Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or any character present in this story. They belong to their rightful owners, and I do not intend to use them for any kind of profit.

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Chapter 3: A Storm is Coming

"You sure you're fine if I just dropped you off here?" A man, possibly in his fifties or sixties, inquired with a concerned voice while sitting behind the wheel. He was driving a 1933 model of GM Buick and was wearing a glimmering silk suit and a black top hat, showing his rather high socioeconomic status at that time. Sitting next to him in the passenger seat was someone in a brown suit riddled with stains of unknown origins and torn marks, which indicated that the wearer did not bother to change or wash his clothes a lot in the past.

"Yes, sir. I'll be fine. Like I said, I've been here before." The voice coming out of the figure in the passenger seat did not match his appearance in some way. When prompted, most people would answer that the voice belonged to a boy, most likely in his late teenage. The inside of the Buick was too dark that the passenger's true face was hidden in the shadows. The weather didn't help, either: dark clouds gathered up in the sky, blocking the hot sunray that was typical of any summer day in New York City. People outside scurried along their way, not wanting to be caught in the middle of the tropical rain and waste a perfect set of their clothes.

"I know, kid. But the city is not the same as it had been ten years ago." The old man remarked as his car pulled to a stop at the roadside. "I'm just worried, uh, it might not be the safest place that a boy like you can freely stroll in…all by yourself."

"Sir, I greatly appreciate your concern." The passenger nodded in acknowledgment. "But as I said, I'll be fine. Whatever lies ahead, believe me. I've been through worse." He then pulled the handle at his side of the door to open it. "Thank you, mister. I won't forget your favor."

"Well, don't mention it. I was heading for the same direction, anyway." The old man said, watching the boy exit the vehicle and close the door.

At the roadside located in the middle of Queens stood the boy in the brown suit. His hair was charcoal black, and it was messy as if he hadn't showered in a while. His eyes displayed a slight sense of tiredness from the six-hour travel that he shared with the old man in Buick from Boston all the way up to New York City. However, that could not conceal the sparkling determination that was hidden beneath his ocean-blue irises. He was just three months short of reaching his nineteenth birthday in October, but his face was yet to discard the look of an adolescent boy. Unbeknownst to the people who hurriedly passed by him were numerous scars that his body wore underneath the fabric of his old, ragged suit, a silent testament to the fact that the boy had had more than his fair share of violence despite his young age.

His name was Stanley Randall Marsh, the boy who lost everything in his life ten years ago in the same city.

Looking around the street, he let the memories of the past run amok in his mind: how perfect the world seemed when he was young, how the fateful day a decade ago changed all of that, and how much pain, suffering, and agony he had to endure living on the streets of Boston.

He had learned firsthand how harsh the world could be for a person who didn't have anything to protect him from the hardship of life: no home, no family, no friend, and no money. At first, he would live alongside the beggars on the streets, living on a few coins that several sympathetic people dropped in his tin can. When his daily income was not enough to afford a loaf of bread and a pack of milk—which accounted for at least half the time—, however, he had to resort to a much less honorable profession: shoplifting, a more "hands-on" approach to feed his growling stomach. If he was lucky enough, he could escape the hands of the angry shop owners following him and spitting curses about how much the bread held on the boy's arms were worth. On some unlucky days, he would try to shove as much bread as he could down his throat before they pinched him down and beat him half to death. In some occasions when the retaliation for shoplifting was particularly heavy, he was sure that he'd never see the rising sun of the next day. For better or worse, none of the bakery owners managed to kill the little les miserable. The boy had some of his bones cracked and broken for sure, but he soon found that the human body possessed an incredible capacity for repairing itself as long as his heart continued to beat.

Stan, of course, was not the only one who had to live his life on a day-to-day basis on the streets. Soon, he joined the gang consisting of other unfortunate boys and teenagers who managed the shoplifting business more… organized. However, that didn't make Stan's life any easier. The group of juvenile delinquents was a prime example where the primary thesis in the theory of evolution not only made sense, but made the only sense: the survival of the fittest. The kids on the top of the power ladder commanded the entire group and claimed the right to have the best of things that their 'business' produced. The weaklings, on the other hand, would have the fruits of their labor stolen by other members and do all the chores that no one else was willing to do.

For the first few years after joining the club, Stan belonged to the latter group. He was one of the pawns on the chess board which built the first line of both offense and defense against the foes but were easily discarded without a second thought when the situation merited it. After stealing a bag full of groceries or fighting turf wars with another street gangs, all that was given to Stan Marsh was a tiny little bit of cookie and a can of water that barely kept him from starving to death. Searching for additional sources of food in the trash cans on the street sometimes backfired, and he would suffer from food poisoning followed by diarrhea and ensuing dehydration that was the leading cause of death among the members of the street gangs. Again, for better or worse, he was spared from the grip of death that visited numerous others around him.

As years went by, Stan found himself advancing towards the higher point of the power ladder slowly but steadily. There was only one way a person could do that: fight the ones above your rank and win. Although one cannot say that Stan possessed a heavy physical build—in fact, he was on the opposite side of the spectrum, given the malnutrition he suffered—his incredible persistence in battle was most of the time more than enough to exhaust the enemies and make them give up. As he defeated the gang leaders in the upper level of the food chain one by one, more and more people began to wonder what gave the little, fragile boy such a remarkable ability to endure the punches and kicks mounted on him and still stand up to face the opponents who grew apprehensive as the fiercest of their attacks turned out to be futile in curbing the boy's will to challenge them.

Because Stan never told anybody about his personal history, no one but himself knew what really fed his wills to live on. His wills to fight on. His wills to win on. If he fell today, he would never be able to claim what rightfully belonged to him: the heart of the Mole. Whenever he felt he was no longer able to put up with the reality for one more second, he would silently gaze at the knife that his archenemy gave him and renew his commitment to hold true to the promise that he made over that shiny, metal object.

It took six years for the boy to ascend to the very pinnacle of the street gang and assume the role of the leader of the group. As another three years went by, Stan Marsh became the name that each and every teenaged gang on the streets of Boston admired and feared at the same time. When there was no one left in the capital of the State of Massachusetts who would dare cross his way, Stan sensed that it was the right time he returned to where his soul belonged. He could have lived a fairly successful life as the head of the street gangs if he decided so, but he was fully aware that such was not the life he truly wanted to live. When he announced his "retirement" and bid farewell to the faces that he grew to be intimate with, they gave him their one last present: the nicest suit that they could find worn by one of them. Swallowing back tears, Stan left behind everything but a handful of cash, his new brown suit, the knife, and the necklace that he never failed to carry with him wherever he went. Thanks to the goodwill of an old, rich man who was heading towards New York City, he could hitch a ride with him as the vehicle carried him to the place where he would meet his final destiny.

"I hope you've been keeping my property well, Christophe." Stan mumbled to himself, grabbing at the handle of the dagger that was hidden inside a scabbard attached to the side of his belt.

"Be careful, kid!" Stan's train of thought was suddenly interfered when the old man in his Buick lowered the window and shouted at him. "A Storm's coming. You might want to find a place to stay first!"

"Thank you, mister. I will." The boy looked back and voiced his gratitude as he watched the window roll back up. The vehicle started to move away from him, finally to disappear from his sight. The old man was right: judging from the clouds and the wind picking up speed, it was going to rain any minute now. And it was going to be one of those rains that pour buckets after buckets of water and end up blowing away several poorly-maintained houses before it finally stops. He needed a place that would shelter him from the harsh weather, and of course, where he could silently think about how to accomplish his plan to reclaim his property. As much as he wanted to plant the knife straight on the chest of the Mole any moment now, he knew that he would need more than his gut to bring down such a powerful man from his throne. Honestly, he didn't give a whole lot of consideration as to what he would do after he arrived at the city.

I have a whole lot of plan to make. He thought as he let out a deep sigh. He then glanced around the avenue to see if there was any motel he could stay for the day. The six-hour drive left him wanting for some much-needed sleep.

It was then that he found a small sign carved out of a wooden panel that read "INN" hanging outside a small three-story building across the street. It didn't even have a name on it, and judging from the size of the building, it would hardly be the nicest place that he could find around the block. For a person like Stan who had slept on the hard pavement of the streets for the last decade, however, a bed made of haystack would be tantamount to the palace of Versailles.

Perfect, he thought. The exact place that I was looking for.

His expectation turned out to be true as he entered the old, wooden building. With some added exaggeration, the place was nothing short of a barn. It was one of these places where the dining hall was located on the first floor and dozens of tiny rooms where one can barely lay his body occupied the second and third floors. The floor made creaking sound whenever he stepped on it.

As soon as he reached the hall, he realized that there were not many customers despite the weather turning ugly out there. He could see only five people, himself included, in the dimly-lit dining area. At the far end corner of the room were two people in suits and fedoras. Since the table they were occupying did not have any food on it, they were not here to be dined. Another man who was donned in a similar manner with the other two was sitting on the long bar table with his back turned on Stan's side. Across the table was a man wearing a bow tie and a black vest over a white dress shirt. From the looks of it, he was the one in charge of this place. As Stan approached the manager, he deliberately made his footsteps loud enough to make his presence known to others.

…but it did not take long enough for him to realize that his attempt to direct the manager's attention to himself had apparently failed. He was now standing directly in front of the man over the counter, but the manager did nothing but to stare down at his own feet.

"Um, excuse me," Stan waved his hands. "I need a room for one, please?"

The manager then finally looked up at him. He seemed to be in his late thirties or early forties, but his haircut made him look much older: his grayish-brown hair were more or less neatly combed to each side of his head, revealing his rather wide forehead to make him look like a balding man. Judging from his clenched hands slightly trembling and his pupils constantly changing the object they were looking at informed Stan that the man was being apprehensive over something. Or someone.

"Um, look, if you're concerned about my looks, I do have money." Stan pulled out his old wallet and waved it in front of the manager. "And in an unlikely scenario where you don't have any vacancy, I can just sleep on the floor. Just give me a discount in that case. The weather's gonna turn ugly out there and I really could use a room to keep me from getting all wet, you see."

Instead of answering, however, the manager slowly looked at the other man who was sitting a few feet next to Stan as if he were awaiting his permission to speak. The man slowly nodded back. Taking it as a cue to go ahead, the manager finally opened his mouth.

"Two-oh-seven." He grabbed a key from underneath the counter and handed it over to Stan. "How long will your stay be?"

"Uh, just tonight for the time being." He placed the key securely in his pocket.

"Is there anything else you need?" the manager inquired.

"Uh, not right now. I could use a meal after I get some sleep, but I guess I could handle that later. Thank you." With that, Stan turned around to climb the stairs leading to his designated room.

"We'd rather you paid in advance."

A sudden voice, however, made him stop. Turning back, Stan found that the voice did not belong to the manager that he just talked to. Instead, it apparently came from the figure sitting in front of the counter who was now staring at him.

"Uh, ye, yeah. Could you pay in advance?" The manager reluctantly concurred.

Blinking, Stan made his way back to the counter. He didn't have anything against paying in advance, but it was the context that the request had been made that bothered him beyond belief.

"O…kay," Stan did not hold himself back from forming a questioning look on his face. "And how much would that be?"

"Um, three fifty. Including the standard meal plan." The manager stated nervously.

Humming um-hmm, Stan counted three dollars and fifty cents inside his wallet and pulled them up front, presenting them to the manager in front of him.

Before the manager could reach for the money, however, the figure right beside Stan stood up and grabbed the papers. "Thank you for your payment." Then he pulled the money to his side.

Or he tried, because Stan did not let go of his money. "Um, I hate to break this to you, bro." He said while making his forehead wrinkled. "The money is for the manager, not for you."

"I hate to break this to you, bro," the man replicated Stan's remark in a rather joking manner while giving a strong emphasis on that last word. "His money is our money."

Stan then heard the noise of a chair scratching against the wooden floor behind him. When he looked at the direction where the sound came from, he could see that one of the men who were sitting quietly in their table emerged from his seat and was making his way to his side.

Three of a kind. Stan thought. The nature of the visit paid by those three men in black suits now became clear. They were mobs who came here to collect dues, protection fees, or whatever they called it. He must have bashed in while they were having a little "discussion" about their own payment plans. Although Stan was fairly confident about his skills, he didn't know whether he could fight off three Mafia members at the same time. The solution was clear, then: he had to fight them one by one, not allowing the three men to gang up on him. It was one of the strategies that he had learned while growing up on the streets of Boston.

Determined to execute his plan right away, he snatched the money he was holding from the grasp of the other man beside him. "Sorry, I worked my ass off to make that money, and I only give it to those who deserve it." He made sure his remark sounded like a mockery. "You, sir, are not one of them."

"You son of a…"

Stan saw a fist flying to his face immediately.

Predictable. He thought. Not a well-trained move. This might be a lot easier than I thought.

Stan easily dodged the punch that was heading towards him and grabbed the other man's arm stretching forward from the side. Then, he mounted a kick to the man's elbow from beneath. He then heard the loud crackling noise as the man's elbow was completely dislocated, making him groan in agony. Using his other free hand, Stan punched the man's stomach as hard as he could. This knocked the man over from his chair, and he fell to the ground with a loud noise. Stan was sure that he would not be able to get up for at least another minute.

"You little bastard…!"

Looking back, Stan noticed that the other man who was approaching him from his table was reaching his hand for the gun held to the side of his belt. Not wasting another second, Stan flung forward and crashed to the man with full force. This knocked both of them down, and the revolver on the man's hand was sent flying to the other side of the dining room. Stan utilized the momentum of the impact and rolled over to the side where the pistol landed. Grabbing it, he immediately stood up and aimed the revolver to the forehead of the man who was now squirming to get up from the lying position.

"I wouldn't make the slightest move if I were you." Stan threatened as he cocked the hammer of the revolver to make the cylinder rotate.

"Enough." A sudden voice echoed in the dining room, directing the attention of all people present to the one man who was sitting on his table silently throughout this whole incident. Stan, too, glared at the man while still aiming the gun to the man beneath him.

The sitting man slowly reached for his fedora and put it off his head, revealing his messy blonde hair. After placing the hat gently on the table, he used the same had to beckon Stan to his side. "Come, kid. I want to have a little talk with you."

Hmm, a middle boss. Stan easily identified the relative rank of the blonde man from the way he talked and behaved. He debated for a second about whether to comply with his unexpected request but then decided that the man did not intend harm. If he did, he would have joined the other two men when Stan was beating the shit out of them all in a matter of seconds. He tapped the side of the revolver to make the cylinder come out and leaned the gun backwards to remove the bullets, which made sharp noises as they dropped to the floor. Slowly, Stan approached the table where the blonde man was sitting and pulled a chair to seat on.

"I believe this belongs to you." Stan placed the now-empty revolver on the table and slid it to the other side.

"Thank you." The man acknowledged him. "Well, about the feat you've shown me back there,"

"It was in self-defense." Stan cut him off. "You can't deny it if you saw it."

"Well of course it was." The blonde man did not seem agitated by the possibly humiliating defeat of his underlings. "What I was going to say is that I'm pretty impressed. For the lack of a better word, that is. The thing you pulled off was nothing short of being incredible."

"That is flattering." Stan answered insincerely, not moved by the man's compliment by a bit.

"Where were you trained at? The military? The gangs?" The man inquired.

Stan, however, opted not to answer that particular question. Revealing his past among the juvenile gangs of Boston was the last thing that he intended to proudly brag about.

"Well, if you don't want to talk about it, it's fine with me." The man got the cue and quickly changed the subject. "Okay, where do I begin…" He drummed his fingers on the surface of the table. "First, I'm sure you're wondering about who I am."

The boy scoffed. "In fact, I'm not."

The blonde man was apparently taken off-guard by the blunt remark. "Pardon?"

"What I'm saying is that I think I already have a pretty good idea as to who you and these guys are." Stan pointed to the other two men who were still recovering from the damage inflicted on them.

"Please," The blonde man displayed a sense of curiosity. "Enlighten me."

"When I first entered this place, I noticed that none of you three people had ordered any food, which means that the purpose of your visit must be something else than being dined." Stan stated matter-of-factly. "The manager was being overly apprehensive, and I figured that something was definitely bothering his mind. When one of your guys acted as if he was giving orders to him, the answer became perfectly clear. You, sir, are members of the Mafia who came here to collect money from the poor guy, and the timing of my arrival couldn't be more interrupting."

"So far, so good." The blonde man seemed amused, developing a wide grin on his face. "Continue on."

"And I couldn't help but notice this." He pointed to the upper-left pocket of the suit that the blonde man was wearing. "Mafias utilize several different signs to indicate their respective factions. The color of your handkerchief placed nicely over your pocket, blue in this case, tells me that your allegiance is to the Tuckers, the Mafia lord of Queens. My regards to Mr. Craig Tucker."

Stan could see the man's white teeth as his grin became wider. "Go on, Sherlock."

"Finally," the boy continued with his observation. "I mean no offence, but the fighting skills of your men there were subpar at best. Actually, I've seen better fighters living on the street of Boston. My best guess is that they are those who lost their jobs during the Depression and only recently joined you in a prospect of living a better life. You, by the way, should be the middle boss who recruited them, just as you are trying to recruit me right now."

The blonde man burst into an all-out laughter. Stan silently watched the man as the laughter turned into a giggle and was finally put to a stop.

"Well, seeing that you figured it all out, there is no point in dragging this conversation any longer than necessary." He remarked while smiling. "Let me cut to the very point. Join my crew. I could really use a hand of a fine man unlike those two useless imbeciles."

Stan already knew what the man was going to ask since he sat on the table. His answer, however, was already set.

"No, thanks." Stan answered bluntly.

The smile on the face of the blonde man was going away. "Why not?"

"Because I have a better dream than to become one of you guys who constantly harass people to rip their money for your own benefit." He did not hold back from making harsh remarks. "I happen to be a person who believes in justice. In a way, you can safely say that justice is the only thing I m seeking in my life. I have personal history."

After listening to Stan's remark, the blonde man let out a loud sigh. "Well, that's a shame." The man leaned backward, showing an apparent sign of disappointment on his face. "But if that is what you believe, I have absolutely no intention of forcing you to do anything against your will. You know, I'm not as bad as you might think." He became silent for a few seconds before he spoke again while scratching the back of his head. "I'm curious, though. If a man with your skills, guts, and intelligence was roaming freely around my area, there is no way that I could have never heard of you."

"In fact, I just arrived at the city." Stan provided the answer to the query.

"That's what I thought." The blonde man leaned forward to Stan's side of the table again. "that being said, would you mind if I asked your name?"

Stan hesitated, thinking about the appropriateness of revealing his name to a mob. He could turn out be an enemy, after all.

The man noticed the boy's hesitation. "Oh, come on, I'm not going to tell anybody." He insisted. "I'm just curious, that's all."

Sighing, Stan finally gave in to the demand. "Stan Marsh."

He didn't expect the reaction of the figure in front of him, however. Immediately after hearing his name, the man's face became paler than that of a sheet of paper. The only time that Stan had seen a paler face was when he glimpsed at the face of his grandpa in his coffin while he was being lowered into the ground.

"Uh," the man stayed that way for a good ten seconds with his mouth agape. He seemed to be struggling to produce a word in his mouth, though unsuccessfully. The only word he could voice after the long moment of silence was: "Sorry?"

Stan felt uneasiness at the way the man reacted to the revelation, but began to repeat his name. "Stan Mar…"

"Wait, wait, wait." The blonde man suddenly crossed him. "Let me." His serious look made Stan go silent. "Am I addressing a Stanley Randall Marsh, son of Randall and Sharon?"

"And you call me Sherlock." Now it was Stan's turn to be impressed. "How did you know?"

Instead of answering the question, however, the blonde man abruptly flung forward and cupped his hands on each side of the boy's face. Though surprised by the man's action, Stan did not stop him as the man pulled his face closer to his and started examining.

"Your eyes…" the man stared at Stan's blue eyes as if he were hypnotized by them. "I'll be dammed. You really are Stan Marsh." After finally letting go of the boy's face, he still refused to break the gaze. "But swear to God, I thought you were dead!"

"Uh, excuse me, but," It was right then that Stan realized that the man's face looked strangely familiar. "Do I know you?"

"You're kidding? You seriously don't remember me?" The man remarked incredulously. He leaned forward to close the gap between them to mere inches. Stan could see tears welling up in the eyes of the man.

"Stan, it's your uncle Kenny. Kenneth McCormick."

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A/N: Thank you for reading so far! This was one of these boring chapters where nothing of critical importance happened, but it was an essential part for story development. Believe it or not, I'm going as fast as I can with the plot while trying not to lose too much detail in the process. I once thought about inserting the detailed story of Stan's past ten years as separate chapters but figured that would be off-topic and would make the story unmanageably long.

And finally a familiar face who is still alive! Kenny is one of the characters who will receive extensive development as the story goes along. Well, that is true for all main characters, though.

FYI, the main plot of this story will begin at the end of the next chapter. Stan's first encounter with Kyle is scheduled to take place shortly as well. I hope this will help keep you interested in the story.

And a million thanks to my wonderful reviewers, xIcedRainbowsx, Skaminski, A. T. Vio, Kenny and kyle, and lily's mom09! It makes me happy to know that there are people who enjoy my work despite its abysmal quality. I love you all—in a Platonic way—!

Regards,

-Jack Colquitt.