AN: Oy, I've been writing this for several days now, it would've been done sooner, but I had a lttle bit of block. Anywho I really hope you guys enjoy this chapter and that it is as enjoyable as the previous one! Sorry not to do individual thanks for the moment, I'll try to get them done for the next chapter, but thank you so much to everyone who did review! I really appreciate it and it really encouraged me to write this chapter, which hopefully doesn't suck. But seriously, y'all are awesome for reviewing, it's so helpful and so appreciated! So as always, I'd appreciate any reviews you have for me! :) Also, there will be a short wrap-up chapter after this one, just a little quickie idea that came to me the other day!
Enjoy!
Oh, and I don't own South Park or its characters, damn you Trey Parker and Matt Stone!
"Kenny! Get out here!" Then there was a pause. "Now!"
Kenny rolled over and tucked his beloved Hustler under his mattress before swinging his legs over the side of his bed. He stood and stretched a little lazily, slowly persuading the blood in his veins to flow outward toward his limbs rather than downward, as it liked to do when he spent two hours looking at very trashy, very naked ladies…with very big tits.
Having reanimated his limbs Kenny shuffled over to his bedroom door, pulling tightly on the drawstrings of his hooded sweatshirt out of sheer habit. He pushed open the door and made his way through their small home in his worn and beaten socks.
The tightly drawn opening of his hood hid his grimace, feeling the griminess of the dirty carpet through the threadbare material and holes in his socks was bringing an unpleasant expression to his face. It was moments like this that made him wish his mom knew how to operate a vacuum cleaner, or a broom…or anything that involved soap and water. But of course, that would've probably meant she'd have to be sober. Actually, did they even have a vacuum cleaner? Or a broom?
The well-known feeling of the soiled carpet under his feet wasn't the only reason Kenny was grimacing though. If seventeen years of living with his parents had taught Kenny anything it was how to read his parents: their expressions, voices, drunken attempts at speech, vague gestures made after the six or seventh round of vodka chocolate milk. Kenny, like most children, had developed this skill in order to ensure that the moods of his parents affected his life as little as possible, to avoid any unnecessary conflict until he had left his childhood home for good.
Well, that and using these skills to seriously save his ass from completely justified parental wrath. All three were valid reasons really.
Out of the quad of friends that had followed him since preschool Kenny was obviously the most talented and honed in these skills and, despite the rolled eyes of Stan and Kyle, he considered these skills to be an art and a science. He knew he was pretty good at what he did. Hell, he was the fucking master at what he did. Modesty never really suited Kenny.
Though in some ways it really wasn't too surprising that Kenny was the best at avoiding the consequences of parental wrath, frankly his friends didn't do much to stop it. Well, Cartman usually avoided anger by weaseling and manipulating his neurotic nympho of a mom until she was calling him her "little poopsiekins" and Cartman, even at seventeen, faked tears to get out of the worst trouble. Kenny pretty much disregarded Cartman's techniques, because they were pretty fucking pussy. At least Stan and Kyle didn't use fucking tears on their parents, even if they were still pretty pussy for not doing anything to get out of it. Stan would just sit and wait in his room as he heard his parents thundering up the stairs, Randy mostly, on their mission to yell at and/or punish their youngest child. Kenny had seen Stan do this several times over the years and other than frequent rolling of the eyes the black haired boy pretty much took his punishment in silence.
Kyle was by far the most fun to watch, even though you had to pity the guy. Hearing Sheila Broflovski in a rage had convinced Kenny it was one of the signs of the Apocalypse: the house shook, he could swear he heard a harpy screaming his friend's name, and the whole world seemed to grow a little colder and darker. It was in these moments, anticipating the impending doom, that you could watch as Kyle's face paled to a shade Kenny didn't think was possible and the redhead's eyes went wide as his pupils constricted in fear. Stan and Kenny would offer their unending moral support when they saw what terror their friend would soon face. Stan would put his hand on Kyle's shoulder and say with complete seriousness, "Dude."
And then of course the two, or rarely three of them, would be forced out of the Broflovski household and into the street. The anger of Sheila Broflovski would echo off buildings several blocks away from Kyle's house. Kenny sympathized with his friends, sort of, but they were still pussies for not doing anything. So Kenny liked to puff out his chest a little and show off his skills. He was Kenny. He was amazing. He was the fucking master of his domain. He was also the only one of them whose bedroom was on the ground floor, but that was a minor detail.
Historically Kenny wasn't above throwing open his bedroom window and hastily pulling himself out before tearing ass into the woods or toward his friends' houses. This would happen when his thoughts became "Shit, fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, fuck" at the sound of his parents' rage.
That action, however, did have a fifty-fifty chance of carrying major consequences. Like being screamed at everyday for the next three weeks or his dad blockading his window like he was a dangerous convict instead of a miscreant teenage boy. There was also the possibility that his parents would get drunk or stoned and completely forget any anger from before, but it was really only worth the risk in death-con five situations, when a beckoning scream that sounded less like his name and more like an invocation of death came barreling down his door.
Kenny had briefly contemplated using this well worn disappearing act the moment he had heard his dad's voice. But, he thought, this was a death-con 1 situation, maybe death-con two, which meant his dad was either irritated or kind of drunk. It was pretty hard to tell the difference at times.
Having deemed the situation relatively harmless and swallowing his pride Kenny had decided to face his dad, considering what he might have done to piss off his dad. "What the fuck did I do?" Kenny groused to himself, "Shit, maybe he saw half his magazines are gone. What if he found out about those fireworks and Mackey's car? Fuck, maybe he saw some of his beer's gone." Okay, so in the case of Kenny McCormick it might have been a case more of what had been discovered than if anything had been done.
After thirty seconds that seemed to last an eternity Kenny was standing in front of his dad and he quickly took in all the little details of the situation. His dad was holding a beer, he was slouched back in a kitchen chair, he looked pretty buzzed, but he also had the same seriousness in his gaze that had been in the tone of his voice. All in all, Kenny didn't have a fucking clue.
Stuart didn't say anything at first, he simply pushed himself against the chair into a more upright position at the sight of his nearly grown son and stared at him. Then he raised the can in hand and took a sip, the loud noise cutting through the relative silence. Since his dad didn't seem interested in beginning the conversation Kenny decided to.
"What do you want Dad?" the irritation and boredom evident in his voice, Kenny clearly wanted to get this over and done with so he could go back to what he was doing before. He did have wonderfully trashy and naked ladies waiting for him on his bed after all.
Stuart stared at him for a moment longer before gesturing to the empty chair opposite his own.
"Sit down son," he said with vague authority, "we need to have a serious talk. And take off that goddamn hood, I can't understand a goddamn word you say when you've got that thing on."
Kenny pulled down his hood as he practically let himself fall into the cheap kitchen chair at his side. He raised a hand to try to tame the shaggy blond hair that was currently suffering from the effects of being pressed under his hood as he waited for his dad to continue. Stuart McCormick watched his son rather impassively and opened his mouth again.
"Now Kenny, we gotta talk about something important,"
"Stuart, what're you yelling at my little angel for? Kenny doesn't need you bothering him," his mom had entered the kitchen, her thick accent cutting into her husband's words.
"Dammit woman, I'm not yelling at him," Stuart's brows furrowed in frustration, "This is a man to man talk, you mind your own business. Come on Kenny."
With that Kenny was dragged outside by his father, hearing his mom once again before the front door closed.
"Alright, but you better not be yelling at my baby, Stuart," the thick trashy accent of his mom didn't conceal the warning in those words.
Well, at least if he was going to get chewed out now he knew his dad was in for similar treatment later.
Stuart dragged his son around to the back of the house toward the makeshift icebox that rested a few feet from the house. Really it was just an old tin milk box that held some of Stuart's beers and the occasional piece of frozen game in winter, but it was still called "the icebox" by his white trash family. Stuart opened up the box and grabbed a replacement beer, having abandoned his previous one on the kitchen table.
"Now Kenny," he said as he whipped out a keychain bottle opener from his pocket, "This is a real important talk we gotta have. You're getting older now and we gotta tell you things, man to man."
Stuart popped the metal cap off the beer bottle and handed it to a surprised Kenny before fishing another beer out of the metal box and repeating the process, bringing the open beer to his mouth and drinking a hearty swig of it. Kenny continued to stare at the beer for a moment, its presence in his own hand threw him for a loop. First of all, his dad never shared his precious, precious beer. Secondly, he was pretty damn sure he wasn't going to get yelled at now, but he also couldn't imagine why his dad was sharing a beer with his son for the first time.
"Take a drink," Stuart encouraged as he slapped a rough hand on Kenny's back, "it's a father-son thing. And I need a drink if we're gonna talk."
Kenny raised the bottle to his lips and sipped. He was definitely not shocked and awed at the beer, this wasn't his first or anywhere near it. He was, however, genuinely curious about his dad's generosity of said beer; his dad's need for a drink though, well, Stuart McCormick usually seemed to think he needed one. Kenny waited in silence as his dad continued to drink his beer, trying to be patient as he sipped and held his breath for the oncoming conversation.
They stood in silence like that for some time, Kenny sipping his beer and his dad nearly chugging his own. As time wore on and his dad's beer accumulation had grown to two empties on the ground and a third in his hand Kenny's patience was growing very thin. He was almost to the bottom of the beer bottle, he was supposed to meet his friends soon, and he still didn't know why the fuck he was out here. Just when he was about to open his mouth and issue his complaint his dad beat him to it.
"So," his dad began, words slightly affected by the alcohol.
"So," Kenny repeated. God this was getting fucking annoying.
"You know your friend? That Broflovski kid?"
Kenny stared at his dad suspiciously; that wasn't something he'd expected.
"Yeah," he said warily and with an eyebrow raised, "Why?"
"You're gonna do him."
Kenny blinked and took a minute to process this new information; having done so he proceeded to respond in a calm and collected manner.
"What the fuck! What the fuck are you talking about?"
Unfortunately for Kenny his dad seemed much more interested in beer and its side effects than in continuing the conversation he'd been having with his son. He was just finishing off his, at least, fourth beer within the hour and he was rocking on his feet slightly, his eyes glossy with intoxication.
Oh God fucking dammit. Of course his father would get drunk now, just now when things made the least possible fucking sense. Kenny was glowering at his father, who remained oblivious to his son's anger.
"Dad? Dad!" Kenny shook his father's beer holding arm with some force.
"Goddammit, what is it Kenny? You almost made me spill me beer!"
It took just about all of Kenny's willpower not to physically assault his dad. Of course, this was largely due to the fact that Kenny knew for certain that if he punched his dad he would find himself on his ass when his dad returned the favor. Otherwise he would've socked his dad in the jaw ten minutes ago.
"What were you saying about Kyle?" the question came through gritted teeth so that it almost mimicked the effects of his hood.
"Huh? What was I saying about Kyle?" Stuart's eyes looked even glassier as he looked, well tried to look, at his son's face, his head doing a drunk bobblehead impression.
"You said I was going to do him."
"What? Oh yeah, you're going to do him."
"Fucking why am I going to do him?" Kenny's patience was, incidentally, just as short as Kyle's right now.
"Oh, uh. Curse. Broflovski's can't resist us, cause we're charmers." The word "charmers" was accompanied by a large beer belch. Kenny prayed that his charm was better than his dad's was.
"Yup, we always get 'em. You're gonna get Kyle. It's McCormick tradition. Oh, yeah. Be safe or something."
Stuart McCormick turned and with some feat of drunken skill managed to take the beer bottle out of Kenny's hand and thrust a square foil package without losing grip on his own beer. Stuart took the last few gulps of Kenny's beer and dropped the empty bottle on the ground. With his own beer still in his hand he turned back toward the house, stumbling a little as he did so.
"I'm beat I'm gonna sit down…or lie down. Congrats Ken, you're gonna be a McCormick." Stuart gave his middle child a passing pat on the back as he headed inside.
Kenny stood there after he heard the door close, pausing for a moment before opening his fist and taking a cursory glance at the object within.
Yup. It was a condom alright.
Kenny took a minute to let his somewhat productive conversation with his dad sink in. Kyle definitely hadn't been on his 'to-do' list, but now that he thought about it it wasn't an unappealing idea. Kyle blushing at him in embarrassment or anger, Kyle flushed under Kenny's ministrations, Kyle moaning and begging and writhing under him. He had to admit that sounded pretty good. Pretty fucking awesome actually. Kenny snickered to himself and clutched the little square of foil in his hand with a level of confidence and self-assurance only he could pull off.
If Kyle had been there he probably would've had a heart attack at the look plastered on Kenny's face. It was a look that reeked of evil and doom, chaos and destruction. It was a look that said, "Kyle is mine"; more importantly it was a look that said, "Kyle's virginity and ass are mine and I will own them if it's the last fucking thing I do, or the last fucking person I do." Kenny had yet to begin his conquest, but he was already feeling victorious, this battle would be won.
Speaking of winning this battle he was actually supposed to be meeting his redheaded friend soon, albeit with his other two best friends, but still. With a twinkle, which actually look more like a lustful demonic gleam, in his eye he headed out toward Stark's Pond. Other friends or not he was feeling pretty fucking eager to set the stage for the deflowering of Kyle Broflovski.
It was then that he saw his conquest-to-be walking in his direction, apparently lost in thought. Kenny shoved one hand into a pocket and clutched this little piece of foil in his other hand as though it were a talisman against frigid Kyles.
"Hey Kyle," he greeted smoothly, smugly.
"H-hey Kenny," came the stuttered reply. Damn, Kenny felt like he'd already won this.
"Dude, are we still meeting Stan and Cartman at Stark's?"
Relief seemed to wash over Kyle's face for a moment, but then he was looking at Kenny with horror and abject fear. Or rather, Kyle was looking at Kenny's unpocketed hand with horror and abject fear. He almost laughed as he watched the blood completely drain from Kyle's face. Kyle quickly spun on his heel and walk-ran away from Kenny, his hurried pace both comical and all the more enticing to human horn-dog Kenny McCormick.
Kenny chuckled and smirked to himself, picking up his pace to catch up with the terrified Jew. Really, there was no reason that Kyle should be that afraid of Kenny at this stage in the game. Okay, there was, but there was no fucking way in hell Kenny was going to let Kyle slip away because of one measly, unimportant factor like sheer terror.
He caught up to his friend and slung an arm around the other boy's shoulders, drawing him in a little closer than he would normally. Kenny grinned rather slyly and smugly as he saw the warm blush grow on Kyle's face at the close contact and the way he could feel the other teen fidget and squirm against him. Now if only he could translate those expression to a different locale, like his bedroom for instance.
Kenny pressed their faces close together and reveled in their proximity to one another. His voice dropped as husky and sexy as he could make it and in the most charming manner he could think of uttered the first words of seduction to his unlikely object of desire.
"So, Kyle…"
Okay, one more little chapter coming up, definetely soon. Hope you enjoyed and please review! Thanks for reading!
