Disclaimer: South Park is the creation of the Crab People. I’m serious. Run for your lives, never eat treasure, and watch out for Manbearpig and a bad case of indigestion.

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Gerald Broflovski’s forehead creased into two wrinkles, newspaper folding in half as his sons walked into the kitchen dressed for a day at school. Kyle was celebrating his junior year at high school while Ike was catching up near the end of middle school. His eldest son opened the freezer and pulled out the box of waffles before he stuck three into the toaster oven.

“Kyle, Ike, there’s something I would like to talk to you boys about,” Gerald began as he lifted a hand to rub against his forehead. The newspaper was set on the table top, headline face-up. Ike, ever inquisitive, walked behind his father’s shoulder and stooped over. His eyes scanned from left to right, lowering as he speedily read through.

“Neo-Nazi Extremists hit Carbondale, Colorado,” the boy read out loud, enunciating each word crisply. “That’s terrible.”

“Yeah, I mean, dude, that’s not too far away from here. Did the police stop them?” Kyle asked, not glancing behind his shoulder as the timer on the toaster went off. His fingers closed on the door, tugging the glass open before he quickly shuffled the treats onto his plate. A hand closed around a bottle of maple syrup and he walked to the table, sitting across from the other two.

“Not yet, Kyle. This doesn’t look good—the group has been targeting Jews and branding the Star of David on their chest… they’re also targeting blacks and homosexuals.” Gerald’s voice trailed off, eyes studying the expression on his eldest son’s face but the boy merely sliced his waffle into pieces with his knife then drew the syrup-coated mass to his mouth.

“Is it safe to go to school?” Ike asked, reaching across the table to grab an apple from the decorative fruit basket placed near the center of the table. He turned it in the palm of his hand before it was brought to his lips, teeth sinking into the savory fruit.

“I think for now it is,” Gerald replied. He sighed, shoulders drooping a bit. “We might have to stay in a liberal state for a few weeks though.”

“What?” Kyle said through a mouthful of food. He swallowed then wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “Can’t they stop them?”

“Hopefully. We just need precautions, Kyle. Your mother and I love you boys dearly and don’t want you to get hurt… or your friends. Just, be careful at school, kids. Okay? And tell Token and Stanley to keep an eye out for themselves.”

Kyle rose to his feet abruptly. He walked to the sink and dumped his plate in it, not bothering to rinse it before he picked up his backpack. “Stan’s not black, Dad,” he replied as he stepped from the room. “Come on, Ike. We’re going to be late,” he called over his shoulder. The younger leapt to his feet and gave his father a short hug before he grabbed his backpack and chased his older brother in pursuit.

Gerald frowned, eyes lowering. Sometimes he wondered whether Kyle was truly so naïve, or whether the boy was trying to pull one-up on him. His eldest son had been best friends with Stanley since childhood, both spending as much time at each other’s houses as at their own. They supported each other through the crushes and heartbreaks of youth; they snuck out of their rooms at night to go to the other’s when they had a problem or couldn’t sleep. Gerald had been alarmed by this as he discovered that his twelve-year-old son was not in bed when he checked in one night, but the fear subsided as he heard the creek of the boy climbing up the tree to return. He had left the room and not mentioned the incident to his son.

Two years later, he had gone to the school’s talent show wanting to support Kyle’s band, Moop. He and Sheila had sat with the other kids’ parents, clapping and shouting their support though Randy Marsh had drunkenly complained that they sounded like a cat being tortured. Gerald had wanted to reprimand the man when a short cry elicited near the stage as his son danced dangerously close to Eric and Stanley. Eric had dropped to his knees, extending a hand forward to the few students screaming before the stage while his son and Stanley remained standing, hips swaying as they rocked into the beat. His son took a step back then another until both boys were back to back, hips synchronized.

They had come in third place, bested by Wendy Testaberger’s interpretive dance and Jimmy Swanson’s stand-up comedy. Gerald had screamed, applauding wildly as he left the parents to move backstage. His hand moved his coat pocket, closing around the small cloth bulla. Inside, he had collected gold coins to bring him luck to a potential career in music (or at least satisfy his youthful needs).

“Um, excuse me, but have you seen my son anywhere?” he asked, stopping as he saw Butters Stotch.

“Oh ah hello Mr. Broflovski. I think I saw Kyle behind the curtains not maybe five minutes ago.”

“Thanks Butters,” the man replied, smile playing on his lips. He walked forward, smile never budging from his face. Stage lights and students littered the walk to the stage but he ignored the laughs and swears—such was the luxury of youth. “Ky-” he began to call though cut himself off. His son stood in front of Stanley, a hand placed on each side of the boy’s shoulder as if holding his friend to the wall. The two laughed, heads bowed forward with their foreheads touching.

“You were amazing.”

“No, you were.”

“We were.”

Gerald’s fingers lost their grip on the bulla as his son’s head tilted to the side, closing the distance until his lips were pressed against another’s.

His son kissed Stanley Marsh on the mouth.

Where else would he kiss him?

Gerald had retreated to the auditorium claiming he had to use the rest room. As the four boys joined them, the Jewish father had clapped and offered congratulations. He slipped the bulla into his son’s hand telling him to keep it with him for good luck or invest it for the future; his eyes then moved to Stanley and he reached into his wallet retrieving twenty dollars for the boy. “Congratulations,” Gerald had said, beaming at the pleased expression the other youth had. Stanley offered thanks after a “Dude! Sweet!”

It was two-and-a-half years since the talent show, and Kyle never once had a “talk” to confess his sexuality. Sometimes Gerald wondered if he had imagined the incident or if his son had drunk but sometimes when Stanley was over he would hear muffled scuffling from his son’s room; twice he had noticed a bulge through Stanley’s jeans.

The sound of a car gunning drew the man’s attention to the window. His son had gotten inside his Mazda and revved the engine, knowing fully well that his mother would loathe the sound. Ike turned his head from the passenger window, waving his hand in a short goodbye as his brother shifted the car in reverse and rolled over the newly shoveled driveway.

“Stay safe, boys,” he murmured, extending a hand to pick up the discarded newspaper and toss it in the trash bin.