I honestly never thought I'd write SP!fic. But then, I write a lot of crack, so why the hell not. Anyway. I read an interview that said Kenny was the most likely to turn into a serial killer and, ya'know, it fits.
... Why is there so much angst in this section? Where is the humor/parody/satire? Where is the old-people porn?
The first thing you need to know about Kenny is that he dies. It's just that thing he does - like a party trick. Some people do impressions, some people tie cherry stems into knots with their tongues. Kenny dies.
The first time it happened, he hadn't had a whole lot of time to think about it. It wasn't like TV, where the dying person always got just enough time to say goodbye to their significant other, or repent, or reveal the secret location of some secret something-or-other. It was just that one moment he was fine, and the next he was smeared across the pavement.
When he came back he was a little surprised, mainly because no one else was surprised. After all, he thought, resurrection wasn't a daily occurrence.
The next morning he got run over at the same crosswalk, by the same truck, and thought that, okay, maybe it was a daily occurrence.
The first time he really knew it was happening while it was happening was the fourth time. By then the novelty had worn off.
The thing about dying was that it was about thirty percent pain and seventy percent Well-fine-be-that-way-life-sucks-anyway. Most people died pissed. After a while, Kenny was simply exasperated. He generally thought Oh-here-we-go-again.
The first time he was actually worried about not coming back was after the eighth resurrection. Maybe, he thought, he was just a very misinformed cat. Except he never landed on his feet - it was always his head, and it was usually on a railroad spike, even if he wasn't hanging around the train station.
When the tenth came and went - brain freeze gone awry - he stopped worrying until the twelfth time. Thirteen was the unlucky number after all, and Kenny had never been particularly lucky to begin with.
When he died for the fourteenth time - skydiving accident; he broke their fall - Kenny stopped worrying about it all together.
The first (and in fact only) person to ask him what dying was like was Stan. He'd followed up with a quick No never mind, don't tell me, I don't want to know. Kenny's reply was just muffled enough to be indecipherable, unless there were people out there obsessed with what he had to say. He sincerely hoped not. There was already someone out there obsessed with killing him. He didn't know much about them, except that they were bastards.
The fact of the matter was that dying was exactly like being alive. It was just the scenery that changed. Kenny felt sort of sorry for those people that wasted all their money on over priced mail-order cyanide pills expecting things to change when they could have accomplished the same thing by moving to Mexico.
The first time Kenny saw something else that was dead it was a bird, and he poked it was a stick. It was in a very permanent death-state.
He poked it again. It didn't suddenly jump start, take wing, and get hit by a passing plane. It just sat there.
Kenny didn't bother burying it, because he was sure a cat would simply dig it up, climb through his bedroom window, and leave its half-eaten carcass on his pillow. Those sorts of things just happened in South Park.
The first time anyone actually missed him was the time he stayed away the longest.
He went to hell - unsurprisingly; he'd only been to heaven a few times - and spent the majority of his time with Damien. Damien spent most of his time angsting and whining about his father's latest boyfriend. Apparently, being the son of Satan's playmate was deemed to be the same as eternal torture, so all he really had to do was watch out for the bubbling pools of acid and avoid the clutching grasps of the condemned, and it wasn't that bad.
Damien was sort of clingy, though.
The first time he went to the graveyard, he stood in front of a long row of gravestones, all of which had his name stamped on them. Kenny wondered how much money his family would have, if they didn't have to keep paying for funerals.
On the other hand, he thought, there usually wasn't any body to bury, and he usually came back before his parents even found out he'd been gone, and how much did it really cost to throw a body in a pinewood box and dump it down a hole, anyway?
It occurred to Kenny that death had lost its shock value. He would have worried about becoming a cynic before his ninth birthday, except he already was cynical, so he really didn't give a damn.
The first time Kenny killed himself, it was because he'd had an afternoon to kill and dying sounded like a better use of his time than watching after-school specials. He'd died enough times to know what was the cheapest, cleanest way to go about it, and he turned on the water before he climbed in the tub.
When he came to his mother scolded him for wasting water and shooed him outside to find a more constructive use of his time.
The first time he really got irritated was one Sunday morning when his parents made him skip a Terrance and Philip TV special to go to church. He felt like telling them it really didn't matter what some guy with some book said about the afterlife, and he considered claiming a street corner and letting everyone know exactly what was waiting for them.
Except that sounded like a hell of a lot of effort, and all the good street corners were already taken by people predicting the end of the world and that the new Windows version wouldn't be faster or more reliable, and no one actually understood him when he talked, anyway. Besides, standing on a street corner was about the cosmic equivalent of begging to get hit by a car, or flattened by a falling street light, or buried under the rubble of a building when it spontaneously explodes.
The first time it occurred to him that he might actually be able to make money off his reoccurring resurrections, he'd taken all the cash he had and bought a bus ticket to Niagara Falls. He pitched a realty show idea to an executive and took bets that he wouldn't be able to survive going over the falls.
He'd planned on waiting until he came to and collect the money, thus making a fortune on the one thing he did well, but by the came he came around the executives had had him declared legally dead and secured all his assets. Kenny tried to fight it, but, being legally nonexistent, he had no standing in court. He'd cheered himself up some by committing a little arson on a choice few expensive cars, and then hitchhiked back to South Park. He only got run over a few times.
At first, Kenny had kept a log of how many times he'd died, and how. He'd given up on it somewhere in the eighties, but he still flipped through it from time to time. He'd gone in some highly unusual, creative, generally humorous ways. If this was all some joke, it was obviously being pulled off by someone who was both easily amused and had way too much time on his hands. The only other person Kenny knew who was that determined - or he should say, obsessive and fixated - was Cartman.
The first time he wondered if there might be someone else like him, he'd gone around and asked everyone he came into contact with if they'd died any time recently.
One person said yes.
he'd asked hopefully.
Oh yes, the hobo went on. I'm Jesus, you know.
As he knew Jesus personally, Kenny begged to differ.
I died for your sins, the hobo went on, ignoring him, so the least you could do is give me three-fifty.
Naturally, if Kenny had had any spare change, he would have spent it already, and he told the hobo as much.
That's when Jesus pulled out a knife and Kenny died again, much to his annoyance.
The first time he didn't die, and continued not-dying for a while, it had made him nervous. He thought that was a little funny, because people were usually relieved to not-die.
He spent the entire time not-dying waiting for some wild creature to jump out from a corner and maul him. Kyle told him he was a real downer to be around.
The first time he killed somebody else, he'd been bored, curious, and a little hungry (though that was beside the point). Mainly, he'd just wanted to see what it was like to not be on the receiving end for once.
It was really easy. Pathetically easy, actually. He'd waited around for a while, but the person appeared to be rather irreversibly dead, so he lost interest and wandered off to do something else.
The first time he'd got caught, they hauled him off to jail and striped him, took pictures, and shoved him into a cell in which one of his fellow inmates tried to make him her bitch. It was all very off-putting. When he met the prosecutor (he noticed it had been spelled persecutor'), the man stalked into the room and said a lot of stuff about irrefutable evidence, then threw some papers down on the table and told him he would get life in prison if he told them where the other bodies were.
Kenny was at first tempted to take the offer - he could serve a life sentence in one hour, tops - but it occurred to him he might come back in jail, and then he'd be stuck there dying for the rest of his lives.
Since he didn't cooperate, they gave him the death sentence. Kenny thought it was all terribly amusing.
The first thing you need to know about South Park is that it is a tiny inbred hick town in which shit happens that people generally ignore for their own peace of mind. It was the same sort of mentality that let a sadistic elementary kid off for feeding a guy his parents that made the waitresses serve coffee to a convicted, executed serial killer. He thinks there must be something in the water.
Kenny sipped his coffee-ish drink and wondered what he would do if he never died permanently, and just got recycled forever. The thought was sort of a bummer.
He decided to not think about it and pick up a dangerous new hobby to occupy his apparently limitless time with instead. Like smoking. Or juggling chain saws.
And maybe, if he got really bored, he'd simply go on another killing spree. Those sorts of things just happened in South Park.