Kenny's always loved pop, the bouncy bubblegum shit so saccharine it nauseates, but so goddamn catchy it sticks. Maybe it's the beat, some addicting quality in the songs' rhythm, or maybe it's the lyrics, simplistic on the surface but inspiring feelings far more profound. Or maybe he just has a bad case of nostalgia, repeating the artists who made up his childhood. He unironically listened to boy bands and girl groups, jamming out to Backstreet Boys and Spice Girls. He likes Beyoncé leading Destiny's Child, prefers Justin's days heading *NSYNC, misses when Christina Aguilera did more than judge singing competitions. But none of them compare to the princess turned queen, the girl whose hits he fell in love with, the first ass he ever wanted to stick his dick in: the one and only, Miss Britney Spears.
Yeah, the guys still make fun of him for it, remind him how much of a queer-mo stereotype he is, but Kenny doesn't care. They can talk all the shit they want about him, so long as they don't take the Holy Spearit in vain. The only one who still does is Cartman, though, but Kenny knows he's still bitter about her and Timberlake splitting up. Stan just rolls his eyes, Kenny's tastes too mainstream for his alternative palette, while Kyle stares bemused, somewhere between impressed and baffled by Kenny's encyclopaedic knowledge. All they really ask is he keep his music at a reasonable volume, and, for fuck's sake, resist singing along. Kenny may not mind humming "…Baby One More Time", but the rest of them sure as shit do. He gets it—really, he does—if Stan went off to "All the Small Things," he'd be begging for an enema of the brain. Kenny is totally fine with putting on his headphones, having the music on low, and letting that sweet kitten voice play in the background while he goes about his day. Besides, he can still bob his head along to whatever song shuffle play chooses, and, if the mood truly tempts him, he can mouth out the chorus while Cartman and Kyle threaten to tear each other's throats out. It's no big deal.
His phone battery sits at a measly thirteen percent, though, which is a relatively big deal. Kenny had it plugged in all day without realising the cord was busted, met with an unpleasant surprise when he popped in his earbuds. Though he usually relies on his music, its stimulation keeping his attention from wandering too much, he can't bleed his power dry, not when he and the guys are hitting the town. Okay, in a pissant town like South Park, an evening of debauchery only translates to a tepid bar crawl, nothing that exciting. But Kenny doesn't want his phone dead if Karen shoots him a text, whether it's in case of emergency or requesting an update on where he'd be sleeping. And, without his precious playlists, he must endure the plethora of drab and boring noises making up the world, assaulting him with a barrage of dull distractions, a hundred annoying mosquitos all buzzing in his head.
They meet at the park, long after the average kid's bedtime, temporarily taking over the abandoned pirate slides and lonely jungle gyms. Kenny sits on the swing, like always, but only now notices how often the rusting chains screech, how they whine and shriek. He forces his attention elsewhere, or at least tries to, glaring at his feet as they burrow into the mulch padding, toeing aside dark woodchips, carving into the packed dirt. He tries, but the bushes still rustle, raccoons or stray cats moving unseen, the conifers' branches still creak with every soft gust of wind. Or maybe a bird will flap its wings, barrelling from perch to perch, or a car will chirr as it zooms down the street, like a damned screaming cicada. Most people ignore the din of the everyday—can filter it out unconsciously—but Kenny's mind always grabs on, hastily trading one sound for another and another and another, jumping around too freaking much and destroying any sense of concentration. The buds sit settled in his ears, and he bites the inside of his cheek in bitterness, wishing some background track could drown out the ambience he so detests. To stave off the deadly mix of boredom and irritation, Kenny lets his eyes wander, in search of some distraction from this latest lull, from the dreary and the droning.
His gaze falls on Stan, leaning against the basketball hoop, killing time on his phone with a stupid freemium card game. Dark blue eyes stare unblinking at a tiny screen, and Kenny envies his focus, his complete absorption in real-time player-versus-player matches. He usually spends his off-time grinding for booster packs, partly as a time killer, but mostly because Wendy forbade him from blowing their credit on a dumb phone app. Stan bites his lip, brows furrowing, obviously locked in an intense battle with some user in Korea or Guam or Venezuela. Kenny considers interrupting him, sparking up some temporary conversation, give himself some reprieve. But Stan gets pissy when he loses, and Kenny knows a drunken Stan would rip on him mercilessly for costing the deciding point in overtime, so he rules against it.
Eyes flit to Cartman, standing with his back turned, in the middle of a heated call with his supposed ex-girlfriend. Out of all useless noises in the world, Eric Cartman's grating and insufferable voice is the only one Kenny can tune out consistently, a skill cultivated over many years of jeers and insults. He waves an arm frantically, yelling at poor Heidi Turner on the other end of the line, showering her with unnecessary emotional abuse to maintain his fragile sense of dominance. Cartman is probably explaining, in excruciating detail, how he'll kill himself within the next ten minutes if she doesn't take his sorry ass back, even though he'd sooner suffer mild alcohol poisoning than take a knife to his wrists. Few things on God's green earth can stop Cartman in the heat of a tirade, and Kenny knows he isn't one of them. And, as much as he hates standing by, he knows that anything he does can and will blow up in his face, just as it has for every other person who's tried in vain to save beauty from the foulest of beasts.
Kenny looks up to the lamppost, to the warm incandescence flushing out the stars, the beacon luring nocturnal bugs into a cruel loop of fascination and pain. Those goddamn retard bugs, he thinks, swarming around something so tantalising, so enthralling, only to be rejected by the ruthless hot glass, singing their delicate wings as they yearn fruitlessly for the dazzling light. But they keep trying, because insect brains are too small to know better, to realise they'll never have what they seek, to accept the facts and move on from their cravings. They think the same way hopeless, horny people do, when they spend nights aching for someone they'll never have, jerk their dicks raw over someone they'll never screw. Kenny understands their plight, well acquainted with the sadomasochist cycle of lust and longing. But, while the simple-minded moths worship their streetlight, Kenny pines for a full-blown spitfire, with green eyes and crimson curls, with a sharp tongue and a mean southpaw, with quick wit and genuine chutzpah.
Kyle has shown up late two weeks in a row, both times attributed to some Isiah on Tinder, reacclimating to the whole dating scene. Kenny should be happy for him, considering how long Kyle spent recovering from his last long-term, refusing a repeat of Craig Tucker and his serial two-timing, worrying that his cheating reflected something wrong with Kyle. Of course, he also should have been happy when Kyle told him that he and Craig were together, instead of gulping down cigarette ash and giving Kyle the fakest of fake smiles. Hell, Kenny should've been happy when he went out for a few weeks with David, or when he had an on-and-off stint with Token, or when he hooked up with the sketchy French guy who digs holes in the woods and never fucking bathes. But it hurts to pretend, that he isn't jealous, that he isn't cursing every last one of them for heartbreak they'll bring Kyle, that he isn't resigning to an argyle cum-sock at the end of the day thinking of that voice calling him boyfriend and those lips kissing him deep 'n dirty.
But, after years of their friendship studded with cheeky pick-up lines, of their casual talks brimming with teasing banter, of their devolutions into blatant and outright flirting, Kenny has come to one simple conclusion: Kyle Broflovski is either completely and utterly oblivious or is just not interested. And, considering how super ridiculously smart Kyle is, Kenny doubts his romantics have gone unnoticed, only solidly unrequited.
Reciprocated or not, though, Kyle remains one of Kenny's best friends, among the most cherished people in his life, and he can live with that. Sure, his bug brain won't stop whirling around those luminous fantasies, but he'll hold on to what he has—what they have—even if it means flying wilfully in and out of an open flame, even if in the process he burns to a brittle blackened crisp. He bets most people would call him insane for thinking that way, but, truthfully, Kyle makes him too happy to give up on.
God, he really is crazy, huh?
Some fag on a motorcycle tears down the street, cries of a shrieking Harley ringing in Kenny's ears. He blinks, grinds his teeth at the engine's echo, damning the mountains for their remarkable acoustics. The sounds volley between the cliffsides, diluting each time, welcoming a new cacophony. Rubber soles scuffle on crumbling asphalt, Stan emerging the winner, dancing in his digital victory, momentarily forgetting the park is a public venue. He lets out a thankful sigh—whoo!—and takes his first real breath in twenty whole seconds. Thick skin thumps against grooved bark, Cartman's temper flaring, punching the nearest tree in anger, as if a violent tantrum bolsters his case. He rasps a grizzled threat into the receiver—Screw you, bitch, I'm doing it!—and hangs up only person who might actually care about him. Both of them add to the unbearable clamour, loud and obnoxious without even touching a drink.
Fuck, does Kenny need one soon. Maybe five to be safe.
Cartman grumbles unintelligibly, dragging his feet as he turns to face Kenny and Stan. Kenny can hear every moist clump of cheese dust and jagged hunk of potato chip lodged in his throat. Stan taps rapidly, nail hitting the screen as he clears out his pack spoils. His finger pokes at Kenny's brain with each unveiling of common and rare characters. Then, Stan swipes out, just as Cartman steps onto the concrete trim. He sways unsteadily, poor sense of balance further sabotaged by his excess weight, but maintains his footing, and Stan tucks his phone in his pocket. He jangles his house keys, rattles them mercilessly, and rolls his head in their direction, popping some bone in the process. Kenny feels the headphone cord brush against his neck, mocking him. Stupid low battery.
"Dumb bitch thinks she can break up with me," Cartman says snidely, ready to air his grievances as though he has support. The truth is no one can get rid of him, all attempts the boys have made in establishing distance backfiring spectacularly. The only reason he still gets invited is because he gets surprisingly generous while in a drunken stupor, which all three of them love to exploit. He tongues the corner of his mouth, and beings walking along the slender wall. He breathes unevenly, treating the length as precarious tightrope, "She'll be back."
"Dude, you gotta stop this shit with Heidi," Stan's voice strains, tinged with a combination of sadness and defeat. His lines are scripted, repeating the same tired admonishments over and over, knowing full well that Cartman will never change. But rather than waste his energy yelling at him, he stomachs Cartman's sob stories, listens to him call Heidi a cunt and abuser, because the only way this will end is for Heidi to decide so herself. He takes a step from the pole, punctuated with soft clinks, "If you don't like her, don't be with her."
"You don't get it," Whenever he scoffs, he wrinkles his nose into a pig's snout, "'Cause you're Wendy's lil whipping boy."
Stan rolls his eyes, and glances to Kenny. The two trade knowing looks, and brace for Cartman's latest rant. Stan shoves his hands in his jacket pocket, and turns his eyes to the muted sky, staring blankly at the constellations until a rogue meteor shuts Cartman up. Of course, he can just zone out, probably assumes Kenny already has something on to help with that too. But, luck for Kenny, he must resort to more desperate attempts at mental playback, in hopes he can literally think over the auditory garbage littering the air. Kenny licks his lips, files through his memory, and picks a song at random.
"But the rest of us guys who aren't flaming homos like Kahl or Kinny gotta do the real work! We gotta discipline our women so they get that they can still be lame-o Ghostbusters if they want but know who's in charge."
The third single off her debut album, "(You Drive Me) Crazy" is one Britney's earlier masterpieces. She spans her voice over an entire octave and flawlessly integrates the tragically underused cowbell. While she's since grown as an artist, Kenny does have a soft spot for her pre-millennia work. Plus, the song strikes him as fitting, though he can't entirely place how.
"Heidi just needs to understand that she can't keep manipulating me with her bullshit fairy-tales of the truth. I mean, what kind of psycho monster does that shit?"
Kenny shuts his eyes, exhales slowly. His anxious kicking tapers out, diverting everything into recreating the rhythm. Bells open up the number, with synthesisers establishing a beat. His tongue taps the roof of his mouth, at each cowbell clang, count him through the warm-up, up to the start of the first verse.
"I'm the only one who can deal with it, Stan! And I'm here tryin' to help her so she breaks out of this vicious loop of deception before she gets to Jew levels of tricky fake backstabbing."
She drawls out her signature baby, the word synonymous with her soft, dulcet voice. The lyrics end in rhymes and paint a clear picture. No, not the one provided by the music video, when she starts dressed as fifties waitress, then switches to a metallic green tube top more appropriate for the industrial warehouse dance club scene; she sings about love all-consuming, captivated by someone who inspires powerful emotion, in a way that should be maddening, but in the end feels all right.
"It's my God-given responsibility, man. I mean, it is our masculine duty to train these hoes! It's fuckin' Shakespeare, dude! Taming of the Shrew?"
Footsteps approach, but Kenny stays invested in the words. He starts mouthing along, syncing up with the tune in his head, lips forming shapes and lines as he silently approaches the chorus. Then, in a whisper the wind greedily swallows: You drive me craaa-zy.
"If your dumb ass read anything in high school," Kyle's voice cuts the air, sharp tone announcing his arrival. Kenny opens his eyes, sees Kyle standing just a few feet away on the sidewalk, under the streetlamp's glow. Green eyes glare coldly at Cartman, in a call to arms, ready for yet another round against his lifelong nemesis, "You'd know it was a satire on gender politics in marriage and Katerina's closing speech was sarcastic."
Cartman spins around, nearly tumbles from his platform. He catches himself, though, brown eyes burning as they fall on Kyle. Of all things in the universe, Kyle stands the only force capable of combatting the scum that is Eric Cartman. Kenny leans in, as the music plays on, licking his lips in anticipation, for the sweet and beautiful moment when Kyle puts that dibshit in his place.
"Well, well," Cartman gingerly hops down, feet thumping on a patch of matted grass, "Look who finally decided to grace us with his noble presence," He takes long, methodical strides, a predator stalk. He puffs himself up, a peacock strutting, even straightening his posture just to solidify the few inches he has on Kyle, "Did you remember the little people or did Tinder-fuck finally get bored of you?"
"I overslept," Kyle says, unfazed, unyielding, "I had to take a nap after work since—shocker—some of us have jobs and don't still live with our moms."
When arguing, he has the judicial tact of a courtroom veteran and clinical precision of a renowned surgeon. He could kill a man with words alone, his tone a sharp blade to the throat, his tongue made of silver and lined with venom. And, while that frightens a good lot of people, Kenny considers it incredibly sexy. Okay, a little scary, too, but in the still-feeling-dick-tingles sort of way.
"AYE!" Cartman yells, face scrunching. He leans in, invading Kyle's personal space, even bringing an accusing finger along to point in his face, "I am supporting my ageing mother like a good son. You'd fucking know that if you weren't whoring your ass out like the slutty Jew you are."
Kyle says nothing, just raises his hands. He places either palm on Cartman's sternum and, without blinking, shoves. Cartman peddles back, trips, and falls. His ass hits the sidewalk with a resounding thud, and Stan lets out a staccato chuckle. Kenny watches a sly smirk tease at the corner of Kyle's lips, and he feels his heart throb.
"At least I've never blackmailed someone into fucking me," He says, blood dripping from his voice, inflicting his killing blow. He looms over Cartman, casting his shadow over him, adding nonchalant, "And Isiah lives in New York, it was never gonna work."
Kenny watches Kyle's eyes change, shed their savage glint, take on softer sheen. He indulges in his victories, but never for too long, respectfully prideful and never anything more. Kyle's eyes flit, first to Stan, then to Kenny, embers kindling within. Kyle can be ruthless, and Kyle can be warm, can be one of the most compassionate and empathetic people Kenny has ever known. Kenny feels just like the reprise, feels like loving you means so much more, and more than anything I ever felt before.
Crazy, Kyle drives him crazy.
Kenny feels a smile widen on his face, and, yeah, it feels all right.
[You drive mecraaaa-zy!]
"Dude," Stan's gaze flickers to Kenny, eyeing him suspiciously. He's made his way from the edge of the court to the other side of the swing set, but stopped, distracted evidently by Kenny. A black brow lifts, dark blue questioning, "Turn that down or you're gonna go deaf."
"Huh?"
[I just can't sleep!]
Oh, right, the song, probably playing through his headphones again. The second chorus blares while Kenny leans back, swinging forward as he fishes in his pocket. He uses the cord as a reel, pulling the phone into reach, then hoisting it from the depths of his jeans. As he regrips the sleek curved edges, though, he can't recall turning on his phone, only how much he wanted to conserve his precious battery. It must have gone on by accident…
Kenny lifts the screen to his face, taps the black screen to life. A vividly coloured portrait of Princess Zelda greets him, the Hylian ruler regally posed with the Master Sword drawn, wearing her Twilight Princess gown. Above her in thin white font is the time and date, with no other banner indicating a music app open. In the top right corner, his battery sits empty save for a thin red sliver, percentage only down to twelve. He sees no indication of use, intentional or otherwise, but the music still plays.
[I'm so excited! I'm in too deep!]
In his head.
[Craaaaa-zy! But it feelsall right!]
No, out of his head.
[Baby, thinking of you keeps me up all night!]
Playing very loudly.
Kenny's eyes widen, as the surreal nature of the situation sinks in. True, weird stuff happens in South Park all the time, finding a folksy charm in the batshit and bizarre. But when a portal opens to the Spooky dimension or a spaceship of grey Visitors flies overhead, there's a vague explanation. Hell, he can accept the Towelie being a sentient pothead dishrag and the Crab People dwelling deep beneath the sewer system. But this?
What is this?!
Stan peers over, unsure why Kenny hasn't lowered the volume, trying to look at his screen. Kenny is quick with the buttons, though, plunging his princess back into darkness, in need of far more than an ocarina to salvage his timeline. He jams the phone back in his pocket, pointedly staring at his two mulch trenches. Maybe, if he directs all his attention somewhere else, the song will stop. Kenny can't hear the other minor noises of the world, and for the first time in his life he wishes he could.
"God, really, Kinny?" Cartman bellows, peeling himself off the ground. Kenny looks up, as Cartman sloppily beats dirt from denim, only to be ensnared in irate brown. Annoyance and irritation permeate his gaze, assuring Kenny that he hears it too. Cartman shakes his head, tacking on a patronising sneer, "Quit blowin' your ears out, Baby Driver, no one wants to join your vintage tween wet dream."
Kenny looks away, evading Cartman's corrosive grimace, only to find solace in Kyle's green. Kyle, he thinks, he can't hear this. He can't, because if he can, then Kenny's already microscopic chances are gone—Poof! Done-zo. Kenny's already poor, an idiot, a descendant of a long long line of white trash; he doesn't need to add being a freak. No, Kyle can't hear it; he can't, he can't, he just can't.
Kyle shoots Cartman a dirty look, as the bridge begins, and, for a moment, Kenny thinks he really can't hear it. He latches on to the momentary hope, pleads with God grant him one blessing; please, please, pleeease. Then, Kyle turns his head, looks over to Kenny, and snuffs out his prayers. When their eyes lock—brilliant green and sky blue—Kenny feels something, feels it intensify, amplify.
[Crazy… But it feels all right…]
The goddamn music—FUCK—Kyle made it louder.
No, Kyle is making it louder.
[Every day and every nih-iiiight…]
Kenny smiles, using his dopey grin as desperate defence. But his shield crumbles, lips pulled too tightly, teeth showing too much, leaving him mortified and pathetic. Britney's voice flutters, airy in repeat, and Kenny's heart thumps, pounding to the beat. He wishes he could choke right there, down his mawkish, mushy feelings like a cyanide capsule, and die escaping those eyes. But he can't; he can only watch Kyle tilt his head, lift a brow, and stare back.
Oh, he is so screwed.
"Dude, I can hear that from here," Kyle says, concerned, but for more mundane reasons. He looks at Kenny and worries about noise-induced hearing loss, about acute tinnitus due to acoustic trauma, about things that happen normally and don't involve the human brain mimicking a surround sound stereo. His body shifts, threatening to take a step forward, "Turn it off."
Turn it off, he says. Or I will, his tone adds.
That tickling in Kenny's balls couldn't be more inappropriate.
"Relax, man," As he speaks, he triggers the guitar solo, deafening rifts undermining his already shaky voice. No, he can't talk his way out of this one, nothing to slick his words in a way he could slip out unscathed. Kenny stops thinking explanations, starts thinking escape. He needs to leave, get out now, run back home to find the sturdiest stretch of drywall and drive his skull through it. And if that doesn't kill him, he'll dig in the pantry for some Tennessee Honey, down the whole bottle of Jack and erase this awkwardness from memory. He gulps, hard, and spits out a lie, "Phone's been wonky all day, got gunk in the buttons or s'methin'."
He has to act fast, before Kyle asks a follow-up, before Stan veers into scepticism, before Cartman calls his bluff. Kenny gets up, quickly—too quickly. He lets go of the chain as he leans forward, ready to stand, but the swing belt dumps him, clumsy feet doing the rest. Accident-prone is the nice term for it, but Kenny prefers fucking r-tard. Somehow it sounds better, falling face-first into a bed of splintery woodchips, revelling in the reality of just how much the universe hates him. He hears Cartman cackle, faintly, under the melody, and he tastes dirt, earthy, on his tongue. On some cosmic level, maybe he deserved that, maybe.
[You drive me crazy! (You drive me crazy, baby!)]
Just not now. Really not now.
"Shit, Kenny," Stan sputters, rushing to help, salvage the train-wreck unfolding before him. He lays a hand on Kenny's shoulder, as Kenny scrambles to his feet, frantic, frazzled. And Kenny is thankful, well aware that Stan is the only thing keeping him steady, but he can't thank him, too busy fighting for balance, feigning some semblance of composure. He knows it isn't working, alarm painting Stan's expression, sensing something real wrong, but too steeped in reason to come to the actual conclusion. Kenny might be more thankful for that than anything else.
He tears out of Stan's grasp, in sweeping, stumbling strides, wordless. Dick move, he thinks, walking away without so much as a nod, but he can apologise for hurting Stan's soft-boy feelings later, when his heart stops pounding a hundred-one beats per minute. Kenny doesn't brush the dirt from his jeans, too focused on following the quickest path home, on cutting through the park to the railroad and following the tracks to his ramshackle home. He keeps his eyes on his feet, unable to look anyone in the eye, and half-asses his bail, "But I can't afford burning data, better get home 'fore rackin' up a bill!"
[I'm so excited, I'm in too deep!]
Kenny, however, walks straight into a hitch, ruining his own flawless getaway. Every harried step he takes increases the volume, and when he looks up, he sees Kyle standing in his way. Not on purpose, he knows, the two living in the same general direction, but it sure feels intentional, like a trap designed to out his stupid, awful crush, to show the whole goddamn world how he's a total lovesick loser for Kyle Broflovski with his smile and his snark and his motherfucking everything. But Kenny moves too quickly to stop, course calculated and set, headed to pass him with the whole chorus belting. Kenny breathes in, to brace himself, and draws in the smells, of skin scented with sandalwood, of hair fragranced with malt, of breath flavoured with fresh strawberry snacks.
His heart skips.
[You make me feel all right!]
Kenny looks away, hiding his face as his cheeks ignite, blushing like an anime schoolgirl, and praying Kyle didn't see. His pace hastens, as he shoves his hands in his pockets as he darts down the path. Usually, he can hear every little thing, but he struggles tuning in behind him, even as the music eases. He thinks he hears Kyle call after him, frustrated, confused. Then Stan hops onto the concrete, yells his name once, but gives up, with a groan. Cartman scoffs at the two of them, tells them to let Kenny go home and play with himself, they don't need him to have fun tonight. After all, his taste in booze are just bad as his taste in tunes.
Two voices shout—Shut up!—as Kenny crosses through the eastern gate, the song softening as it winds to a close. He shuts his eyes, and can't believe how much he hates that harmonious singing, how his comfort tunes warped into sheer and unbearable torture. Never, never in his life have three minutes and eighteen seconds felt so goddamn long, been so excruciating. Hell, he's died in less agonising ways. But, as he wanders to the brush, wading through clusters of snow-dusted bushes, Britney sings her last line, and the number finally ends. It ends, and leaves Kenny to the night, to the auditory clutter. And he sighs, in relief, never happier to hear those terrible, irksome sounds.
All alone, Kenny walks, walks and wonders. Something happened there, something weird, something unexplained. But maybe it was just a one-time thing, something to do with the phase of the moon or time of the year. In South Park, a lot of crazy shit happens, and this definitely qualifies as crazy shit. So, perhaps, it happened once, and won't ever again. He can go to bed, wake up the next morning, and him and the guys can laugh it all off as a fluke, and let things return to their normal rhythm. Even if there are a few questions left unanswered, Kenny can live with the mystery, in the same way he lives with all the super gay shit Kyle makes him feel.
The revelation dawns on him, and Kenny stops in his tracks, as things start making sense. Because that's how Kyle makes him feel, like a goddamn Britney Spears song.
But Kenny will never tell him, so Kyle will never know. What happened tonight won't happen again, so Kyle will never know. No matter what, Kyle can never know.
Ever.
A/N: Should I start another multi? No. Am I? Yes, because this should be just four or seven chapters. And I haven't written anything just fun and happy and stupid for some time, and I've been wanting to do this since Hootie & the Blowfish. I really hope you enjoyed and you're looking forward for more of Kenny's struggles, since he has a few more tunes to work his way through. I appreciate you reading, favouriting, and commenting so much! Thank you!