Notes: The first chapter of a story designed to be taken with as much severity and realism as South Park itself.
Disclaimer: I do not own South Park, and make no profit from this work.
Save the Mexicans, Wendy Testaburger!
He had changed, Wendy surmised, but not enough that she didn't recognise him instantly.
She had not seen Kyle since his wedding, thirteen years ago. They were both thirty-six now, pushing the mid-life crisis and, in Wendy's case, wondering where it had all gone. For thirteen years, she had not set eyes on Kyle Broflovski, nor spoken to him or even emailed him. For all Wendy knew, he could have been dead - though she was sure she would have gotten the news through the grapevine eventually.
But she glimpsed him from the coffee house where they had agreed to meet, clear across the park from the gate at which he entered it. It was late summer, the leaves turning gold, and his hair was still red enough to look as if someone had set fire to his head. He was as tall as he had been on his wedding day, though his posture not so ramrod straight, and his gait more casual. As he neared, however, the lines on his face became apparent around the prominent nose he had inherited from his mother, and the set of his mouth was grim.
Time had not healed Kyle Broflovski.
Wendy didn't much know the details. She knew Bebe well, still - they had maintained their friendship, despite the years and lifestyle differences. But Kyle...no, Wendy had lost touch with Kyle. As such, she had little idea of what had really happened. All she knew, really, was that thirteen years ago, Kyle Broflovski and Bebe Stevens had married.
And ten years ago, almost to the day, they had divorced.
The final blow, Wendy imagined, was that in two weeks, Bebe had changed her Facebook relationship status from 'married to Kyle Broflovski', to 'single', to 'it's complicated', to 'in a relationship with Stan Marsh.'
Kyle had promptly deleted his Facebook and vanished from, seemingly, everyone's lives. And for ten years, Wendy hadn't heard a word from him.
She hadn't been surprised at his silence - she and Kyle were never close. They were amicable, if they had to be, and strangers most of the time. Without Stan and Bebe to connect them, they would next-to-never have spoken. It was Bebe to invite Wendy to the wedding, and Bebe to tell Wendy about their divorce. She had never expected Kyle to stay in contact with her once those ties were severed.
So to pick up the phone yesterday afternoon, and be greeted with Kyle's voice after ten years...that was surprising.
He stepped into the coffee house, spotted her in a heartbeat, and joined her by the window.
Up close, he looked stressed. Kyle had always been prone to stress, but age had been the physical evidence of stress worse. With the receding hairline, the Jewish nose, and the bridge of his nose bruised from pinching it, he looked almost ill.
"Why did you call?"
No point, Wendy thought, in beating around the bush. Kyle wanted to talk about something in particular, and they had very little in the way of pleasantries to exchange anyway.
Regardless: in Wendy's experience, people tended to treat the friends of their ex-wives with more than a touch of suspicion and disdain.
"I needed to talk to you," Kyle said.
"About one of your patients."
Wendy drew herself up. "Alright," she said. "Firstly, what do you know about my work? And secondly, I can't tell you anything about my patients. It's called doctor-patient confidentiality, Kyle, and..."
Kyle cut her off with a wave. "I know, I know. But for this guy, you'll make an exception."
Wendy narrowed her eyes.
"You've just taken over a load of cases from Dr. James after she's started maternity leave. Several of them have just come in and you're busy diagnosing them or waiting on test results. This guy is getting his test results from you on Monday, and they're positive for cancer."
Wendy's jaw went slack.
"How did you...?"
"I have my contacts."
Wendy thought furiously. Kyle had just gotten a job in economic journalism when he married Bebe, she remembered. They had moved to New York due to his job not four months after the wedding. Bebe had been smug about it, saying she had a husband working on Wall Street who didn't lose them hundreds of dollars by waving at the wrong moment.
But where would economic journalism get him here?
"You..." she began.
"Wendy," he leaned forward earnestly, and there was a flash of that brilliant mind through his eyes, just for a moment. For a moment, he didn't look so tired. "I've been watching this guy for years. He is a dangerous, bad man. And I need you to stop his latest shit. And if you're with me on this, it's the last time he'll endanger anyone. Ever."
"Who?" she asked.
She hated herself for asking. Hated herself for even considering the matter that long. It didn't matter who - a doctor ignored everything about a patient but his health! She could not possibly condone anything Kyle was suggesting here, because...
Wendy let herself, nudged the cat out of the way with her foot, and slammed the door.
Slamming doors didn't get any less satisfying as one got older. Except for the lack of parental figures in whose faces to slam the doors. But, as Wendy had left home at eighteen and never looked back, she couldn't really remember the difference.
She dropped onto the couch and turned on the TV. Then turned it off again. Not only was there nothing interesting on, but Simone would only come down and thieve the remote if she thought Wendy was enjoying TV without her. God, Simone could be a cow. She'd met Simone at college, at the university debating club, drunk. So, yeah, Wendy knew that Simone had a permanent hourglass-worth of sand in her vagina, and never emptied it out.
Hell, Simone could be Bebe when she was feeling bitchy enough.
Instead, Wendy drummed her fingers on the arm of the couch, and wondered how to handle what Kyle had told her.
Oh, he'd had no proof - of course he hadn't - but...when it came to Cartman and what he was up to, Kyle had never fostered a tendency to lie. It hadn't surprised Wendy that he'd kept tabs on the fatass since they'd all moved away - someone had to do it. And this latest supposed scheme of Cartman's was just up his street.
In fact, in light of some of the things he'd done in the past, this was a pretty light one.
But could Wendy harm a patient for it?
Because that's what he was. If she got in on Monday, and found Eric Cartman on her new patient list, then he would be her patient. Not her enemy, or her weird grade-school crush, or the annoying fat bastard constantly on the other side of the debate forum. Her patient.
Could she harm a patient?
"Harm the patient," Kyle had said, "and you'll save thousands and thousands of lives."
"Lives that don't exist yet."
"Save your patient, and they never will," Kyle had said firmly, and Wendy knew that he was right.
But it sounded so...so...so pro-life. So anti-abortion. So...Republican.
Kill Cartman (or let him die, but in this instance, Wendy didn't suppose that there was much difference) and save the lives of future children - but, importantly, children that had not even been conceived yet. Children that didn't exist yet.
Because, according to Kyle, Cartman was pouring money, time and expertise into experiment drug research and development. And his current (and, terribly, somewhat successful) project was a drug designed to turn people gay. And he was going to use it on America's minority populations.
Hello, black/Hispanic/Asian America: you are now gay.
Yeah, right up Cartman's alley.
And according to Kyle, Wendy was the only one who could stop him.
"So how about you give me your number?" Kenny grinned. "Your personal number, that is, not your 1-800-NICE-ASS number that every passing Joe gets, huh?"
The receptionist leaned warily away from him. Unfortunately, the angle showed off a lot more cleavage than her previous one, so it was hardly dissuading.
"So sorry," Kyle said, hooking a hand under Kenny's elbow and peeling him off the reception desk. "Been looking everywhere for him. He didn't take his medication, and then got away from the poor nurse. Her first day, too."
The reception gave him an uneasy smile, even as Kenny protested.
"Dude, come on," Kyle muttered, hauling him towards the exit. "I met with Wendy yesterday."
"Wendy? As in, Testy Burger? As in, shoots people into the sun?"
"As in, Cartman's doctor," Kyle said.
"Oh. That Wendy."
Kyle rolled his eyes.
"So," Kenny said, shaking his arm free, sticking his hands in the pockets (generously speaking) of his jeans and falling into obedient stride. "She agreed to do it?"
"She's agreed to postpone his appointment until I can give her proof," Kyle said. "Which is where you come in."
"Of course," Kenny rolled his eyes. "Why me?"
"Because the police haven't got your DNA on file."
Kenny snickered. "Dude. That was a fucking awesome night out."
"For you. I ended up with community service after your bar fight. And they'll still have my records."
"Well, yeah. It was only twelve years ago. Duh," Kenny said, then ducked the swipe at his head. "Fine. So, what, I break in and swipe some of his records of the experiments?"
"Sample of the drug, too, if you can get it. Latest one, obviously."
"I know that face," Kenny stopped in the middle of the street. "You're going to test it on some poor schmuck."
Kenny grinned. "I have to be there. You going to spike Wendy's drink?"
Kyle thought about it, then shrugged. "I guess the world doesn't need more of that voice."
"Deal," Kenny said, and laughed like a madman in the middle of the street. People started to go around him. "Dude, even if the fatass does succeed in his stupid plan to get an all-white America, I am going to fucking love watching Wendy go dyke."
A week after Cartman's initial (and frustrating) appointment with Wendy, she met Kyle once more in the little cafe, and he placed a brown folder and a flask in front of her.
"There you have it," he said. "Cartman's gay drug. And once it's completed, he's going to supply it to every minority member - and immigrant - of the USA that he can. And in fifty years, bang. An all-white America."
Wendy picked up the flask and shook it gingerly, hearing the innocent sloshing of liquid inside.
"Well," she murmured. "I guess it's save the Mexicans, Wendy Testaburger."