Disclaimer: See previous chapter.
Authors' Note: We know. We don't have a satisfying excuse for that… year delay, but we're not abandoning the story (as you can see)! Hopefully, updates will come regularly from now own… :)
Don't be feeling down. If we keep up this pace, we'll finish the story before the year 2019!
A Rich Man's Dust
Chapter Two
The night was a bit colder than usual, so the two friends decided to have their drinks inside, rather than on some bench near Stark's Pond. The pond was where underage teenagers used to gather and drink until they puked their soul out, but even though Kenny was already legal, they couldn't bring themselves to move their drinking meetings to another place. Tonight, however, as was mentioned above, it was a bit too cold for the pond.
Kenny's house was a wobbling shack. In their younger years, rats used to run all over the wooden floor and pester the McCormicks, but sometime during middle school welfare services managed to move them to another house. Still crappy, but at least in that one the roof only leaked during the early months of winter.
Stan sat on a torn and stained beanbag chair while Kenny sat on the bed, flipping idly through some racing magazine from two years ago. "So," he started, taking a long gulp from his dad's Carlsberg, "how's the new job?"
Stan took a sip from his own can, feeling oddly miserable and happy at the same time. "I've no idea," he stated and returned to his drink. "My new boss is some kind of a nutjob. I don't know what to think of him."
Kenny cocked his left eyebrow and played with his can of beer, making the liquid inside swish with a noise only he found pleasant. "What do you mean?" he asked.
Tough question. Stan himself couldn't put his finger on just what made Kyle Broflovski – he had repeated the name a dozen times this evening in his head, just so that he would remember it tomorrow morning and could greet the older man – short, cunningly smiling Kyle Broflovski so… so… so.
"I don't know does he have a sense of humor at all, or is his humor something that I can't understand." Stan debated for a moment in his head if he should mention the thing or not. "He offered me a maid's dress as my work uniform."
Kenny chuckled openly, not even trying to hide his gloating. "Oh, I would have loved to see you in that one," Kenny said and laughed, stopping just for another gulp of beer before continuing to laugh even louder than before.
That shook Stan off of his daze. "Kenny! You're sick, man!" He spilled some of the Carlsberg as he tried to hit the laughing Kenny in the face. He missed, and Kenny didn't shut up.
"Oh man," he said, his laughter now reducing to a mere chuckle. "Your aim is shit, too. I don't think he was that far from the truth about you!"
"Shut it, Ken," Stan muttered, his cheeks now noticeably redder. It was the alcohol, surely, that made him miss Kenny's big fat ugly head. It was the alcohol that had made him mention the dress when he knew very, very well that Kenny, of all people, just wouldn't let it slide.
Kenny's walls were pale orange: the color reminded Stan the jacket Kenny had used when they were ten or so. In fact, everything in his wardrobe had been orange those days, excluding some band shirts. Orange. Stan stared at the color, the beer can trembling in his hands. It was strange: they were adults now, or at least trying to be, with varying results, and yet, nothing had changed. Kenny was still his best friend. They still spent every Friday night drinking their sorrows away and talking about nothing until dawn. He still couldn't hit Kenny in the face. Kenny still had that obsession with racing cars and collected small Gundam models. Stan still played football.
His leg twitched unconsciously.
"Seriously, Kenny," he sighed, "it's not funny. I mean, would you wear a girl's dress for a job like that?"
Kenny seemed to ponder that for a second, then smiled and nodded vehemently. "If he pays enough – and by enough I mean five bucks an hour – sure, I'd be willing to do that." Stan frowned. After a short silence Kenny seemed to be struck with something. "I think he's gay," he said.
The sentence didn't make Stan spit out the beer that was waltzing on his tongue, but it did make him stop drinking any more.
"What?" he asked, eyes wide. "Of course he's not! Don't be stupid, Ken, he's just… he just has an odd sense of humor!"
Kenny held his chin in thought, then shook his head. "No, no, I'm sure he's gay. Why else would he offer you to wear a dress?" he asked, finished his can, and continued. "How old did you say he is?"
"Thirty… something, I don't know. Why does it matter?"
Kenny nodded to himself. "He's not married, is he?"
"Um… I don't know. I think not. I think he would've said if he had a wife hidden somewhere." Stan narrowed his eyes. "Kenny, stop making that face. It's annoying. You… you're doing it again, acting as if you know something I don't and you're not going to tell me what it is." Stan dared to take a sip again. "And he's not gay. Just…kind of odd."
Kenny shrugged, not seeming to believe his friend even a bit. "If you say so… Say, he doesn't need another servant, does he?"
Stan broke into laughter, the first one in a while. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? No, he doesn't. Face it, Kenny, you're still broke and owe me, like, sixty bucks."
This time it was Kenny's turn to frown in annoyance. "Oh, fuck you Stan," he said, then thought for a second as the smirk returned to his face and he looked at Stan with an evil sparkle in his blue eyes. "And the sooner your new boss takes care of that – the better!"
"Kenny," Stan said coolly, "shut. Up. He's not gay, neither am I, and that's the end of the story. It's more like you're the gay one here, with the way you seem so fixated on the idea!"
"I'm only realistic," Kenny replied, enjoying messing with his best friend's mind. "Are you willing to bet on it?" he asked, the chance of making easy money never escaping him.
"No," Stan spat poisonously. Silence fell over them, the only awkward sound coming from the broken heater behind Kenny's bed. Stan's frown faded within few moments of silence. "How would you even check if he's… you know, you can't just break into people's bedrooms. Not even a pervert like you."
Kenny's smile widened and his eyes gleamed dangerously. "Oh, I have my ways, Stanley dearest," he said, licking his lips as if to emphasize the point.
"That's it. I'm going home." Stan stood up fast – a little too fast indeed. Blood rushed to his head, making him wobbly and spill the remains of his drink all over Kenny's dirty floor.
Kenny looked up at him, still highly amused. "Hey Stan," he said, causing the black-haired man to look at him curiously. "You know who else can't hold their liquor?"
"Who?" Stan asked, too confused about which way was up to see the danger in Kenny's rhetorical question.
"Girls," Kenny said simply.
Stan tried to say something, probably something about wishing Kenny a happy trip to hell or how he was not a girl, but didn't manage to say anything. He simply passed out at Kenny's feet.
The roses seemed to be just as stunningly red as they had been yesterday, but the other flowers were a little down. Stan closed his eyes as he walked straight (or, in the name of honesty, tried to) and slowly towards the Broflovski estate. It was five minutes to nine in the morning, and Stan was not particularly enjoying it. Before going over to Kenny's house yesterday evening, his mom had showed him everything everyone needed to know about cleaning and cooking. Mops, buckets, carrots, different types of macaroni and iron boards were rushing through his head. It was slowly dawning to him that he knew nothing about the things he had claimed to be so great at, and his new boss would find that out soon.
Also, it did not help that he was having a hangover.
Stan hesitated at the door. Should he ring the bell or should he just go in? He was, after all, an employee here in the main house, and he was about to move in here. He wasn't just some random gardener who came in a few times a week.
He took a deep breath, rang the bell and winced at the sound the moronic bell made. Why couldn't everything just shut up right now and let him die in peace?
It wasn't long before he heard footsteps and his new boss opened the door, a bit wider then yesterday. He stared at him curiously, examining him from top to bottom and causing him to feel uncomfortable. It's like he's undressing you with his eyes, Kenny would say. No, Stan wouldn't think of the conversation they had yesterday right now.
Kyle was smiling the tiniest of smiles before he opened the door fully and invited his new employee in. "Mi casa – su casa," he said. "You're a bit early. I'm pleasantly surprised," he added.
Stan smiled nervously. "Good morning," he said. "I, uh, so, where do I start? Cleaning first?"
Kyle laughed heartily and patted Stan on his back, pointing at the suitcase at his feet. "Why not start by getting adjusted to your new room?" he asked.
Stan twitched a bit under Kyle's touch, but tried to mask it as an excitement. "Well, alright." He smiled widely, but the gesture seemed hollow even in his own head. "My room was… uh… this way?" He pointed at the stairs, having already forgotten how wide they were.
Kyle nodded and gestured for him to lead the way. A few steps and a near, well-masked stumble later, Kyle asked, "You were living with your parents, weren't you? How did they accept your decision to move out?"
Over my dead body, Stanley Marsh! You're disabled, for Christ's sake! It is okay for you to earn your own living, but you'll be safer here with us! What would your boss say if he knew that you're hiding a football injury?
Yeah, his mom hadn't taken it well, but Kyle didn't need to know that.
"Pretty well," he shrugged. "Besides, I already moved out once. I lived at the dorm when I was in college."
"That's great to hear. It's my first time hiring someone younger than me," Kyle said, nodding to himself as if pleased with this prospect. Once they got to his new room, Kyle was still looking at him with that tiny smile.
"Tell you what," he said as he turned to doorknob and opened the door. "I still haven't finished my breakfast, so I'll get back to that. In the meanwhile, you'll unpack and try to get used to this room. Meet me in my workroom when you're done. Remember to knock first!" he warned before he turned around and left in the direction in which they came.
The door was slightly ajar, so Stan moved to close it. He looked around at his new room, the panicky state somewhat lessening. He actually liked the room, the soft light its windows gave and the meek colors of the walls.
He glanced at his suitcase. Maybe it was wise to leave it in its unpacked state for a while.
Kyle sighed heavily as he sat at his large desk, eyeing the piles (or towers, rather) of papers on top of it. Probably half of them only needed his signature, but those he hated the most – it meant he actually had to read through them. A brown file caught his eyes and he rubbed his temples tiredly. Even though it, too, dealt with a trial like the rest of the files in his room, it was somewhat different.
It dealt with his trial.
Kyle Broflovski was being sued. By Eric Cartman. About some fake claim regarding animal cruelty his trading company was involved in, or something. It was the third time in five years, and Kyle was getting tired of it, and he guessed the court was, too.
After all, Eric Cartman always lost.
He was about to go through the first pile of papers for the day when his cell-phone rung. Kyle fished it quickly out of his pocket and smiled. "Token," he greeted.
"Hey baby," Token said with a low dark baritone. His voice was unique, dark and smooth, (like his body, Kyle noted) and it usually gave people chills – in a good way.
Kyle was not an exception.
"Hi," he breathed into the phone, enjoying the reaction. "You're up early today. Couldn't sleep because you can't wait for tonight?" Kyle asked, his eyes skimming over the first page of some lawsuit he was the defense attorney for, but not really reading.
"Tonight?" Token breathed. "Oh, yeah, The Dinner. Kyle, honey, have you hired a new butler? Please tell me you have. I really didn't enjoy the food you made last time. No offense."
Kyle pouted. It wasn't his fault that he missed the second Sedder with his family and had to improvise something. He loved gefilte-fish, but for some reason, his tasted like a matzoball. Token seemed to think that, too, even though he refused to touch anything that looked like a carton-board and thus had no way of knowing. "Oh, I did, don't worry. Some college dropout," he replied, picking some noises from the kitchen. "He's cleaning right now," he said, proudly.
"College drop-out?" Token repeated, humor in his voice. "Poor fella'. I hope you're not paying him too well." He chuckled. "Actually, I'm glad we're having dinner tonight. I get to see you"— Kyle got radiating by just hearing that—"and I get to check out your new servant. You know, to make sure he doesn't try to steal away my property."
"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," Kyle replied with a wave of his hand even though Token could not see it. "You should have seen the face he made when I offered he'd wear a dress." After a second of a thought, he added huskily, "And I can't wait to see you, too. Three days is a long time."
Token hummed in agreement. "I'll call you later, honey. I've got a meeting to attend. Boring as fuck, but what can you do. Someone has to make the decisions." His voice dropped. "See you tonight."
Kyle nodded in agreement to himself and was about to voice some cheesy parting words when the sound of breaking… things caught his ears. His green eyes widened.
"Yeah, around eight thirty like we discussed. Bye now!" he said quickly and ended the call, pushing himself up from his desk and running towards the kitchen. He held the door-frame as he got there, his eyes roaming around in panic.
Stan was standing next to the counter with pieces of broken china at his feet. "What's going on here?" Kyle asked quietly, trying to digest the scene.
"I, uh…" Those two words seemed to be Stan's motto. "I'm so sorry! I tried to organize everything, so I sorted the plates according to their size, and then the biggest pile started to fall, so I dashed to catch it, and I did save it, but then another one started to… and I…" Stan stared at his feet, his face glowing with embarrassment. "I'll go pack my things now. I'm so sorry."
Kyle blinked and made a step forward, looking around in silence. "No, no… there's not need for that…" he said quietly. "Those were just plates, nothing too expensive. Just… clean that up and go buy new ones later today," he said. "You can use my Mercedes for that." Then his eyes widened with realization. "Oh, right, I totally forgot. Token's coming over for dinner tonight," he said, absolutely forgetting that Stan had no way of knowing who Token was.
Stan blinked, but didn't show his confusion otherwise – he got to keep his job? Who was Token? He had to serve dinner for two? And wait, use someone's Mercedes?
Maybe his boss was a bit cooler than he had originally thought.
"Thank you," he quietly said. "I, uh, I'm going to get… something… to clean this up." He backed out of the kitchen, and repeated, "Thank you."
Kyle stared after his retreating form and shook his head slowly, not able to prevent a smile from forming on his lips. Then he remembered all the work he had left and frowned. "Someone has to make decisions, huh…" he said quietly to himself, repeating Token's words. Hopefully, I made the right ones…
Making dinner for two (or three, since Stan hadn't eaten himself anything all day) was way more difficult than he had ever imagined it to be. Alright, maybe his mom's demonstration on "how to prepare and serve a fine dinner", ten minutes in length, hadn't taught him everything he needed to know. Stan had no idea what to do with all the food he had bought – tuna fish, meatballs, tenderloin of a calf, spaghetti, vegetables – and no idea what to do with all the knives and cups and salad plates. Throughout his high school, his mom had always cooked. Throughout his college year, he had eaten cup noodles or at the nearby McDonalds's and college restaurants. Stan, as he now painfully realized, was not a very good cook.
So far, the day had not been a pleasant one. First and foremost, he was having a hangover. Second, he had broken a dozen of valuable plates he could never afford to refund. The only silver lining had been the fact that Kyle – bless that enigmatic man – had merely blinked at the catastrophe and handed him the keys to his silver Mercedes. In fact, it was a Mercedes-Benz CLS 55, and they only produced something like 1000 or the likes a year. Stan had been in heaven when he had driven the car. It moved so smoothly, so elegantly, and the looks on everyone's faces! He had had a chance to pretend what it would be like to own a car that cost in minimum $90,000.
Then another disaster had struck. It hadn't been his fault, though, that the parking lot of Target had been crowded, and as he was looking for a place to park (as close to the store as he could, obviously), some idiot had decided to test how fast his car could accelerate to 25 miles per hour. They had crashed, in a relatively low speed – the driver hadn't gotten very far from his parking slot, so the crash had happened in the whopping speed of 6 miles per hour. Stan had panicked while the other driver had just flipped him off and left, without saying anything. Still in a panicky mode, Stan had rushed to the food section, bought everything his shaken mind could think of and paid with the credit card Kyle had given him. Then he had rushed off to the next section to buy some plates – he had chosen the first ones the employee recommended to him, and because they seemed pretty enough (blue flowers, birds and something else blue) to satisfy Kyle's expensive taste.
But, when he had gotten back and confessed Kyle about the bump that now decorated his brand new Mercedes' front door, Kyle had simply waved him off. "It's okay, my father bought it for me as a birthday present. I don't even like it that much. Though," he had added, just when Stan had sighed with relief and thought he was on the clear, "if you had destroyed my Maserati, I would have crushed you."
Stan hoped the smirk he had flashed was only a part of the joke.
Kyle had left Stan alone in the kitchen after that, and Stan had spent the first five minutes drinking two energy drinks and rummaging through cookbooks. He had settled for Spaghetti Bolognese – it was simple enough to make for many people, and plus, Stan figured even he couldn't ruin a dish that easy.
He turned out to be wrong.
The spaghetti was cooking nicely (almost boiling over) and the minced meat was almost done (burned), when the doorbell rang. Stan put down the knife he had used for salad leafs – he vaguely remembered his mom saying something about washing them first, but he had forgotten to do so and went straight to the cutting part – and waited for a moment. He was a bit confused should or should he not go open the door, but when there were no footsteps of his new boss, Stan abandoned the boiling spaghetti and went to the door.
The doorbell rang again, this time much louder and in an irritating manner, which certainly didn't improve Stan's crushing hangover. Stan rolled his eyes. "Yes?"
On the other side of the door stood a black man clad in a business suit, which looked as if it cost like Stan's entire wardrobe. He was looking at his Rolex impatiently when Stan opened the door, and as the man looked up, his brown eyes narrowed. "Hello," he said coolly.
"Um, hello. You must be Token." There was no reply, other than a cold, calculating look from the other man. Stan rushed on: "Come on in. Kyle, uh, Mr. Broflovski must be in his study."
"Well, obviously," was the curt reply. The guest sniffed the air. "What's cooking?" he asked.
Stan resisted the urge to answer 'I wish I knew'. He had spent less than a minute in the company of this Token figure, and he already hated the guy.
"Just some Spaghetti Bolognese and a Greek salad," he humbly replied. He hoped that Token got the stinging tone underneath all the politeness.
Token blanched. "Spaghetti?" he asked. "I haven't eaten that dish since like… high school. Did Kyle tell you to make that?"
"No?" Stan tried. Not very assuring. "He told me to cook whatever I felt like." Time for the oldest excuse in the book. "I left the kettle on, sorry!"
Token watched the hurriedly retreating figure with mild interest and a deep frown. As the new servant – who in his rudeness forgot to present himself – disappeared into the kitchen, Token set out to look for the Jewish man.
He didn't knock – as he didn't need to – and as expected, Kyle was sitting at his desk, reading glasses on, and going through some papers. Token liked the glasses. "Hey, baby," he said.
Kyle looked up and a huge grin crossed his face. "Token," he said quietly, allowing the man to bend down to kiss him quickly on the lips. "It's good to see you."
"Good to see you too," Token repeated and smiled. His smile was a darker version of Kyle's crooked smirk – this one was a full smirk, with calculatingness written all over it. "I saw your new servant. Not a very impressive one, I'd say. I liked the old lady better."
Kyle sighed. "Yeah, I know, but what can I do… this place was beginning to look like a dump. I gave him a trial period of a month, we'll see how he manages." He gathered all the papers into a single pile and rose from his seat. "Think dinner's ready?" he asked.
Token smiled evilly. "I think so. Tell your butler to set up the table. I'm rather hungry."
Kyle smiled back, kissed Token chastely on the lips and left the room with the black man in tow. "Stan!" he called into the hallway.
A few steps down the hall, Stan shivered as he heard the call. He peeked into the hallway. "Y-you called?"
"Yes, in fact, I did," Kyle said as he approached him, a smirking Token behind. "Is dinner ready? We're hungry and I still have much work left to do."
Stan would have openly glared at the guest's face if he hadn't been in such turmoil – broken plates, a crashed car, and now this. He smiled.
"Yes, it's ready. I'll go set the table."
"You mean you haven't yet?" Kyle asked with a slight frown on his face.
Stan panicked. Token hid a chuckle behind Kyle's back. "N-no, I, uh, forgot. I was so absorbed in making the food. I'm sorry, I'll go do it right away!"
Kyle sighed and rubbed his temples tiredly. "He's just starting, Token," he said, sensing the other man's amusement.
Token shrugged and glanced at the kitchen door, which was now wildly waving after Stan's speedy exit. "Fine, but I think you're being too nice to him. Do you know what he's cooking?"
"No, I didn't ask, I was too busy."
Token chuckled again. "Well, you'll see. Maybe you'll be harder on him next time."
There were frantic voices coming from the large hall – apparently Stan was setting up the table. Token clicked his tongue. "The next thing you know, he'll break all your fine china."
Kyle looked up at him, face marred with confusion. "He already did. What did he make?" he asked as they started making their way towards the dining hall.
"You'll see," Token smiled sweetly. "After you, my darling." He held the door open for Kyle, and they entered the hall.
As much as Token had criticized Stan's abilities, he had to admit that the table looked very nice. All forks and knives were in their place, there were flowers on the table and white-wine glasses with a white wine bottle placed on the side-table. Stan was nowhere to be seen – he had sneaked back to the kitchen, Token assumed.
Kyle, on the other hand, looked sick to his stomach as he stared at the plates. The blue, kitschy, my-grandma-wouldn't-even-look-at-those plates. "What… the fuck…" he breathed, but before he could complete a coherent sentence, Stan rushed in with the food cart.
"Here's the salad, Greek salad with Bulgarian cheese," he simply said as he put the foods on the table with a super speed. His panic had now resulted in a state where he did everything twice faster than normally, because he wanted the situation to end as soon as possible. Token and Kyle stared oddly at him. "And here's the main dish – Spaghetti Bolognese." He smiled nervously. "Please, take a seat."
Token did, still smirking, godamnit, but Kyle remained standing, staring at the table, then at Stan, then at the table again. "I… I can't eat that," he said quietly.
Stan blinked. It… it didn't smell that horrible, did it? "Um, pardon me?"
"It's Passover," Kyle spat. "I can't eat wheat! And even if it wasn't, mixing dairy and meat? I don't do that Stanley, and as we're already on the matter, what in the name of God were you thinking when you bought this set of plates?"
Truth was, Stan hadn't been thinking anything. He had just asked the shop employee what a multimillionaire would like in his estate. Damn it. Thinking back, the employee had surely recommended him the ones that cost most, or the ones no one else was stupid enough to buy.
Stan looked at the ground. There was nothing he could say. "I'm sorry, I…" Wait, there was. "I didn't know it was… uh… Passover."
"You didn't," Kyle said, more to himself than to anyone else. "No, I guess you didn't know. Well now you do, so… just… there's a box of matzo in the cupboard above the fridge. Get me one of those and some cream cheese, I'll manage. Oh, and… just… I don't know, sale that… plates set on eBay or whatever, I don't care, but I don't want to see it again," he said, his tone having a finality ring to it. Token was still chuckling to himself. It was getting on Stan's nerves, and besides, he was now fuming inside because Token got to see him so humiliated.
Kyle's look was stern though. Stan bowed as elegantly as he could – which was not much – and rushed away. Token took a seat. "I hope you don't mind, darling, but the meal looks delicious. Are you sure you don't want any?"
"Yes," Kyle replied quietly, his eyes staring somewhere far away. "I'm sure," he finished, sat down and filled his plate with the salad.
They ate in relative silence, occasionally commenting on their jobs, while Stan stood in the background (a white towel draped on his arm and all) and watched them silently. After what was probably half an hour or so (though to Stan it seemed like five) the two rose from their seats. "I know you were expecting more..." Kyle said apolitically to his guest.
Token shook his head. "Just consider what I said about your… servant. I'm heading to L.A. after this, anyway. I can eat on the plane." He bent closer to Kyle. "Besides, I got to see you."
In the background, some kind of a muffled voice could be heard – Stan was blinking at the sight and didn't know what to think. He decided yet to keep his innocent mindset. That was nothing. I'm just hearing things. Kenny's not right about this thing. Not this one time.
"I'm gonna miss you when you're gone," Kyle said, eyes half-closed, chin up.
Token half-smirked, half-smiled. "Oh, I bet you'll be having lots of fun with your servant," he whispered into Kyle's ear. "If he's here the next time I'm coming for dinner, I'm taking my own butler with me."
"Oh, are you now?" Kyle whispered back, tilting his head to the left just enough for their lips to brush.
…
Token smirked again and bent down to kiss Kyle fully on the lips. Stan's world shattered.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck! Kenny was right. Kenny was right! He's gay! He's GAY!
Just then Kyle remembered they weren't alone and pulled back, hand caressing Token's cheek quickly then letting go. "Call me," he said, walking the man to the front door.
Stan stayed behind, still dazed. He's… gay? And that idiot's dating him?
And the stupid thing was, despite everything, all he could see in his mind was how Token bent down and kissed Kyle. On the lips. Kissed Kyle. On the lips. Kissed Kyle…
"So," Kenny started that night, a can of Budweiser in his hand. "I was right, wasn't I?"
Stan stared at his can, unable to say anything. "He's gay," Stan muttered. "He's... gay."
Well, except for that one line. It was the only thing Stan had been able to say for an hour.
To Be Continued (this time for real!)…
Please leave review if you liked it!
Cultural note: Sedder – the meal of Passover eve.