A Note From Ben: Wow. I am so sorry this took me over a year to update. The good news is, that won't happen again. I've already got the next chap done and am hard at work on Ch04, so this one should start moving as swiftly as Lost is. I've also gone back to work on I Can't Believe It's Not Butters, which I intend to complete very soon. Call this a crazy writing binge or just sudden lack of anything else to do to distract me, but as long as it lasts, I'll probably keep on updating like this. Hoo-rah, huh?

Also: The songs Red Clay Halo and Elvis Presley Blues were written by Gillian Welch and I do not claim any ownership on either of them.

Chapter Two

I

Article from the Rocky Mountain News, dated February 12, 1998:

Park County, CO. - Investigators in South Park, a small community

of about 2200 people, are looking into the mass murder of a local

family. Details have not been released yet as to the identity of the

family or the brutality of the murders, only that there were four

victims.

"We're handling this the best we can," Detective Yeats of the Park

County Sheriff's Department said. "What we need from members

of the community and from people in general is to stop calling us

and just let us do our jobs. It'll be a lot easier for us to get to the

bottom of this if the phone lines are left open for people who have

something legitimate to report and for official business."

The police aren't the only ones not talking. Our attempts at

approaching the locals resulted in vulgar language, obscene hand

gestures, or the silent treatment. It's apparent that whatever is

going on in this tight-knit community, they aren't welcoming the

outside world into it.

II

Kyle sniffled and looked at the four caskets sitting in a group at the front of the church. In a million years, he never thought he'd be here, listening to someone give a eulogy for his best friend and his family. He wiped the tears away from his young face and hiccuped. He'd been crying hard all day, and he could feel his body starting to protest. His throat felt dry and his stomach was tumbling like a shirt in the dryer. He didn't know how much more of this he could take.

"The Marsh family always treated me like a second son," Kenny was saying. "Even though I come from the wrong side of the tracks, they never judged me for it..."

Kyle admired Kenny's strength. He knew he'd never be able to get up there and speak so eloquently, not today. He'd be lucky to be able to get up there and say his name without breaking down in hysterics.

He looked down the aisle and saw Wendy sitting there in her black dress, dabbing at her eyes with a white handkerchief. She caught his stare and flashed him a smile that was supposed to be supportive. She gave a half wave, which he returned with a sneer before returning his attention to Kenny. He had nothing nice to say to that bitch. She'd always taken Stan for granted, treating him like garbage every chance she got. He'd trade her for the Marshes any day of the week. Let her rot six feet under the ground, not...not them.

Kenny finished his speech and returned to his seat, which was right next to Wendy. She whispered something to him and Kyle could see him in his peripheral vision turn and glare down the pew at him. She'd squealed on him for his nasty looks, and he was going to hear about it from Kenny, he just knew it.

Sure enough, after the service was over, when the hymns fell quiet and the coffins were loaded into the hearses, Kenny confronted him on the way out the door. Kyle felt that gentle hand on his shoulder and looked back into Kenny's sympathetic eyes.

"I don't wanna talk about it, Kenny," he said.

"It's not her fault," Kenny replied. "What happened to the Marshes was horrible, but it isn't her fault."

"She's a bitch," Kyle said, sniffling and wiping his face with his suit sleeve. "I hate her."

III

Kyle looked up from his menu as one of the many shuttle buses that ran up and down the Sixteenth Street Mall rang its bell and departed. No sign of Kenny yet, which meant that he was either late for their lunch meeting or he just wasn't going to show up. He wouldn't be surprised if the latter were true. They weren't exactly best friends anymore, not like they were when they were kids. Kenny had started distancing himself from Kyle after the funeral, never meeting his eyes and dodging him whenever he tried to talk with would usually have "stuff to do" or would need to meet some hot chick, or would tell him it wasn't a "good time".

He wasn't the only one doing that, though. Everyone acted weird after it happened.

He couldn't remember much of those years after Stan died, only bit and pieces. Mostly it was major stuff like his lack of friends, the looks everyone gave him when they thought he wasn't looking, the constant lack of eye contact. They actually thought him a freak, as if he were the one who had hung Stan up from the ceiling, killed his dog, and murdered his parents. Eventually, he just rolled up into an emotional ball and became an introverted, anti-social person.

Things got no better after he and his family moved to Connecticut after fourth grade. He refused to make any effort to make any friends, and because Stan's murder had been a bigger story than Jon Benet Ramsey, everyone knew who he was immediately and avoided him with as much fear and revulsion as the classmates he'd left behind in Colorado. They all seemed to have this mentality that murder was some kind of contagious disease, and that if they said anything to him or even touched him they'd wind up dead, too.

He thought back, trying to remember someone's face. Anyone would have been fine, as long as it was someone. He was dismayed to discover that not only could he not remember any other kids from his classes, he couldn't remember the teachers, either. They were big, blank spaces in his memory, bodies with no faces or defining characteristics of any kind. There were like place holders designed to fill in the gaps where real people once existed.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He looked down at his iced tea, which he'd spiked with a little bit of vodka from his aluminum flask, and pushed it away. All the booze was starting to affect his brain or something, and he didn't like that. He'd always heard that excessive drinking caused memory loss, but he'd never believed it. That was something that happened to potheads, not drunks.

He looked at his watch again and sighed. Another fifteen minutes had passed while he'd been sitting there thinking about a childhood he didn't give a damn about. Kenny was still nowhere to be seen, and Kyle was nearly out of patience. This was his only free day he had for this entire trip. He was supposed to spend the next three at the Barnes and Noble there on Sixteenth Street signing books for fans who would inevitably grate on his last nerve. One thing he always despised about fans was their insistence on asking the same questions

(what's your pen name mean where do you get your ideas from who's your biggest inspiration)

that he couldn't answer even if he wanted to.

"Kyle!" he heard someone call out to him. He turned in his seat and saw Kenny jogging toward him.

It's about fucking time.

"Kenny!" he called back, plastering a smile that wasn't all that genuine onto his face. They embraced and Kenny sat down at the table, giving him his most apologetic look.

"Sorry I'm late," he said. "I got caught up doing something with Wendy and time kinda got away from me."

Kyle understood immediately that "doing something" was Kenny-speak for "having sex". When they were little kids, Kenny was always the one who had something foul to say. Everything was innuendo, everything was dirty. Even as far back as third grade, this was true. He was known throughout the town as the kid with the biggest porno collection, most of which was stolen from his father and had pages that were as stiff as cardboard.

"That's cool," Kyle said with a shrug. "I don't have to be at the bookstore for the signing until tomorrow anyway, so it isn't like I'm on a tight schedule here."

"Not too eager to face your legions of adoring fans, I take it?" Kenny asked, folding his hands in front of him.

"That's an understatement," Kyle admitted. "I think I'd rather shampoo George Foreman's crotch with my tongue than have to deal with one more person talking to me like we're on a first-name basis or something, like we're best friends. 'Oh, you can call me Rusty. Think we can maybe swap emails sometime or maybe grab some lunch some day you're free?' Yeah, buddy, I see that happening."

Kenny frowned at him and Kyle could sense his disapproval. He'd obviously misunderstood his meaning. He wasn't a snob by any means and even went out of his way to oblige his fans when they caught him on the street and asked him for an autograph. One incident that came to mind was a rainy evening the previous October when he'd been walking home from the corner store with his arms filled with grocery bags. A lady, about mid-twenties or early thirties, stopped him and asked him if he'd sign her book. He considered it rude and a more than a little inconsiderate to make this request when she could see he was already carrying far more than he could handle as it was. Still, he held his tongue and put his bags down on a nearby newspaper dispenser so he could sign his name on her copy of Small Town Horror.

"It just gets tiresome after awhile," he explained to Kenny. "I really appreciate their support, I do, not only because it's more than I ever got from anyone else after Stan died, but because it pays my fucking bills."

The waitress came and brought Kenny a menu. He took it with a smile and ordered a ginger ale, then turned back to Kyle.

"So tell me what you've been doing with yourself all these years, other than writing," he said.

"I, uh, don't know," Kyle said, fishing for some kind of answer. How could he have fucking forgotten his own childhood? He grasped for an event that might trigger some kind of recollection and came up with his graduation, which turned out to be just another blank.

Who gave the speech? Wasn't I the valedictorian? What did we do that night?

He couldn't pull up one detail about it; not the location, the date, or the events. He couldn't even remember receiving his diploma, which was supposed to be a really big deal. He looked down at his hand, as if inspecting his palm would bring back some kind of memory. All it did was remind him of the large scars that ran from the base of his thumb to the pinky finger on both hands. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten those, either.

"Getting Alzheimer's, grandpa?" Kenny joked and grabbed Kyle's iced tea off the table. He took a sniff and pulled away with a laugh. "Maybe not Alzheimer's, but you're definitely suffering from Russian Brain."

"Russian Brain?" Kyle asked, pinching his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"Yeah," Kenny replied. "That's when you drink so much Vodka your brain shuts down and only gives you bits and pieces of your memories when it decides you need them...comrade."

Kyle wasn't feeling all that hungry anymore. He wanted to go back to his hotel room and lie down for a few hours before he had to call J.V. and find out the details of this trip. Was he scheduled to appear on any of the local news shows? Normally, he would have known a good week before arriving, but there had been a bit of discrepancy with none of the local stations giving a shit about him. He hoped that it would stay that way and he would be able to at least get one or two more hours of sleep before having to show up for the book signing.

"I think I'm gonna get out of here," he said. "I'm not really feeling all that great, you see."

Kenny looked hurt by this, though Kyle couldn't imagine why that would be. He'd only agreed to their meeting because of their childhood ties, and didn't really feel there was any kind of emotional tie between them.

"I see," Kenny said, frowning down at the tabletop.

"What?" Kyle asked, laying his irritation on thick.

"I was just hoping, you know, that we could get reacquainted."

"Sorry to disappoint you," he said, rising to his feet. "Elementary school was many years ago, as was any real pull you might have once had with me."

He pulled his wallet from his pocket and threw a twenty down on the table. His drink had only been two bucks, but he didn't give a shit. The waitress was going to get one hell of a tip, because he wasn't sticking around to wait for the damn check.

"What are you planning to do with your spare time while you're here?" Kenny called out to him as he walked past the table and toward the street. The tone of his voice was challenging, damn near demanding.

"I dunno, Ken," Kyle snapped, stopping to glare at him. "I hadn't really given it much thought. Not that it's any of your business anyway."

"May I make a suggestion?"

"Sounds like you were planning to do that anyway."

Kenny took a deep breath and released it slowly. He was visibly agitated, possibly upset enough to try and take a swing at him. Kyle didn't know for sure because he didn't know Kenny and had no idea what he was capable of. This was no different than agreeing to have lunch with any other fan, and obviously no less dangerous. Well, if he did something stupid, Kyle would see him behind bars within five minutes. He wasn't the kind of person who had to know how to fight to be able to say he didn't take any shit from people.

"Don't go to South Park," Kenny growled. It was not a suggestion, that much was apparent immediately, and Kyle resented it. He had a hard enough time taking orders from his editor and his agent.

"Who the hell are you to tell me where to go?" he asked, pulling off his two-hundred dollar sunglasses with an agitated flourish. "Who the hell are you to tell me anything?"

"I'm telling you this for your own good, Kyle," Kenny said, sounding more like a father than ever. "I know you and..."

"You know shit!" Kyle spit back.

"I know you!" Kenny retorted. "How difficult is it to figure out a guy who writes under a name like K.B. Marsh? You're still obsessed with Stan and the person who killed him. I see it in every one of your books, I've seen it in the undertones of your movies, and I can see it in you."

Kyle turned and walked off again, not wanting to hear any more of this shit. He'd been through many, many years of therapy from people who'd been trained to give him advice and who had cost his parents over a hundred dollars an hour. Kenny had probably never even stepped foot in a medical school to even ask to use the fucking bathroom.

"You know what your problem is, Kyle?" Kenny called to him as he made his departure. "You just don't know when to let things go."

Kyle put the headphones of his iPod in his ears and kept walking.

IV

Kyle sat a little table inside Barnes and Noble, watching people walk by him without so much as a second glance in his direction. He'd only signed two autographs in the three hours he'd been there, and one had been by a little girl who'd mistaken him for Carrot Top, something which deeply offended him. He wondered how many of these people could even fucking read. One of them, maybe two? Why the hell were they acting like he wasn't there?

I suppose I should be grateful that I haven't been asked any of those stupid questions, but what does this mean for my career? Am I washed up? God, how long has this been going on?

He waved to the manager of the store and told him that he was going to take off early since there was little interest and that he'd be back in the morning. The manager thanked him for coming and being so patient, something that Kyle knew wasn't really all that genuine. This guy didn't know who he was any more than his idiot customers did. He was just flashing his best customer service face out of habit, probably from years of doing it over and over, day in and day out. Thank you, come again. Thank you, come again. The only thing this guy really needed was dark brown skin and a generic Apu accent and he could just as easily be managing a 7-11.

He walked to the parking garage two blocks down and located his rental. He pulled out and immediately sped out of the city. He didn't know where the fuck he was going or if he was even going anywhere at all. He just needed to get behind the wheel and drive for awhile. Maybe things would get better after a day or so in Denver, once people realized that he was there. In the meantime, he'd just cruise and listen to his favorite CD, which happened to be a mix of Gillian Welch songs. He didn't know why, but her bluegrass drawl had always appealed to him, even though he'd grown up listening to rap and R&B. She had a sound all her own that never failed to make him smile.

When I pass through the pearly gates,

will my gown be gold instead?

Or just a red clay robe

with red clay wings

and a red clay halo for my head.

He found his fingers tapping the steering wheel to the beat and soon he was lost in the music. Denver gradually faded into the distance until the skyscrapers were nothing but large gray blobs sitting in a cloud of dirt and smog. He saw the turnoff that led to Park County and smiled to himself. If Kenny was going to be a douche and order him to stay away from the place he'd called home for nine years, well he'd go there simply to spite him. He didn't give a shit.

He dropped his speed from seventy to forty-five, which for some reason was and always had been the speed limit on the county roads around South Park, and made his way home for the first time in almost two decades. The landscape hadn't changed much; he easily picked out familiar landmarks, like the abandoned mine shaft jutting out of the side of the mountain and the cool waters of Stark's Pond. It was like he'd never left at all, like the better part of twenty years meant nothing, which he realized it probably didn't around here. No matter what happened, no matter what catastrophe befell the townsfolk, they always seemed to just pick up the pieces and move on with their daily routine.

He passed a wooden sign on the side of the road that had been there since the time of Moses, which read:

SOUTH PARK, 1 MI.

GO COWS!!

He felt his stomach twist on itself and he had to pull off the road. He sat there for several minutes, gripping the steering wheel tightly as his guts contracted. He did not want to vomit again; once was quite enough for this trip. He took a few slow, deep breaths and tried to get himself back under control.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Maybe it isn't that important to prove Kenny wrong.

The bad thing was he knew Kenny wasn't wrong. He'd known since he'd gotten the call from J.V. that he wasn't going to able to handle any of this, just like he knew that any thought of simply shrugging off the ghosts of the past and paying a friendly visit to Stan's grave was wishful thinking.

"Why the hell am I out here?" he asked Gillian Welch, who was crooning about Elvis Presley. "What purpose will this serve?"

I was thinking that night about Elvis,
day that he died, day that he died....

He slammed his fists on the steering wheel and jerked himself upright in the seat. He cranked the ignition and floored the gas as the engine came to life. The back tires spun out, kicking up gravel and snow in a festive spray before finally catching the road and sending him rocketing toward South Park at an easy eighty miles per hour. He knew he was breaking several laws, but he didn't give a fuck. He reached down with one hand and pushed in the cigarette lighter, his mouth watering at the thought of taking a drag. God knows he needed one.

He heard the familiar BLOOP-BLOOP of a cop's lights coming on and cursed the sorry fuckwad who made the goddam speed limit so goddam slow, goddam it. He applied the brakes and pulled into the dirt and slush for the second time. He had no doubt that it would be Barbrady who'd stopped him. He'd been the only real cop in decades. Every now and then while Kyle was growing up, he'd see someone deputized and for a brief period they'd have two officers patrolling the streets. Eventually, though, someone would see that the deputy was more competent that Barbrady and would offer him or her a position in County or even State, and they'd be back to the same old idiot again.

He pulled out his license and registration and rolled down the window with a frustrated grunt. The cop took his sweet time getting out of his patrol car, probably because he didn't want to pull his fat ass away from the warmth of the interior or to intentionally antagonize him. Kyle guessed the former; Barbrady had never been a spiteful individual. Lazy, yes, but not spiteful.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?" the cop said, finally making his way to the window, his hand on his gun by default. Kyle was surprised at first to see that it wasn't Barbrady, but then realized that after so much time, the man had probably retired.

"Because I have a busted tail light?" Kyle said with a grin; the cop didn't return it.

"No, sir," he said, all business. "You were doing eighty in a forty-five zone. Do you realize how many people you could have hurt going that fast? They don't even let you pull that shit on the interstate, buddy."

Kyle handed him his license and registration with a mumbled apology. It won't happen again, just in a hurry to get home after so long, blah, blah, blah. He figured it probably wouldn't work, and wasn't surprised when he saw that the officer wasn't even listening to him. He was looking closely at Kyle's license like it held the secret location of Jimmy Hoffa's body.

"I should have guessed it was you, Broflovski," he said. "Nobody else would be this damn inconsiderate."

"What the hell--?" Kyle stammered, completely shocked at this son of a bitch taking shots at him. He looked up and saw the little silver nametag above his badge. OFF. C. DONOVAN, it said. So he'd been pulled over by Clyde, of all people. He knew it shouldn't have surprised him that the second fattest dude in their class next to Cartman would wind up a cop.

"You shouldn't have come back here, you know," Clyde said, frowning at him. "You don't belong here."

Kyle had to bite his tongue to keep from telling him to write a damn ticket or get out of his face. He wasn't interested in hearing his fucking opinion.

"I won't be here long," he said, and that was no lie. He planned to get the fuck away as soon as possible.

"I'll let you off this time," Clyde told him, handing him back his papers, "with the understanding that if I catch you out here again, I'll make sure they throw the book at you. Do what you've gotta do, then follow the sun on out of here."

Kyle waited for him to back up, then started the car and pulled out with a little more grace. He pulled the cigarette lighter out and lit up a Marlboro and took a long drag. As the nicotine invaded into his system and gave him the head rush he loved so much, he sighed happily and allowed himself to relax a little bit.

He had no idea what Clyde's problem was. He didn't think he'd done anything to offend anyone. It wasn't his fault that he'd been the one to find Stan's body, and there was no reason for Clyde to act like such a jackass.

Fuck it. This will be over before I know it, then I can put this place behind me forever.

The problem was, even in his own head this sounded like a load of crap.