So, to roughly summarize this chapter: Kenny go to party. Wendy go to party. Kenny get drunk because sad. Wendy take Kenny home. xD but this chapter is gonna sort of be the hook-shot reel for action. So, with that said, I'm really sorry, but 100000000% promise and positive that in the next chapter, Kenny/Wendy interaction content shit will initiate.
Rivers Flow In You
Chapter III - Carouse Carousel
As usual, Kenny was in his cupboard, with an erotic article of topless women, possessing prominent, spherical breasts that Kenny wished were three-dimensional. He was excessively masturbating with bliss. It was the only vent he could find besides sex that contented him from the relentless life of constant abuse, poverty, dysfunction, and depression.
All until his phone rang. The phone was given to him for mainly emergencies, and that's why it was only a used, damaged flip phone that sufficed calls and texts. He adopted a default ring, that was noticeably flipped it open, therefore stopping the sharp timbre of the irritating ring tone. He held it to his ear as he removed his urgent hand from his pants. He was greeted by the identifiable voice of Kyle Broflovski, the Jew of the quartet.
"Hey Kenny." he happily greeted. Kenny lit up.
"Hey Kyle!" he muffled through the substandard-audio and background static. "What's up?"
"I'm throwing a party on Wednesday," Wednesday was tomorrow, Kenny reflected. "wanna come?" he offered, with the expected anticipation of Kenny predictably replying 'Yes.'
"Yeah, sure. I got nothing else to do."
"'Aight, cool. It's at my house."
"Are you dick parents going to peer over us so we don't do anything to insane. You know, like walking inside with our shoes on," he cynically asked with contempt for his overprotective, religious parents.
"Nope. They're out of town. They don't even know I'm having a party."
"Oh, Kyle. So bad," he sarcastically teased. "and can you do me a favor?"
Kyle paused for a moment, aware of the perversions of Kenny McCormick. "What is it?"
"Ask Bebe to come."
"Fuck you Kenny!" Kyle had confessed to the quartet of his secretive passion for Bebe a few months prior. But the typical Kyle couldn't muster enough courage to do anything about, thus having lingering guilt and urge. Everyone pushed him into doing it, but the closest interaction that ever transcribed were mere passages in paths by each other. Kyle wanted to, but he didn't. He was the archetypal pundit-geek who keep stepping back, with the whispers of anxiety, like rejection.
"Just meet me by the bus stop this morning, all right?" Kenny said. Kyle accepted, with the strong urge to decline, skip school, and go make a living in another country. But a suggestion that was subliminally planted in Kyle, was a partial agreement with Kenny.
After the two had finished their mourning school-preparation routine, Kenny appeared at the daily bus stop before anybody else; awaiting Kyle's delayed presence, relatively impatiently, as an awkward suspension of his appearance kept him aloofly leaned against the bus stop that had dozens of nails and tacs inserted into it's chippy fiber.
At last, Kenny identified the lanky boy in the chroma-colored green ushanka approaching him through the dense fog. The entire town was submerged in the vapor-akin clouds that rested on the ground, crowding South Park. You might be able to see two meters maximum clearly, but able to make out the rough outline of an object in the distance of three meters. Kyle ambled closer.
"Hey man," Kyle introduced, a fraction between time before Kenny would propose some sarcastic comment, like 'took you long enough.' "now, before you say anything, allow me to protest! It's none of your business to insert yourself into, and I have all rights to restrict her from the party! I... eh... Just..." He began to stammer his support, unbalancing his argument. Kenny wasted no time to respond, still maintaining strict on his initial proposition.
"Okay, Kyle Broflovski. Allow me to retort." he hid a smug grin behind the thick wall that was his parka. "You are sixteen years old. It's time for you to stop sucking on your dreidle. Do you know how many women I've fucked? It's time for you to stop hiding, and embrace!" Kyle face flushed a tinge of peach. "Come on, Kyle. To be honest, it would be more satisfying for me to be a man, and maybe get rejected, than to hide my feelings forever."
Kyle stood, reflecting in depth. Thoughts in his head alternated in revolutions, internally comparing the positive chances and negative chances on an imaginary scale. He swallowed his pride with maturity. "Yeah..." he bluntly uttered, as his eyes fell into the asphalt underneath the souls of his sneakers. He pivoted his head back up, before continuing. "I think I get it..." Kyle, unlike most biased teenagers, was open-minded and absorbent. "I will. I will."
And he did. But, it was an admittedly shitty experience:
'Shit, shit, fuck, shit, ass, cunt, fuck, shit' Kyle Broflovski thought. He mustered every single tracing of courage, naivety and optimism while he approached Bebe Stevens in the corridor, whom was concurrently conversing with Wendy Testaburger. 'Don't fuck up, don't fuck up... be a man. Grow a pair, you fucking cowardly twat' Kyle reassured himself. He took a deep breath to balance his trembling feet and stammered breaths. A grin drew his face, before immediately falling when he spoke.
"Hey, Bebe?" he brought attention to himself. 'Shit, was that inappropriate because she was talking to somebody? Is there a time machine somewhere?' he internally barked at himself. Kenny peered his eye around the corner of the hallway, having hope in Kyle. Bebe kept her expression of casualty, and that made Kyle somewhat more content, but still was (metaphorically) pissing between his anxiously quivering legs.
"Yeah?" she replied.
"Do you want to come to this party Wednesday at my house?" The boundless quantity of profane regrets echoed between the flaps of Kyle's ushanka inside of his head. The final offer and climax had Kyle's stomach sink into his rectum. He just said; fuck it and fuck everything, waiting for a response in unison with spying Kenny McCormick.
"Yeah, sure. What time?"
"Eight." he informed.
"Alright. Thanks!" she said with bliss.
"You can come too." Kyle unceremoniously offered to Wendy additionally, for the purpose to refrain excluding her upfront. She accepted, via head nod, before Kyle ambled out of the corridor, as Kenny tucked his head back behind the corner. Kyle felt waves of satisfaction, flowing all the way to his fingertips. He had a subconscious whisper that he may have made an error, but he shoved it away with his reining glee.
"Nice!" Kenny exclaimed when he came, raising his two hands that offered a celebratory high-five of jubilation.
"Yeah, motherfucker!" Kyle clapped Kenny's elevated palms, with exuberant festivity.
"Hey, where the fuck is that piece of shit?" Stewart said as he walked into the house on Wednesday afternoon, an hour before the scheduled date for the party. No intoxication was hinted in his vocalization, but definite hostility as he approached Kenny, who was current in the unorthodox dining room, which encompassed only a table and four stools surrounding it, lacking any decor. He was chewing on a molded Pop-Tart.
Kenny groaned, anticipating more bullshit from his excuse of a father. He hadn't seen him since two days ago when he had relentless beaten him into a pulp, luckily. "I got a fucking phone call the other day about your sorry ass. Did you fucking exaggerate everything? Did you act like a poor little victim again?" God, Kenny wanted the ability to senselessly torture Stewart.
Ahead of his anger, he blurted "I wouldn't need exaggeration to put you in jail. And for the record; no, I didn't. It was because my friends care about me." Stewart unhesitatingly swung his chunky, clenched hand into Kenny's nasal bridge, falling out of his chair, but oddly still wielding the Pop-Tart.
"You want to talk more shit, you cunt?" Stewart roared. Kenny kept himself silent. When Stewart left, he sat back up, continuing to eat his Pop-Tart as fury stirred in him. Contempt pulsed inside of Kenny, before he felt depressed.
Kenny had prayed that there would be booze at the party; he wanted to wash away his depression and internal rage with beer, whiskey, gin, and all of the alcohol underneath the Sun. He wanted to ride on every breathing woman at the party like a mechanical bull. He wanted to unleash all of the calves until they were out of sight. He wanted to run away, and smash his head into the glass of a beer bottle.
Kyle's house was several kilometers away from his; hence he took a city bus as a improvised method of transportation, subsequent to his family restricted from buying more than one car (and of course, they couldn't drive him). When he got there, his jaw dropped on the carpeted floor. Fair enough, there was alcohol at the party. In fact, it wasn't long before Kenny experienced a noteworthy, highlighted night that will become a carouse carousel. Plentiful columns of individual divisions of alcohol were aligned among a table, of which a thin woven diamond-positioned square sheet covered it, as the ends of it hung off of the sides.
Kenny's eyes widened as he entered the Jewish household. A literal beer barrel was adjacent to the table, on top of a metallic cylinder, aside an erect baluster that held a stack of plastic, recyclable pint cups. There where then pool tables, streamers that were casted above Kenny's head, and raved lights that shone in nine directions, illuminating the room in primary colors as it spherically rotated.
Music originated from a compact iPod speaker system that increased the volume that was atop a cabinet in the living room. More people that initially anticipated had appeared, crowding the residence. Left and right were women.
As he entered, feeling oddly out of place, Kyle came up to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder.
"Hey Kenny!"
"Drunk yet?" Kenny chuckled. "Nice job man."
"Thanks, Kenny."
"Hey... Kyle?" Kenny asked.
"Yeah?"
I need a favor from you, Kyle. It's unrelated to Bebe, I promise."
"Yeah, sure man. Anything."
"I need you to get me shithammered tonight," Kenny humbly entreated, as Kyle's eyes expanded in abrupt shock. He mouth opened, considering retorting, but paused himself when he saw Kenny continuing. "I mean, seriously man. I really need to get washed in booze tonight. Just a fucking carouse, alright man? I really need to get pounded tonight."
"Is there something wrong or somethi-"
"No, no," cutting off Kyle midway into his statement, emphasizing his desperation for intoxication. "I need to get into a fight, fuck some bitches, swallow a ton of booze. Please, just this one night. I need all of these things to be check-marked." Kenny sauntered off towards the pool tables which had plastic pint cups atop of them. "Let's fucking go Kyle!" he enthusiastically urged. He wanted to get away from all of his problems tonight.
Kyle followed. Kyle had a sensation of regret, merged with nausea that waves through him, but once again, he told himself 'fuck it.' This is for the weird, immortal, sick perverted bastard known as Kenny McCormick tonight! And it started with a typical game of beer pong to inebriate him. Aside his good friends, Kyle, Tweek, Butters and Stanley, he was happy. He wanted this to last.
"YEAH! BULL'S EYE BITCHES!" Kenny declared, pointing at his own eye with exaggeration, subsequently from shooting a beer pong, and ahead of the opposite side of the pool table, shagged with the rough surface of artificial-turf akin cotton. "Bottoms up, blackjack motherfuckers!" They swallowed a brief gulp, before Kenny started becoming hostile and aggressive towards the possible capacity and/or quantity that they drank.
"That wasn't enough!" Kenny angrily whined.
"Kenny, chill out. I think you need a break from beer pong." Butters acclaimed.
"Hah! Butters! Butters..." Kenny stuttered, before finishing. "Margarine! Hahaha!" He guffawed. Kenny was intoxicated, past the principle of mere belief. Kyle and Stan had hauled him out of the immediate vicinity, preparing to settle him on a couch whilst he calms down. The set him on a couch, where he briefly retired from any alcohol. They sat aside him.
"Kenny... Are you drinking because you're sad?" Stan questioned, concern tinged in the tone of his voice.
"Haha!" Kenny said, lacking a constructive response. Kenny comprehended the question. "Fuck you Kyle!" he hostility snapped, as if he was riposting despite the fact Kyle has yet to ask him any possibly triggering question. He got up, where Kyle and Stan essayed to maintain him ensconced on the couch, but was futile opposing Kenny's hyperactivity. He wandered, momentarily stumbling as he pulled himself upstairs. Stan and Kyle sat down with concern of what surprise a drunken Kenny McCormick will propose at a party.
He eventually emerged after a sustained series of spewing vomitus that primarily encompassed alcohol. As he swayed as he sauntered down each of the series of steps that was bounded in shag, beige carpet, gripping the reflective fiber of the handrail as he circumspectly ambled down the staircase. The following entirety of the shindig, Kenny secluded himself at the counter, constantly pouring pints and shots down his throat. He had been drowning himself, washing away his domestic problems via beer, a little bit of wine, whiskey, gin, more whiskey, and vodka for nearly half an hour, before Stan approached him with Kyle.
"Alright man, the party is gonna rap up. You better stop drinking to get a head start so you can walk home." Stan advised Kenny.
Kenny's ocular plane was rapidly rotating as he pivoted his head, due to the quantities of alcohol he had swallowed: he was skyrocketed-drunk. So as expected, his reply was offset. The only reason no one knew he was shithammered was because he had yet to talk or carouse around the party.
"Fp... ah... do iny uf you guys have blow...?"
"Maybe it'll counteract with the booze," Stan chuckled, receiving a sharp glance from Kyle.
"That's enough drinks for you, Kenny," said Kyle. "come on, buddy. Let's go." They heaved Kenny out of the stool chair, and allowed him to straighten himself while Stan and Kyle departed from him. Kenny went into the front yard of Kyle's house, as the rambunctious blind noise of cheering demoted and the neon illumination dimmed, Kenny implied that the party was rapping up.
He went back inside, still noteworthy to be drunk, and stumbled towards Kyle, who was conversing with Bebe, Stan and Wendy. Kenny emitted the mist of alcohol in his breath as it reluctantly washed over Kyle, giving Kyle the urge to regurgitate. "What, Kenny?" he said, with the tinge of exasperation in his voice.
"Uh...Fpt-when do I go home?"
Kyle grunted, disregarding Kenny's curiosity. He pivoted toward Stan who was leaning against the pool table side him. Stan shrugged nonchalantly. "Should I keep him here? You know his parents..." Kyle asked Stan, who didn't respond. Kyle faced Kenny, who's eyes were departed. "You wanna stay here Kenny?"
"Go..." Kenny eructed once more, before topping it off with a fart, triggering toxic fumes that flooded the vicinity, slightly disturbing Wendy and Bebe. "fuck.. Bebe..." Kyle exchanged perplexed glimpses at each other.
Wendy was silently examining as the events took place. She refrained from even uttering a vocable to Stan, due to the prolonged awkwardness that restricted the two from interacting as of their break up three years prior. She excluded herself even talking to Kyle, other than showing gratitude for the invitation.
"He's a little fucked up..." Kyle informed, exhibiting his specialty of stating the obvious. "You're gonna just chill here with me for a while, alright Kenny?" Kyle said. Kenny ignored, continuing to ogle at the two women's breasts. He released perverted chortles, as Kyle and Stan dragged his flaccidly loose intoxicated body away, setting him on the recliner without any supervision.
"I'll have to keep him home I gue-" Kyle went back to speaking to the group, before the front door abruptly flew open like a magnetic trapdoor. In, stomped the heavy ogre known as Mrs. Broflovski, with her jaw fallen upon her breasts.
She had a rigid, plastic-appearing nose that prominently stood out in front of her. Her eyes were slender, and had ruffled red hair on top of her wrinkled, layered and freckled forehead. She sported a blue, cuffed button shirt on her beefy torso that had difficult fitting through the door when she didn't bulldoze herself inside. Her face stirred with limitless vexation that painted her entire bulky face lobster red, that could drown the heat of a fire.
She lunged in midair, shaking the residence with the powerful mass of her flat, wide feet, before stomping towards Kyle. An incredible roar of rage ensued, as Kyle experienced the lecture of living Hell. All of the invited guests had subtly shuffled behind the giant wall that was Mrs. Broflovski, who casted a shadow over Kyle, who was in a ball.
Kenny remained on the recliner half asleep. But when the feeling of somebody touching him, he lifted his heavy eyelids up as his vision gradually sharpened, absorbing the room again. Someone and pulled him up, because he obviously wasn't going to be able to stay with Kyle for the remainder of the night. The person continued to tug Kenny by his jacket out of the house. He heard the door close, and Mrs. Broflovski's resonant auditory force had decreased before it vanished, as Kenny was being guided down the sidewalk with somebody he had yet to discover, oddly.
Ok! Literally, the first sentence of the next chapter will be Kendy! Leaving a review REALLY helps me continue writing this stuff. I'd even be open to stuff like suggestions of how I can write better to please y'all. Remember to listen to Canon in D while writing fanfiction :D