Eric's POV

I fucking hate this town.

I'm driving and I pass Hall's Pass, I pass the old elementary school, and I pass Stark's Park. I hate it. I hate it all. The small town mentality, the small town perimeters, I guess I just hate that it's a small town.

Once you get used to life in the city, you realize just how shitty you had it growing up.
But I never hated making the commute and driving back to this shitty little town whenever I had some time off. Back then, that was because it was only to see... her.

I feel something getting caught in my throat. I swallow and try to shove both – the choking sensation in my throat as well as the rush of self-pity in my heart – out of the way. I'm here to take care of business, and besides they'll be plenty of time to cry later. But hopefully no one will see me when I do.

Growing up, I didn't give a flying fuck who saw me when I cried like a little bitch. It's funny what a little bit of education, prestige, money, and time will do to a person. I guess it's a thing called "pride."

I never did really keep in touch with my childhood friends. And I don't really have any "friends" that I hang out with now. I've had some intense but short-lived relationships... None were long enough to really mean anything. But more importantly, none of them were long enough where I got the chance to bring home a girlfriend to my mom. I really, really, really fucking wanted to do that. Not so much to show off what a catch I had on my arm, but more so to make my mom happy. While she didn't pressure me, she did mention a couple times how, if I ever meet someone special, she would like to meet her.

But the fucking truth is, there weren't just "hers". There were some "hims", too.

Now, I'm not fucking gay. Yeah, I've fucked some guys, but I've never dated one. Still, whenever a new thing with a girl didn't work out I always went back to fucking guys. To be honest, this shit kinda bothered me. It was something that no one knew about me. And at least my mom can rest not knowing that I've both been the pitcher and the catcher with random dudes.

There's a secret I'll probably take to the grave. People don't need to know that shit about me, especially not people in this asscrack of a town. I don't want to get my jumped or get fag-dragged around these dusty, dirt roads. I hear that still do that kind of shit in pissant towns like this and I'm not looking to get road rash on every square inch of me.

God, I don't want to be here. I hate it here. I hate all the crusty, crazy, uneducated, gun-toting, bible belt hicks.

It sucks that I have to be here and the reason for it makes everything even shittier. When I finally arrive at my destination, I park and make my way into the building. It's white. Everything is white. It smells sterile. I approach the front desk and a minute later I'm taken into a back room by a guy in a white coat. It looks like something straight out of a horror film – walls of cold chambers. We stop in front of one and the doctor opens it up, pulling a body out on the silver tray. It's covered by a blanket, but I'm already prepared for what I'm about to see. When the doctor pulls back the fabric, there are no surprises.

"Yeah, that's her," I say, forcing myself to keep calm and collected.

The doctor nods. "Would you like me to give you a minute?"

"Doesn't matter," I mutter. The doctor takes that as a yes and leaves me alone in the room with the body. With a frown, I stare down at the corpse. It doesn't even look like her. It's so… lifeless. "Hey, Mom," I murmur, letting out a sigh.

I just stare at her. It's creepy, she almost seems alive. I breathe a sigh of relief. The hospital did a decent job of cleaning her up; from the details I was given about the accident, she was almost discombobulated. Now looking at her, it's hard to believe that all that took place. Yes, she has a ton of stitches along her arms, and one on her forehead. She has some swelling along with bruising. But, despite all that, she looks peaceful, like she's only sleeping.

Before I know it, old memories worm their way into my mind.

"MYYYUUUMMM!" I yelled, running up along her bedside. I was still fat and short, and my forehead barely made it over the bed. "MYUUUUMMM! I'm hungry!" I yelled in my high-pitch voice. I observed as my mom laid there for a minute before my voice pulled her out of consciousness. Back then I couldn't see it, but she really was a beautiful woman. The thick, brown hair, her cute turned up nose, her dimples... And how patient she was with a little shit like me made her even more beautiful.

"Mmmm," she moaned, blinking her eyes. "What is it, poopsikins? Mommy is trying to take a nap," she said sweetly.

"I'm fucking HUNGRY, myum!" I pouted as I slammed my two chubby fists up against the bed.

I watched mom yawned. "Okay sweetie," she said, slowly propping herself up. "What would you like for dinner?" she asked as she maneuvered her legs to the side of the bed.

"I want fucking KFC, myum!" I spat. "Not any of that shit you tried to cook for me the other night! That shit was GROSS!"

Mom stretched her arms again as she reach for her cellphone on the in table. "Okay sweetie," she purred. "Just give mommy and KFC about 20 minutes, okay?"

I blink while staring at my mom's deceased body, wondering why that random memory just popped into my head. Fuck, I was such a little shit back then that did not deserve someone like her as a mom. I feel my eyes start to water and I quickly wipe my eyes with the back of my hands.

I walk to the door and stick my head outside the room.

"You finished?" the doctor asks me.

I scoff. What kinda lame-ass question is that? "Yeah," is all I say.

I can't shake the feeling that I should have spent more time with her. Even as a kid I couldn't wait to get away from her. I guess I took it all for granted and now it's too late.

I sign some papers and then make funeral arrangements. It's going to be small. I don't know if my mother even had any friends. I think that's why she was so permissive to me when I was a kid. She was looking for a friend. It's so fucking depressing I want to throw up. I should have been there for her. She shouldn't have died like this. She was doing better. She was sober. She had a straight-laced job.

I guess it doesn't matter, though. Like I said, it's too late.

.

.

After a really shitty day, I return to the apartment I'm renting out. I don't know how long I'll be in this shit-stain of a town. Either way, I can take my work with me. When I arrive "home" I open up my laptop and spend the rest of the night responding to emails from some of my moronic co-workers.

Shit, shit and more shit. I feel myself grow angry for no apparent reason, so I slam my laptop shut and then it's quiet. For a split second, at least.

"Oh, fuck!" I hear, followed by a string of moans and demands for "more" and "harder".

I click my tongue. Apparently my next door neighbor is scoring.

I pay it little mind, moving into the kitchen and deciding to pour myself a glass of wine. I'm not a big drinker, but I like to have a glass of wine every so often – especially when I'm stressed out.

Unfortunately, the annoying sex sounds are only louder in the kitchen.

"Oh, God! YESS!"

What the fuck? Sounds like a dude doing most of the moaning! The girl must be riding his dick hard.

I chug the last bit of wine and then rinse it out in the sink. "Ay!" I yell as I hit the wall with the side of my fist. "Shut the fuck up! I'll call the cops"

Then I hear the moans louder and the sound of the bed move faster.

Mother fucker! I'm not going to be able to get to sleep tonight after a fucked up day because of this selfish, horny couple?! I quickly grab my cellphone and my keys, slam my door, and knock on my neighbors' door. I don't pummel the door but I knock loud enough that they can hear it over the sex. Then, finally, the noise stops. I hear some low-toned conversation and then some shuffling.

When the door becomes ajar, I don't even wait to see who it is before I go off.

"For Christ's sake, can you keep your fucking DOWN?!" Then the door opens all the way. I stare at a guy in a dark green terry cloth robe with messy, curly red hair. Despite his comical hair and the multiple freckles he has on his face, he stares at me with an "eat-shit" expression.

Wait... Don't I know this asshole?

"Kahl?" I ask in a deadpan, nearly squinting at him.

And he actually has the audacity to smirk at me. "Eric Cartman," he says in a simper. "In the flesh. Someone pinch me."

He's changed. Right away I notice it. Sure, the hair is the same and the freckles are the same... He's almost as tall as me now, but certainly not as broad. Apart from that, there's something different in the way he carries himself. There's something catty and malicious about his tone. I guess a few years apart were bound to change him in some ways. He looks like a depressed soccer mom and the robe definitely isn't helping to negate that image.

Before I can respond, a guy - presumably the guy who was pounding Kyle - shoves past us and walks down the hall. He's big and burly and kind of homely. Huh. I guess the Jew's a fag... clearly a fag with no fucking standards. I sneer at him and snap, "Watch it, asshole!" only to be ignored.

With a careless sigh, Kyle makes a move to close the door but I stop him. "Kahl, what the fuck?" I demand, though perhaps I have no right. What am I even demanding? It's always been like this between us. Complicated. Who the fuck knows why?

He fucking reeks of sex. It makes me want to recoil and move away, but I don't.

He pauses and stares at me. "Sorry about your mom," he says and it sounds genuine.

With a sigh, I nod my head. "You heard about that?"

"Everyone did," Kyle responds, finally letting go of the door. For an awkward second, we stand there, looking at each other. "You, uhh, wanna come in?" The Jew asks me.

His sudden change of tone makes me feel uneasy. "Well, I wouldn't want to interrupt anything, Kahl." I try to make my new tone not sound awkward.

The redhead scratches his head. "It's a little too late for that, Fatass," he snarks, looking at me with a sarcastic expression. "C'mon. I'm sure I can find something His Majesty might accept as a beverage." He nudges the door open as I walk past him and into his family room. Just like my apartment, it's small and modest, but it's fine for a bachelor, I guess. I notice that there's a ton of artwork and that the Jew really has a taste for vintage and ornate decor. I would never fucking say it, but I'm almost impressed. I sit down on a leather chair next to his couch. After the redhead locks the door, he stalks over to the kitchen and opens the fridge. "Let's see... I've got coke, orange juice, milk... Oh, and I've got some Coronas and Blue Moon, if you drink."

"I'll take a Blue Moon," I answer, thinking that I really could use a drink after all the shit today.

I hear him pull out two Blue Moons, open both of them, and then carry then over and he hands me mine. The Kike sits adjacent from me on the couch.

"Thanks for the drink," I say, after taking a swig.

"It's no big deal." Kyle takes a swig right after me.

"Look, I didn't mean to be a total dick earlier," I explain. "It's just that today is my first day back in South Park, and I had to drive straight to Hell's Pass to-"

"'S'fine," the Jew interrupts me. "I'm usually not that loud, but I'll try to keep it down next time."

Next time? Was that ugly asshole...?

"You mean, that ugly asshole is your boyfriend?!" I can't help but let my disapproval show both in my tone and in my facial expression.

"No douche-wad," he replies nonchalantly. "That guy is just some guy I fuck... Sometimes."

'Just some guy I fuck'...? Am I really hearing this? Kyle Broflovski, the Jewish, holier-than-thou, know-it-all, little shit-stain, pious, pain-in-the-ass goodie-goodie that I grew up with – did those words really just come out of his mouth?

"Oh," is all I can manage to say. "What's his name?"

Kyle scrunches up his face, thinking hard. "Travis, I think? Yeah I think it's Travis."

I can't help but notice the awkward silence in the living room.

"No, it's Trevor! Yeah, Trevor! My bad," he says, chuckling a bit. "Travis is someone else."

Someone else? Jesus fucking Christ, this guy...

"Well, I guess everyone has to have random hook-ups every now and then," I say, trying to make the situation a little less weird.

"Or every night," Kyle boldly chimes in.

"Every night?"

"Well, maybe I'm exaggerating," he says. "Sometimes I can go a week- hell, maybe even two weeks- without sex…"

I don't know why, but my heart feels like it's sinking the more I talk to the Jew. This is NOT what I would've ever imagined Kyle to be like as an adult.

"So... there's... others...?" I ask, dragging out the words.

"Of course there's others, Fatass!" he snaps. "God, I don't even know why I'm telling you all this and we haven't seen each other in years. I guess because you caught me fucking, so it's only fair to explain the situation."

"Christ," I mutter, somewhat angry and somewhat disgusting – though I shouldn't be. What right do I have? The damn Jew is allowed to screw up his life if that's what he wants.

He softens a split second later, taking a long swig and finishing his drink. "Be right back," he says. He's gone for a brief moment and when he returns he has another bottle.

"Christ," I mutter again.

He just smiles. "What?" he asks me. "Surprised? Don't bother denying it. I can read it on your face. Who would have thought Kyle Broflovski would be the one to end up a slut with no standards? I might seem like I've gotten dull, but I'm a crazy lay. At least, that's what my fucks tell me. Shame, right? At one point in my life, I probably had a lot going for me... Now all I have is this."

I try not to look too disgruntled. "You were the smartest kid in our grade."

"Yeah," he whispers. "Things change."

"So, uh, what do you do?" I pry. "Job-wise, I mean?"

"I work from home," he says vaguely before explaining, "I work for a phone company."

"Mundane," I tell him.

"Pretty much," he agrees.

It doesn't take the Jew long to down his second drink. I can't help but wonder if he's already drunk. Maybe he started drinking earlier. I wouldn't blame him. The only way I'd be able to fuck around with an eyesore like "Trevor" is if I was fucking wrecked. I prefer cute faces. I stare at Kyle. I suppose it's not surprising that he gets fucked by a lot of guys. He's not that bad looking. He has ridiculous hair, but his face is all right. Still, I can't picture him without the stupid hair. It suits him.

He must drink a lot and by the looks of it, he drinks fast. He looks hazy. He rubs the back of his hand over his forehead before taking another swig and then another and then another. I feel like I'm sitting here watching the moments before train wreck - I know it's about to happen but there's nothing much I can do to stop it.

"You work tomorrow?" I ask, trying to make casual conversation (which is not really what I'm used to).

"Yeeep," he answers with a bitter tone. "What about you?" The Jew must see my pissed-off expression because he's quick to correct himself. "Ohh, that's right. You're here in town because... I'm sorry, my bad." His face is red, and I can't tell if that's from his embarrassment or his drinking. Before I get the chance to make a harsh anti-Semitic remark, the redhead throws another question at me. "So, what DO you do?"

"What do I DO, Jew?" I spit back sarcastically.

"Yah know, work, for your career, job-wise?" he explains facetiously. "Your degree was international business, right?"

"No, Kike," I snap. "It was German with a business concentration."

"Ohhh, that's right!" He takes another long drink of his beer. Then- for whatever reason- he begins to chuckle.

"What's so funny, Jew?" I feel blood pressure rising.

"Ohh nothing, just thought of something funny." Kyle takes another long swig.

"What's so funny, KAHL?" I press.

"Umm, it's just-" He coughs for a second, trying to drink successfully and laugh at the same time. "You must be a very cunning linguist, aren't cha Cartman?"

I stand up, move in front of the kike, snatch his beer, and slam it down on the coffee table- strong enough where it makes a loud noise and spills a bit but gentile enough where it doesn't shatter. I grab the two sides of his terry cloth robe, and bring his face close to mine. Surprisingly, he is light. That or I'm just so goddamn pissed off that I can't feel anything but adrenaline running through my veins.

"I don't know if you're drunk or not right now, Kahl," I say in a low, raspy voice. "But I just drove 45 minutes from my apartment in downtown Denver as soon as I heard about my mom getting T-boned by some piece-of-shit drunk driver," I pause, making sure that he is listening. Although just minutes before he was closing his eyes a lot, now they are wide open in fear. Up-close, the Jew smells like a fucking brewery. "I know you Jews don't ever think about anyone than your beady-eyed selves, so I KNOW that it would be too much to ask you to be respectful of the situation." My voice is getting a little louder and I perfectly articulate every word. "But never in a million YEARS would I guess that perfect, little Kyle Broflovski would turn into such a low-life shit-stain!" I let go of his robe and he falls back on the couch, silent.

He's disheveled. His robe slips past his shoulder and he doesn't make a move to fix himself. He looks stunned. At what? I don't know. It's not like this is anything new for us.

"I'm not," he says finally. It's a weak protest, like he's just saying it because he knows he should... but he probably knows I'm right.

"You're not what?" I snort. "A low-life shit-stain?"

He frowns at me, eyes narrowing. "Stop," he whispers sharply.

I dismiss it. Instead, I nod towards his robe. "Gonna fix that?"

"Why does it matter?" he asks nonchalantly. "It's not like there's any part of me you haven't seen before. I can't recall the amount of times I've caught you at my window watching me undress."

"We were kids," I remind him. "We're grown-ass men now."

He waves a dismissive hand and when I think he's about to adjust his robe, he does something else instead. He pulls back more of the fabric. He does it in a slow, teasing way.

"Stop," I demand tersely, yet I can't look away.

"Why?" he asks me. He stands up and reaches for the tie, undoing it with ease and then sliding out of the robe. The fabric pools at his feet and he's standing in front of me without a stitch of clothing on. I almost choke, clasping a hand over my mouth.

Kyle Broflovski is fucking batshit. The evidence is written all over his skin.

"What the FUCK is wrong with your arms and legs?!" I exclaim.

Kyle has so many cuts and scars... up and down his forearms and inside the calves of his legs. He even has some on his stomach. There's some old, silvery looking scars along with fresher, pinker ones. There's some scabs healing and some that you can tell the Jew has been scratching. While most of the lacerations are in the same direction, I can tell that he's made some diagonal and- because of just how many are covering his limbs- many of his lines overlap each other. I feel sad and repulsed at the same time. Sure, I've heard of self-mutilation, but I always thought that was something that girls or emo, suicidal fags do. Not people who come from good families. Not people with a high IQ. Not people who have so much strength and stubbornness... At least, that's the way Kyle USED to be. Does he really fucking hate himself this much?

"Oh, these?" he says with a shrug. "Sorry. They can kinda be an eyesore, but that doesn't change what a good fuck I am," the kike adds as he takes a step closer to me. He leans in and tries to kiss me.

"Kahl?!" I say as I take a step back, panicking because I'm not really sure if I understand what the fuck is going on right now.

The Jew blinks in shock. I clear my throat and I put both of my hands up in front of me, as if shielding myself from any more advances.

"Kahl," I say, I little louder and with more control. "I need to go to bed. You should probably do the same, Jew." I feel my pockets and make sure that I still have my cell phone and keys on me, then I head for the door.

"Asshole," I hear him mutter.

I turn around and raise an eyebrow at him. "You're drunk. Really drunk. I'm not gonna fuck you like that, stupid Jew bitch. Stop whining. Put your house coat back on and go to bed."

He's staring down at the floor, visibly dejected. Maybe he's not used to being rejected, but I don't give a shit.

"Kahl?" I say his name for what feels like the billionth time.

He doesn't answer. He sinks to the floor, kneeling. I watch, hoping he doesn't throw a tantrum. He was good at that when we were kids. He fucked up his vocal cords and now his voice is permanently hoarse.

With an impatient sigh, I move back into the room. I pick up his robe, draping it over his shoulders. "Come on," I urge him. "Fucking stand up and stop acting like a child."

He won't look at me. He just continues staring at the floor. Fucking hell, I hope he's not crying. I don't want to have to deal with that flavor of bullshit tonight.

"Fuck's sake," I whisper to myself, grabbing him by the shoulders and forcing him to stand.

He knocks my hands away and finally looks up at me. No tears.

"Good now?" I ask him.

He forces a laugh and says, "Yeah, whatever. Goodnight."

I watch as he goes to his room and slams the door, leaving me in his living room.

What a hot fucking mess.