A/N: I solemnly swear I will finish this fic. I'm a little bit shocked by what I have planned. I'm very inexperienced in writing serious things, like sex or real angst, but I read it constantly so I really need to work on my skills at creating and describing it. This is going to be darker than anything I've ever written before, and possibly as dark as some of the things I have read. I'm only realizing the true weight of my story as I type this note. This is not a humour fic, nor is it adventure. It also is definitely not going to be the best thing you've ever read. It is, on the other hand, going to be the most effort I've ever put into anything so far in my life. So bear with me.
Description: Most of South Park High has come to Kenny McCormick in need of his 'therapeutic services', and most of the time both parties leave satisfied. When Kenny gets a new 'client', he can't just walk away.
Claimer: I have decided to confiscate SP from ComCen until they learn to play nice, so that makes it MINE (and mattntrey's).
Sympathy for the Devil
"Pleased to meet you... Hope you guess my name"
He slides his parka over his shirtless torso, wincing as the plastic fur that lines it drags across the stained white bandage that is wrapped around his ribcage. I'm laying on his bed, his pillow soft beneath my head, his thin comforter covering what I'm not comfortable showing. I feel stupid, being so modest around someone who has been naked with every girl in South Park except for her. Maybe it's because he's seen all of them naked too, and can make comparisons.
As the thought of him comparing me with all of those other girls enters my mind, I cover myself more and lean off the side of the bed to find my underwear. They're white, with little ballerinas on them. I feel a strong pang of guilt at the realization that these aren't my underwear at all- I bought them for her for Christmas. My little ballerina.
My eyes are hot, burning in the same way that everyone's eyes do, when they're about to cry. The tears spill out, and Kenny sits next to me on his bed. He wraps an arm over my shoulder and pulls me in close. I know for a fact that this is the arm that has a purple, hand-shaped bruise. If it weren't for his "No Questions" rule, I'd ask whose girlfriend he fucked this time. I suddenly realize that I've just joined the masses of desperate cheaters in South Park. Just as suddenly, I realize that what we just did wasn't cheating at all. I'm silent, head resting on his damaged arm even though I know it probably hurts like a motherfucker. When I lift my head he pulls me into a brief hug, then grabs my bra from the floor in front of him and hands it to me. I get dressed and, still feeling light headed, follow him into his living room. He's got a Shitty Wok menu and my cellphone, and I numbly point at what I want. He orders, and then we sit on the couch to wait for the food. There's another one of his rules- "No talking until the food arrives." I thought it was weird when he first told me his list of requirements, but now I'm thankful that we can just sit and watch TV without having to interact. He's polite, and doesn't even complain when I stop channel flipping at Titanic. We watch in silence until the doorbell rings, and I get it and give the Chinese man his thirty dorrar.
We sit on the dirty floor to eat, and I'm very aware that I'm allowed to talk now. He scarfs down exactly half of the contents of each thing we've ordered, and then sits back, watching me eat and waiting. I eat an entire pot sticker before taking a deep breath.
"She left me for your friend." He nods, and waits patiently for me to tell him more. I guess at this point he's used to girls fucking him and then bawling their eyes out. That's a good thing- it makes him seem more clinical, like a tongue depressor or a scalpel. Or vicodin. A tool that you use to make yourself better. "Stan." The name rolls off of my tongue with disgust. Everything I've ever done wrong, everything I've lost, it all seems to revolve around this one person. Everything is his fault. When we were kids, we'd whisper secrets on the school playground about how cute we thought he was. We first bonded over our shared crush when I chose "Truth" and I had been asked who I had a crush on. Her response had been "Me too!" and we'd been friends ever since. It's his fault we met. When we all got older, he started being more of an asshole, and we got over him. I was the one who suggested that we both only liked him because he was such an effeminate pussy. I realized that I didn't like boys, and she decided that she must not either, and had only made an exception for him because she was worried what other people would think of her being a dyke like Ms. Garrison... I never got around to pointing out to her that at age eight, she was the last person to do things simply because it was socially all right. We swore off boys entirely, and decided to explore our other options. It was his fault we got together. We were so happy, I would have kissed him on the cheek and thanked him for being such a fuckup, had I realized the part he played. Then she started getting distant, forgetting to call me and stuff like that. One day she forgot I was going to drive her home from school, and I waited for almost an hour for her. I assumed she must have gone home early, maybe she had a stomach ache. I drove to her house to see if she was all right, and I found her with him. It was his fault we broke up. It's his fault I'm here. It's his fault I feel like this. I look at Kenny McCormick's swollen eye, the only damage visible while he's wearing his coat. I feel bad for him, but mostly I feel bad for myself, because I know that no one is going to do that to him for me.
I tell him all of this, even the part about wanting someone to beat him up, and he hugs me. He tells me he's always around, if I need anything at all. This makes me laugh bitterly, because I know it's the truth. Anything I could possibly need, he'd try to give me, because he's just that nice. Well, that nice and happy that I just fucked him. Guys disgust me. At least for a guy, he's not too bad.
Well, that was hot, Kenny thinks to himself as he watches Red's backside disappear behind the front door of his house. Angry sex was his favourite kind of sex, and that was definitely what just happened in his room two hours ago. When she was gone, he grinned- she had left all of the Chinese food for him, having barely eaten a few bites. He tucked in, and erased the hour and a half of bitching from his mind. He wasn't a jerk, not really, but with how many girls came crying to him about their shitty relationships, he'd go crazy remembering all of their sob-stories. He focuses on remembering the sex part of the evening as his sister Karen enters the living room.
"You have got to tell me how you do that, Kenny!"
He looks up from his food-and-sex-induced bliss, and his mood is ruined. "/Do what?/"
"Get so many lesbians to sleep with you, of course. The only chicks I can get work down at Raisins, and even then they only do it if there's a camera."
"/You're what, thirteen? You just don't know how to entice the ladies yet. No, I'm not going to teach you./"
The young teen sits on the floor heavily, pouting before grabbing a leftover box of Chinese food and downing its contents.
"/Bitch,/" he mumbles, pulling the other boxes of food closer to himself protectively.
"Well, I'm off. Porsche's working tonight, and she's as queer as November thirtieth."
Karen is blonde in every way possible. Porsche's perfect for her, Kenny thinks to himself, finishing the food as she grabs her jacket and runs out the door. He's always had a feeling that his sister's a lot smarter than she let on, but so far she hasn't given him much to support his theory.
He sits back on the couch, and is just getting into tonight's episode of Terrance and Phillip when the reception cuts out and the screen goes fuzzy. They finally caught us. The McCormicks have been stealing cable from their neighbors for the past year and a half. They were bound to find out sooner or later. He gets up and turns off the television, then sits back down on the sofa. His parents are both out for the night- Mr. McCormick has finally gotten a job, so the two spend most of their time at the local bar, drinking themselves back into poverty every paycheck. His brother Kevin is on a school trip to Washington DC (the school had paid for him to go. Just because Mr. McCormick had a job doesn't mean they're suddenly rich.) Karen will be gone for a few hours- all night if things go well. This leaves Kenny utterly alone in the tiny house. He grins. This is just how he likes it.
Sitting in the middle of his living room, with a comfortably full stomach and a hot new memory, he unzips his pants and begins to stroke himself.
The electricity in the McCormick home surges, and then goes out.
A minute later, he wouldn't have cared if South Park was being bombed. Luckily, he hasn't had enough time to get really into it when the house is suddenly plunged into darkness. He jumps, closing his pants unceremoniously.
It's not windy out, it's not rainy or snowing, and he watched his dad pay the electricity bill a week ago. A peek out the window shows that no one has lost electricity but him.
He makes his way into his room easily, though he can't see anything. Losing his vision to the dark has made his other senses that much stronger. He is hyper-aware of the fact that his pants are rough on the inside, and have a zipper in the worst possible place. He is also hyper-aware that there are heavy footsteps on his roof.
Once in his room, he feels his way to his desk.
The book he's looking for is closed. He always closes it when he has "company", but most of the rest of the time it lays open on his desk for the world to see. His little black book. It's not really little or black- the fourth grade yearbook is actually rather large and brightly coloured, and hardly discreet, but it does the trick. Inside, next to most of the pictures is a number from 1-10 and a phone number. Some of them only have ratings, some only contact information, but it may surprise you to learn that quite a few of the rated children are male. The picture of Kenny himself (his fourth-grade ass, to be more specific), has a large, very bold "10" written next to it in Kenny's own writing. A little self-confidence never hurt anyone.
He grabs this book and shoves it into his closet, beneath a pile of clothes. Then he slowly makes his way to his bed and stows himself beneath it, breathing lightly. A flashlight beam illuminates his hallway, and he can tell that in his distraction, whoever was on the roof earlier has found a way into the house.
He sees a pair of feet outside his open bedroom door.
The feet pass his door.
There are footsteps in the kitchen, and the undeniable sound of a refrigerator opening.
Kenny scrambles out from under his bed, and walks into the kitchen, all stress gone from his body.
A hulking mass is bent in front of the fridge, pointing a flashlight at the contents. "Goddamn poor pieces of shit!" The mass whispers, pushing ketchup out of the path of light to reveal more ketchup.
Kenny lowers his hood, crosses his arms, and leans on the kitchen door frame.
"No fucking food anywhere! Make the poor asshole go on a fucking diet, shit. It's not like he'd miss the goddamn food. Don't pull that shit with me!"
"You're a growing boy, you need your sustenance," Kenny whispers comfortingly, smirking as his overweight "friend" nods in agreement.
"Exactly! I need the food, I'm a growing-" the realization that it isn't himself he's agreeing with surprises him. He pulls his head from behind the fridge door, grinning. "Gritter!"
"Chank. What the fuck are you doing in my house?" Not to mention shutting off the electricity, raiding my fridge, scaring the shit outta me...
"Ey! Don't call me a fucking chank! ... The fuck is a chank, anyway?"
"Chubby skank. You know, you."
"I am so not a chank!" Kenny can't quite see Cartman in the darkness, but he can picture his round face red with anger, eyes narrowed in frustration. The image elicits a quiet snort from the "poor piece of shit".
"What are you doing here, lardass?"
"Don't call me fat!"
"Fuck. Fine, what are you doing here, Eric?"
"That's better. I was testing out the latest Mission: Impossible Breaking and Entering Playset."
"On my house?"
"Hey, who put sand in your vagina? You sound like a whiny Jew."
"Cartman, seriously, you climbed my roof, shut off my power, broke into my house, and scared the shit outta me because you wanted to test out a new toy?"
"You're a fucking asshole."
A/N2: I'm very anxious to hear what people think of this so far. Tell me about anything you like, or anything I could do better. As long as you don't flame, I'll try to live up to your expectations.