed her back into a lounge chair where she lopped and passed out.

"She's definitely white girl wasted," he said. "That's shit's dangerous. What would I have done if she turned you straight?"

"Pfft, yeah," Kyle squeezed his boyfriend's shoulder. "I guess we should get white girl wasted too. I want to be that bold."

Stan took Kyle's hand as they crossed the threshold of the front door, "I think you're bold enough."

"I try."

"You succeed."

"No, I just succ."

"Only when it counts," Stan winked. The music, some techno remix of the Halloween theme song, swelled around them.

They found Token in the kitchen in a full-on Sailor Moon costume, rearranging horror-themed snacks on the counter island. Nichole stood by him, dressed as Tuxedo Mask. They looked up at the boys.

"You guys are finally here," Token said. He looked at Stan, "Oh, you're the guy from A Clockwork Orange! That's so cool!"

"And you're…" Nichole eyed Kyle up and down, "a goth Pope?"

"I mean, technically, yeah. It's from a band called Ghost."

"Oh, cool," she said, although it was very clear that she didn't think it was cool.

"Welp," Token held up two red solo cups, "let's get some poison in you guys - oh, wait. Hold on." He pulled a label-maker from the drawer and began typing.

Nichole rolled her eyes. "Why can't you just use a marker like normal people?"

"I like using the label-maker," Token said through his teeth, though they were both giggling. They watched STAN then KYLE be printed out, cut, and stuck to cups. "Okay, now let's get some poison in you guys. What do you want?"

Stan quickly scanned the bottles on the counter, "Surprise us."

"Got it."

Butters emerged from the living room in a pink dress, blue jacket, and a trickle of blood from one of his nostrils.

"Hey, fellas!"

"Hi Butters, how are you-"

"-I'm Eleven, so shut the fuck up," Butters said, gleefully clapping his hands together, "I've been wanting to say that all night. You guys have no idea." He swiped a Rice Krispies treat from the counter, "Have you guys seen Heidi - I mean, Sue Sylvester?"

"Sue is in the backyard playing drunk volleyball with a Stormtrooper," Nichole said, pointing to the back door, "So you guys are trying that again, huh?"

"Trying. But I think we're getting somewhere this time. I laid my cards out on the table, she laid out hers. We're just not going to worry about the little stuff anymore," he looked over at Kyle and Stan now. "We just want to have fun. Enjoy our time with each other, you know?"

They both nodded.

"Yeah, for sure," Kyle added.

"Right," Butters took another treat, "Well, I'll go check on her." He eyed Stan and Kyle a bit more closely, "You guys look like you came straight from Hell, by the way."

"Thanks?" Stan said.

Butters shrugged, popped the dessert in his mouth and walked off.

"So, where's Kenny?" Token asked, sliding their cups forward.

"We asked him to come but he only said he'd think about it," Kyle said, shaking around the light blue liquid in his cup, "I think he thinks that he shouldn't be a part of these things anymore."

"Sucks that he feels that way," Nichole said. Stan shrugged.

"What did you give us?" Kyle asked, circling the cup some more.

"Drink and find out."

Laughter echoed from outside. The song changed to "Monster Mash." The burning chemical smell of fog machines, of sweat, plastic, cinnamon, and alcohol filled them. Kyle already felt like a fleshy Jack O'Lantern - insides harshly scooped out and plopped onto a damp paper towel, permanent grin carved into his face by an angry father.

Stan raised his cup, "Cheers."

"To what?" Kyle asked, skeptical.

"To not knowing what we're getting into. To Kenny hopefully coming around one day. To being bold," he glanced down at Kyle's resting hand. No one else would ever see it, but he remembered the red ring around Kyle's wrist there his father gripped him too tightly. Feeling the stinging as if it were his own skin, he looked back up into Kyle's skeptical eyes, through the contacts. "To sticking up for yourself. We're always stronger than we think we are. So, cheers."

They drank.

At 3 AM when mostly everyone had gone home or fallen asleep, Stan and Kyle sat on a wicker loveseat in the Black's screened-in back porch. Kyle had his legs across Stan's lap, breathing quietly, half-asleep. His Pope hat was somewhere on the floor and the robes were being used by Bebe as a blanket. Stan rested his hands on Kyle's knees, looking blankly into the distance. Neither of them were totally drunk, but their collective grasp of sober was gone.

Kyle opened his eyes and stared at the side of Stan's face: the whites of his eyes, sharp nose, lips always the color of a shy pink.

Stan caught his stare, "What?"

"Nothing. You're just cute."

"Stop. That's you."

"Nah."

"Bebe seems to think so."

"Oh god," Kyle adjusted himself so he could sit up more, "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Why do you think Kenny doesn't come around anymore?"

"I don't know, Kyle… I mean, he's busy."

"Everyone's busy, dude. But he doesn't even try. He doesn't even respond to my messages."

Stan sighed, "Look, I think we both really know why but neither of us wants to say it out loud."

"Maybe he has a crush on you and he hates me."

Stan shook his head, trying to suppress a laugh, "He would never like me like that. But I do think he's jealous, Kyle. You hang out with a couple and you become the third wheel."

"I don't think we've ever made him feel excluded. It has to be something else."

"Maybe to him, it feels like exclusion. We don't know."

"Shit, maybe he likes me," Kyle teased.

"Yeah, he probably does. He likes you and wants to put me in a box somewhere," Stan rolled his eyes, though parts of his heart knew. He knew. "I'd kick his ass."

"No, you wouldn't. You're too nice."

"Can we change the subject?"

"Um, yeah, sure. To what?"

"I don't know. I'm so tired. Maybe we should just sleep."

Kyle knocked off Stan's bowler hat, pulled him in and curled up together.

"Stan?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you for saying what you said earlier… about sticking up for yourself. It made me feel better."

"Well, you know… I just think you're braver than you think you are," he murmured into his chest. "You're tough, Kyle. You really are. I just wish you didn't feel like you have to fight alone."

…

He found Kyle sitting in his Jeep at the Juvenile Detention Center, hands on the wheel. Kyle barely looked at him when he pulled up in Stan's monstrosity.

Kenny knocked on the window frame.

"Can I come in?"

"No. I'm waiting for visitation hours to start."

"You're not going in there, Kyle. I won't let you. Besides, your mom needs you home-"

"-You know, when I was growing up, my parents always told me 'good sons don't make a fuss, Kyle.' My dad shoved his hand into my chest when I wasn't sitting up straight. He called me emo whenever I got upset about something. All my life, I've been a blank slate they could write all over."

"That's not true…"

"Yes, it is! And I'm tired of it," he finally looked at Kenny, eyes and cheeks shining with tears. "I'm tired. And I don't want to be tired anymore."

Kenny reached in and cupped his face, "What do you want me to do?"

"I know that bastard is behind this, and I… didn't want to believe it but, he knew. He knew that I was sick, or cursed, right after I threw up that first time."

"What do you mean? Wait, when was the last time you talked to him?"

"A couple months ago. I just had a feeling he was behind it."

"You went by yourself?! Why didn't you tell me?"

"What's there to tell? I'm sure you know more than me."

"Why would I?"

Kyle brushed Kenny's hand off his face. With a sigh, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out with shaking fingers and snapped it in front of Kenny's face, "I snuck into your room really early this morning because I-" his voice broke and warbled. "I wanted you to hold me. Maybe tell me it's all in my head. That I'm making a big… fuss over things that aren't happening, that what happened to Heidi and Butters was just a fruitless tragedy. It wasn't connected to anything else. But you weren't there. And I found his letter on your dresser!"

Kyle crumpled the note up again, the vile threats of Cartman, and threw it. The wad hit Kenny's chest and rolled to the pavement.

"Kyle, I-"

"How could you do this to me?"

"I don't how to-"

"Why?!"

Kenny backed away, wiping his forehead with his arm, trying not to cry, not to yell back, "Look, at first, I kind of felt bad for him, okay? Obviously he needed help, but over time, he just got worse and worse and I had to cut him off. He didn't take it well. He's… absolutely evil, Kyle. He wants all of us dead."

"Well," Kyle stared at the distraught Kenny, a sliver of something vengeful flashed across his face. It scared Kenny. He recognized it too well. "I want him dead, too."

Kyle stepped out of the Jeep and started walking towards the entrance. Kenny grabbed his elbow, "You're not fucking going in there!"

"Fuck off!" Kyle jerked his arm violently, "He killed Stan, Butters, and Heidi! They don't get to come back like you do! Who else does he get to kill? My brother? Your sister? Me? I'm going to stop him now because I don't want to find out."

"What are you going to do? Sneak into his cell and shank him? You can't."

Kyle stopped moving. He dropped his arm, "What?"

"I said, you can't. You're not… I'm sorry, you're just not capable. Go home."

Kenny hated telling him this, but he didn't know any other way to deter Kyle from walking into his death. "You almost died from racoon scratches, dude. Stan and I had to save you…"

"That was so long ago-"

"You won't live if he gets his hands on you," Kenny looked down at his feet. He didn't want to hurt him. "You're weak, Kyle."

Kyle's mouth popped open, "I never thought you'd talk to me like that."

"Truth hurts," Kenny bit his lip.

"Yeah?" Kyle's voice suddenly turned sharp. Animal. "What other truths are you keeping from me? Huh?"

He pushed Kenny back, his face turning red, "What else do you want to tell me, Kenny? Please. Dish. What? Next you want to tell me that you hated Stan? Or maybe you never really loved me?"

"Don't you dare," Kenny clasped Kyle's hands, holding them steady. "Don't you fucking dare suggest that. Stan is my best fucking friend. And I've been in love with you my whole fucking life. So don't you even fucking dare."

"Bullshit."

"It's not." He held Kyle's hands tighter. He was trying to break away, "Listen. These past few days with you have been worth every bullet wound, every collapsed lung, every spontaneous combustion, every decapitation, every drowning, every stab. I would do it all again if it meant I got to replay all these moments with you."

"You don't mean that…"

"I do. I love you. I love you so, so much. I always will," he grabbed Kyle's shoulders, "And that's why I need you to leave. You have no idea how much it would kill me if something happened to you."

For a moment, they stared at each other in silence, hanging on to the words still in the air.

Kyle wiped tears off his face, "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry. You just need to go."

…

"You've cursed all of us. You even fucked yourself, I bet."

Kenny stared at Cartman through the glass. All around were families visiting their misshapen children, pitying them as if some fucked-up stranger snuck in and raised them instead of themselves.

Cartman said nothing at first, pursing his lips and leering at Kenny with dark, void eyes. His face was sallow and gray, his cheekbones so sharply protruding under the skin that Kenny though they might pierce the skin, stick out like the arms of a cross.

"How sick have you been, Cartman?" Kenny pressed.

"How sick have you been?"

"I haven't been sick."

"Yes, you have. It's different for you, but I can still feel it. That's how they tell me."

"Who tells you? How?"

Cartman jabbed a finger into his scalp, "Them."

"In your head? You hear them in your head?"

He nodded.

"Who are they, Cartman?"

"The people from before. They watch everything. They've watched you. And they don't like you."

"What people from before? Why are they watching?"

Again, Cartman didn't answer. His eye twitched. His fists sat shakily on the table.

(are they talking to him right now)

Kenny remembered the grisly story Ike told him at the courthouse.

"Is it the… um, settlers? Did you have them curse us?"

Cartman twitched once more. "We've always been cursed."

"I don't have time for this," Kenny stood up and hit the glass, startling Cartman, "Where's Stan?!"

"Hey! Hit the glass again and you're out!" a guard yelled from down the corridor, not even looking up from his desk.

Cartman smiled and shrugged, "Around."

"What the fuck did you do to him?"

"I put him away for awhile."

"That body… where did that body come from?"

"I don't know if you know this, but… people love me. They write me letters all the time. It wasn't hard to ask a friend for a favor. There's people all around here that'll do what I say. Especially a sicko mortician."

"What's their name?"

"Doesn't matter. They're dead now."

(the fucking funeral home people)

"I'm going to find out where Stan really is," Kenny turned to leave.

"How long have you known?" Cartman's fingers were now laced together. He looked up at Kenny, contented.

"I don't know what you mean…"

"Oh, come on. Parts of you knew that he was still here. You felt it just like how I feel… them. Their presence."

"I've been trying to find out the truth. But you… You killed Heidi and Butters… You almost made Kyle a demonic vessel… Everyone is sick."

"And you? You get to live forever. And you get Kyle. Even though you fucking knew about Stan. I'm pretty sure you took advantage of Kyle. You're selfish."

"I… I'm not…"

"You are."

"I had good intentions…"

Cartman sniffed, wiped a dribble of blood from his mouth.

"Oh, Kenny," he sang, "Kenny, Kenny, Kenny. You and I both know that good intentions have no earthly use. You can stand there and keep saying that you tried and tried, but did you really? Nah, I think you lied back and let yourself get fucked."

"I've done more than you think I have, you fucking asshole."

"Whatever it is, it won't be enough. More people are going to die," something changed in his eyes. One flicker of remorse. "Including me, if you won't give me what I want."

Kenny scoffed, "You don't want what I have. You're too egotistical to be able to handle having your head cut off and all your friends forgetting about it the next day."

"And who was the one person who did remember?"

"... You."

"Right. I don't have no one that I care about to watch die. I only want to make up for lost time. I'm on your side, Kenny. I always have been."

"No. The only side your own is your own. Besides, even if I did do my "witchy shit", as you've called it, to you - I would immediately die. Did you know that? Or do you not care? We're not close, Eric. I won't die so you can keep doing horrible shit forever."

"Oh, but I'm sure you would for Kyle."

"Yeah, because Kyle's not fucking evil."

"I'm in here because of him!"

"You're in here because of you!"

A fire alarm suddenly cut through the building. From the corner, Kenny could see smoke trailing from the hallway.

"Finally!" Cartman yelled and stood up, bashing out the glass with an elbow. Kenny looked around for help, but all the guards were busy with the fire. He could inmates - children - screaming.

Cartman managed to jump through the glass and pin Kenny to the wall with his hands.

One evening when Kenny was working late, the car he was under slipped off the jack and fell on him. The pressure of Cartman's hands around his throat was heavier than that.

He dug his fingernails so forcefully that the skin ruptured. Kenny's blood ran down his hands. Cartman pushed deeper and deeper. The suffocation was settling in, Kenny knew. He felt it before. Slowly blacking out, then feeling the awful, excruciating sensation of his spinal cord being ripped through his throat by his once friend.

The last thing he hears is, "I will have my way."

…

Kyle drives down Oakview Lane, still sniffling. The radio softly plays "Don't Fear the Reaper." He feels as if he's been hearing this song more often lately. He reaches for a water bottle and then it hits him. A rip in his chest, sinking in his stomach.

Something happened. Something happened and he doesn't know what it is, but he knows it's bad.

He pulls over and puts his hazards on.

12:34 pm - Kyle: Kenny. I hope you're okay. Let me know when you get back, please. I love you.

He waited for a moment. He knew Kenny wouldn't be able to respond right away, but a part of him hoped.

Flipping off the hazard lights, it abruptly ripped through him. A voice in his head that wasn't his own, screaming, I WILL HAVE MY WAY.

(I WILL HAVE MY WAY)

(I WILL HAVE MY WAY)