Notes: Another in the series about Kyle and Kenny in Connecticut. The series is now named 'The New England KKK: Jewish and Poor.' In summaries, it will appear as 'A KKK story.'

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


The Thing About Chicks with Guns

The first time Kenny saw her, he nearly came in his pants, then and there.

Nearly.

In actual fact, he came in his pants roughly twelve seconds later, when she dropped her keys and bent over to pick them up. If her skinny jeans had ripped, he might have died there in the hall from heart failure.

As it was, they didn't, he didn't, and she didn't notice him, and went into her apartment.

She lived in the crummy apartment opposite the crummy apartment that he and Kyle rented in Connecticut. They'd been there two months and knew none of their neighbours - Kenny worked antisocial hours guarding some crummy, paranoid bookstore at night, and Kyle...well, Kyle just didn't give a rat's ass about meeting their neighbours.

Not even the hot chick ones.

(Kenny would excuse him if the girl who worked in the kitchens at the restaurant Kyle worked weekends for was as cute as he said she was.)

And that girl - damn, she was hot. With her short pixie-cut hair and her big, big eyes and her pouty little mouth, and...

Okay. Okay, fine.

Her round little butt and her massive, massive tits. That looked, by the way they shifted when she bent down to get her keys, all-natural.

Kenny was just going to have to pack in the night work and get to know the neighbours.


Upon interrogation, Kyle did know about the girl across the hall.

"And you didn't tell me why?" Kenny demanded.

Kyle pulled a face and said, "Don't have a thing for brunettes."

"But I do."

"I'm not your dating service."

"Dude! You should always tell me about hot chicks! Especially if you don't want them!"

"Fine, fine," Kyle shrugged. "Didn't think she was your type though."

"Were you looking at that chest?"

"Sure," Kyle said, "but you've always liked them with a decent sized ass and long hair."

"Those tits cover the field quite nicely."

Kyle shrugged and went back to his computer.


She opened her door on the third knock.

Kenny gave her his most charming grin and: "Can I use your bathroom? Ours is backed up again."

One dark eyebrow shot under that short, layered hair.

"Sorry?"

"Hi," his smile got bigger. "I'm Kenny; I live across the hall. Our toilet's backed up; can I use yours?"

Right at that moment, Kyle chose to flush their toilet, and the pipes squealed in the hall ceiling.

"Really?" she drawled.

Kenny's grin didn't falter for a moment. "Okay, so it's not. I just felt like saying hi. I'm Kenny."

"You said."

She reached behind the door, and straightened up again with a heavy handgun in one slim, white hand.

"Just so we're clear," she said, and shut the door in his face.

"Well," Kyle said from their open apartment door. "I think she likes you."


It was probably a week until he saw her again, and this time not in the building, but in the coffee shop on the corner. She was lurking at the door with a cigarette, watching the rain and scowling, and only noticed Kenny when he held his umbrella over her head.

"What the...oh, it's you."

"Me," he said agreeably.

"Keith, was it?"

"Kenny."

"Kevin?"

"Kenny."

"Right," she said.

Despite the fact that he was well into her personal space, she proceeded to ignore him, peering down the street as if he wasn't there.

"Um," Kenny said. "I can walk you home? Y'know. Umbrella. We won't get wet."

"No thank you."

He hesitated, perhaps a little too long, and she straightened, her elbow digging into the side of her jacket. Kenny was from a white-trash hick town; he knew the lines a concealed handgun made in the clothing.

"How illegal of you," he said.

"Don't give me that," she said. "I can smell the weed from here. Now go away."

And Kenny, like most sensible people, was prone to going away when irritated women with handguns told him to.


"Kyle," Kenny said, the moment Kyle stepped in the door on Saturday night. "I will pay you a hundred dollars to scout out the girl across the hall for me."

"You mean find out her name, number, favourite flower, cup size, that kind of thing?"

Kyle was used to it. Girls liked Kyle - in a kind of gay boyfriend way. Which as he was actually the least horny of the four of them, he didn't usually mind all that much. Kenny called it a weird superpower, and utilised it whenever possible.

"Yes."

"Deal," Kyle said. "Pay up."

Kenny blinked.

"She's Amanda Smith, known as Andy, she's twenty-one, works as a hairdresser, and doesn't like flowers," Kyle said.

Kenny stared.

Kyle shrugged: "She came to the restaurant. We got chatting. She didn't tip me though; tight-fisted bitch."

"You," Kenny said, quite seriously, "are awesome. Wait. She wasn't there with her boyfriend, right?"

"Er, no," Kyle said. "No boyfriend."

By now, Kenny should have wised up to that look, but he hadn't. Maybe because he usually died shortly afterwards, and death is hell on the short-term memory. Especially if you have a tendency to resurrect.

Or, y'know. Maybe Kenny just trusted Kyle a little too much.


Kyle came home on Monday night to blood all over the living room.

"For fuck's sake, Kenny," he muttered, kicked the corpse (respect for the dead hadn't applied for a long time) and thought up some lies for the landlord.

Then decided that was a waste of time, and went to change out of his uniform.

When he came back, Kenny had just come back, the hole in the back of his head fixed. Somehow, this still left brain matter all over the wall. And crusty blood in the carpet.

"What happened?"

"She shot me."

"What?"

"She shot me," Kenny snapped. "Andy-Across-The-Hall! She shot me! I had to put a bullet through my head just to get rid of the fucking pain!"

"In here?"

"No!" Kenny raged. "In the foot! She said if I didn't leave her alone, she'd shoot me, I scoffed, and she shot me in the foot!"

"Kenny," Kyle said. "Exactly when did she give you the impression that she was ever kidding about the whole I-have-a-handgun thing?"

"She shot me!"

Kyle couldn't fathom why Kenny was surprised, and let him rant for a while before saying: "You did know she was never going to bang you, right?"

"Why not?" Kenny sulked. "Dude. She must get offers all the time, and I'm not exactly bad looking..."

"No," Kyle said. "But you're not her type."

"Her...wait. What aren't you telling me?"

"Finally," Kyle muttered, and snickered. "She wasn't out with her boyfriend on Saturday. She was out with her girlfriend. As in, strap-ons and dildos and Cartman's Mom in a porn movie. Andy's a raging lesbian."

Kenny spluttered.

"Add it up," Kyle said. "Big tits, short hair, handgun, not interested in the biggest manwhore Colorado has to offer. She was obviously a dyke."

"I hate you," Kenny said seriously. "I fucking hate you. Hate you, hate you, hate you."

Kyle shrugged. "You should've seen in coming."

"She shot me in the foot!"

Kyle smirked. "Well, that's the thing about chicks with guns."

Kenny threw a book at him.