Notes: Possibly one of a series of the boys in this little future I have created for them. Depends whether the ideas in this 'universe' stop milling in my head like lost bananas.

Disclaimer: I do not own South Park and I make no profit from this work.

Kenny Has LAGS

Kenny woke up to Kyle performing a medical exam on him.

If it had been almost anyone else in the whole freaking state (up to and including that skanky arts student at the end of the hall who never shaved her legs, armpits, or (on decent authority) cunt), then this would have been a sexy and opportune moment, and probably indicative of a good night out recently.

And, y'know, if he'd been doing anything remotely sexy.

But it was Kyle.

Wielding a penlight.

So Kenny yelped and fell out of bed.

Kyle peered over Kenny's bed at him, rolled his eyes, and retreated back to his desk. "Real graceful."

"What the fuck?" Kenny grumbled, crawling back up onto his mattress. "What were you doing?"

"Examining you."


"I have a theory."

"Right," Kenny said, and climbed back on the bed. "What time is it?"

"Half one."

"And why aren't you at your one-til-four lab session?"

"Because Professor Martins is ill."

"Ill or 'ill'?"

"'Ill'," Kyle grinned. Maybe it was all the red hair, but Kyle looked evil when he grinned like that. "Rumour mill says..."

"Waitwaitwait," Kenny interrupted. It was very important to check, after all, that the rumour mill was right. "Told to you by Sophie Kemeris in French 101, or Lizzie Baxter with the big tits behind the counter at the coffee shop?"

"Lizzie, of course," Kyle said haughtily. "As if I'd ever believe anything Sophie Kemeris told me!"

"Just checking," Kenny said. "Carry on."

"Rumour has it," Kyle said, "that Professor Martins got drunk at the departmental party last night and tried it on with Professor Phillips from the Faculty of Arts."

Kenny winced.

Professor Phillips was a woman who not only looked like a cross between Ms. Streisand and Sheila Broflovski, but whose brand of feminism made Wendy Testaburger look like a fifties housewife, and was widely rumoured to be a lesbian. Though both Kenny and Kyle were fairly sure that even another lesbian wouldn't want to pull Professor Phillips.

"When's he getting out of hospital?" Kenny asked.

"They're holding off on whether he's in the hospital or the morgue," Kyle sniggered. "So no labs this afternoon."

"Lucky son of a bitch," Kenny grumbled, flopping back into his pillow.

"So I'm using the time to write up my theory."

"Write up this theory?"

"Sure," Kyle deadpanned. "It could be the medical breakthrough of the century."

Kenny hauled himself upright again (in a manner of one rising from the dead) and said, very seriously. "Kyle. For the fifteen billionth time. You are a biochemical engineering student. You are not, I repeat not, a medical student. Stop trying to cure cancer."

"I am not trying to cure cancer," Kyle said huffily. "That's my best shot at getting rid of Cartman; why would I try to cure it?"

Kenny paused, then shrugged. "Point taken."

"Anyway, it wouldn't matter if you had cancer."

"Oh, thanks."

"What's it going to do, kill you?" Kyle snorted. "Like that's such a big deal, Kenny."

"Hey!" Kenny protested. "We don't know if that was just a Colorado thing yet!"

"Sure we do," Kyle shrugged. "You died in Afghanistan. And on that gay rainforest choir thing, though the chick who kept picking her nose brought you back."

"Oh yeah," Kenny frowned. "Never did call her. Kerri? Kelly?"

"Whatever," Kyle dismissed it. "Fact is, if you die here, you'll just come back. So no, it doesn't matter if you had cancer."

Kenny huffed.

"My theory is everything about you since about ninth grade can be explained medically," Kyle said. "I might start writing a Wiki page for it soon."


"So people believe in it."


Kyle shrugged. "Because I'm bored."

That was the thing about Kyle. For all his moral spine, he got bored easily. And years of one-upping Cartman (and later, his own little brother) had gifted Kyle with a very specific morality. If people were stupid enough to believe the lies that corporations, Cartman, politicians, Cartman, newsreaders, Cartman and very dodgy statistics told them, then they were stupid enough to believe him. And Wiki.

Most of the time, Kyle spread lies in the opposite direction of latest stupid trend. For the whole time since they'd left Colorado, he'd been spreading doubt about global warming, climate change, British people and Mexicans. Though that last one was mostly to see if the public view on Mexicans could ever be changed.

He doubted it.

But sometimes, like today, Kyle's need for entertainment told his morality to take a hike.

And hell, why not? If it didn't, now and then, he wouldn't have been friends with any of them.

"Right," Kenny said. "So, what is this mythical disease or injury or syndrome or whatever the hell it is I have, and am I going to die from it?"

"I dunno," Kyle shrugged. "Frustrated classmates might beat you to death, but that's hardly anything new, is it?"


"Wait until I'm done," Kyle said, saving his writing and turning off the computer. "C'mon, lazy asshole. Lunch."

Life in South Park, for Kyle and Kenny, was mostly over.

Actually, it had been over for a while. After graduating with such high scores (and from Kenny, that was a hell of a shock) they had teamed up in leaving Colorado for more intelligent waters.

Kind of.

Everyone had always known that Kyle was going to go to the Ivy League. What the Broflovskis didn't know was that Kyle didn't want to touch Harvard (their preferred choice) with a barge pole. Mostly because his cousin, Kyle Schwartz, had made noises about wanting to go there. So Kyle had squirmed out of it: he had decided to take 'a couple of years in the real world, to broaden my horizons, you know?'

Kenny had joined him.

They had moved to Connecticut after graduating from high school, gotten a small flat with damp in the walls and a gay couple into noisy BDSM next door, gotten shitty jobs in bars and insurance offices, and had scraped up pennies. When the time had rolled around again, Kyle had quietly applied to Yale - and had been accepted.

But Kenny had gotten comfortable.

For Kenny, it was always about getting out of South Park, and away from his parents. He didn't want to be the poor kid any more. He didn't want to be the one stuck in South Park forever and ever, constantly dying and getting ignored. Connecticut hadn't been perfect (truthfully, it was boring and the people were kind of stuck up assholes) but it wasn't South Park.

Plus, there was Kyle.

Two people from South Park in one flat creates enough insanity to keep a man going.

So Kenny had applied to Yale as well, on a whim. If he could stick with Kyle, then life would continue to be nuts enough to be interesting, but not so nuts that he was back where he started.

And Yale had accepted him too.

Well, holy fucking shit.

And then they had found out - both of them - that Yale students were...well, like all Ivy League students. Humourless, sane, and terribly, terribly dull. Good to look at, good to boast you knew, but never to be engaged in conversation.

So the two of them frequently got bored.

And anyone from South Park being bored was dangerous - nevermind two kids smart enough to be in Yale, and stupid enough to have survived South Park in the first place.

"In other news, the American Psychiatric Association have entered a new disorder into this country's psychology books," the television told Stan blandly. "Originating from studies done in Connecticut, using internet resources, L.A.G. Syndrome is said to primarily affect white, middle and lower class persons. It emerges in childhood or the teenage years, and can be debilitating disease, socially speaking."

Stan wasn't so stupid that he couldn't connect the dots. A new disease, affecting them, using the internet, and it was from Connecticut?

"L.A.G. Syndrome is a psychiatric disorder affecting intelligence, social aptitude, and sociability. Symptoms included rising intelligence in children under the age of sixteen, an increased appetite, longer periods of sleep or rest, and an avoidance of physical activity. Often, the children will not apply their intelligence to anything, or, if they do, will apply it to antisocial activities such as computer hacking, theft, vandalism and waging war on neighbouring families."

"Oh my God, you guys," Stan muttered. This was a new high. Kyle had to be seriously bored.

"So far, hopes for treatment or even a cure are low," the newsreader finished, trying to look appropriately sad. He merely looked constipated. "Now over to Tom, with the sport."

On cue, Stan's cell phone rang, and he didn't even bother to check the caller ID.

"What did you do?"

"Me?" Kenny asked innocently. "I didn't do a thing. I was merely Patient Zero for Kyle."

"Fine," Stan said. "What did Kyle do?"

"Made an entry on Wiki, then fretted about the entry on some public forums," Kenny said. "Bang. Next thing, it's an official disease. I don't think Kyle's stopped laughing for, like, twenty minutes."

"How bored are you guys?"

"Pretty bored," Kenny admitted. "His labs got cancelled, no exams for ages, and the girls next door have stopped their lesbian affair because the redheaded one got crabs and her girlfriend had a fit about it."

"Gross, dude," Stan said conversationally. "What the hell does L.A.G. stand for? Surely F.A-"

"Dunno," Kenny interrupted. "He won't tell me."

"Didn't he tell Wiki?"

"Nope," Kenny said. "He's editing it with the news reports. They're making up their own names. Anyway. Did you see the last game? What the fuck were the Broncos playing at?"

The door burst open, Kenny flew in, and threw himself onto Kyle's back at the desk, hugging his head like a strange plush toy and whooping in his ear.

"I love you I love you I love you I fucking love you, you son of a bitch!"

"Get the fuck off me, stop gaying into my hair, and let go of my neck," Kyle growled.

Kenny released him and jumped onto his bed, grinning like a lunatic.

"They did it!"

"Who did what?"

"Had to go and see the counsellor. She's stuck that syndrome thing of yours on my file."

"Erm?" Kyle shifted. "Good...for you?"

"Hell yeah!" Kenny cheered. "The word's spread - I'm the first kid in Yale with it. And hello, that shit's like a chick magnet! They think it's fucking hot!"

"Oh wow," Kyle deadpanned. "'Hi, I have a non-existent mental disorder that makes me slightly sociopathic, will you sleep with me?' Works like a charm, I'll bet."

"It really fucking does," Kenny snickered. "I've got four dates lined up already. You, dude, are fucking gold! Hello, better sex life!"

"And what do I get out of your better sex life?" Kyle demanded.

"Dude," Kenny said. "You get sympathy points! Your best friend and roommate has a terrible condition and you've been helping him all these years! That makes you a wonderful, caring, supportive guy!"

"Kenny, that gets you marriage proposals, not dates."

"Not like it's the first time."

"Fuck off, Kenny."

"Dude, just fuck 'em and then dump 'em. No problem. Let them find out you're a cold-hearted asshole the hard way. It's in your blood."

Kyle's eyebrow hiked.

"You're ginger," Kenny enunciated. "You have no soul."

That night, Kyle added 'sexual impotence' to the growing list of symptoms of L.A.G. Syndrome on Wiki, and Kenny's fortune was destroyed.

Christmas rolled around, and Kyle and Kenny headed back west to partake in the annual tradition of Christmas-Eve-at-Stan's-house-trying-not-to-kill-Cartman-and-trying-to-be-nice. It never worked, but it was a tradition all the same.

As was also part of the tradition, they would fly into Denver the day before, spend the night with their families, and attack Stan's house the next afternoon. So Kyle and Stan had set up their own tradition - Kyle would arrive first.

This was, in part, homage to the old way. When Kenny was still muffled, and Cartman...actually, no, just homage to when Kenny was quiet. The separation had taken its toll, but both boys were determined to maintain a friendship. And if occasionally it meant excluding the others, then Kyle called it a fair deal. He spent most of his time with Kenny already.

"What did you do?" were Stan's first words on letting him and swapping hugs that Stan's father still called 'kinda fruity, boys' even though it didn't change a thing.

"Me?" Kyle asked innocently.

"Yeah, you gave Kenny some disease."

"That wasn't me, that was the arts student at the end of the hall."

Stan hit him.


"You know what I mean," Stan said. "You tricked the APA into declaring a new disease!"

"It's not that hard."

"I never said it was hard," he said, filching beer out of the fridge and offering one to Kyle. "Just how bored were you?"

"Very," Kyle admitted. "Anyway, he's fine. He gets more sex now he's diseased."


Kyle shrugged.

"So what is it?" Stan asked. "Can I get it?"

"It's made up. No, you can't get it."

"I might."

"No you wouldn't."

"Maybe I will."

"No, Stan, you won't," Kyle rolled his eyes. "It's LAGS. It doesn't apply to you."

"At least tell me what Kenny's supposedly got," Stan insisted.

Kyle grinned - that evil ginger grin that made even Cartman think twice. "LAGS. Lazy-Ass Genius Syndrome. So, no, Stan, you can't get it."

When Kenny and Cartman arrived not ten minutes later, Kyle was in the bathroom washing wasted Budweiser off his face from where Stan had thrown the bottle at him.

And if Stan kept giving Kenny evil looks the whole afternoon, Kenny didn't notice.