-Mad Tuna-


Midnight in South Park. The streets are quiet except for the rhythmic chiming of the clock at City Hall. Kenny drags on his cigarette and listens as the clock marks the hour: ten, eleven, twelve. Then all is silent.

The cold bites at Kenny's neck and the backs of his ears. He needs a better coat, some ear muffs, a fine scarf to draw across his chapped lips. For all his power, he does not have the means to acquire these things. Not here on earth. He pulls up the hood of his parka and waits. The hour of their meeting draws nigh. Damien is always precisely on time.

At twelve minutes past midnight, Kenny spots a burst of smoke down the street, about fifty feet away from the streetlight that's washing over him. Damien appears when the smoke dissipates. Kenny can sense his anger even from this distance, but he isn't afraid.

"There you are," Damien says when he's close enough for Kenny to see that he's wearing the black fitted suit he likes best, his favorite rust-colored tie and a snarl that looks tailor-made for Kenny's presence. Damien's hair is short, neat, anchored with gel. He's wearing a fragrance that doesn't quite mask the hint of sulfur. "Wench," Damien says. "Get your clothes off."

Kenny slides his hood down and lets Damien drink in a good look at him. Damien is already breathing through his nose in audible puffs of frosty air. He's becoming erect before Kenny even pulls off his parka.

"You want to fuck me here?" Kenny asks. "In the snow?"

"If you're game." Damien smiles, showing his spiky canine teeth. "You'll be nice and tight with your hands and feet in the snow. Freezing."

"I'm always nice and tight." Kenny pulls off his sweatshirt. He's already shivering hard, and his teeth are beginning to chatter. In a few moments, when Damien pushes inside him, he'll be roasting hot.

"How have you been?" Damien asks, loosening his tie. "What's the news on earth?"

"The environment is deteriorating quickly and people are murdering each other over race, religion, drugs. The usual."

"Good, good." Damien's hand goes down to his erection. He palms himself as Kenny steps out of his jeans.

"Can I leave my socks on?" Kenny asks.

"Ask properly."

"Master," Kenny says, "May I leave my socks on while you take me?"

"No." Damien smiles cruelly. "I want you nude and defenseless. Hurry up."

Kenny doesn't so much as sigh as he obeys this order. He's doing this for the good of the world, for the fate of mankind. Damien has dethroned his father in Hell. His plans are ambitious and far-reaching, and Kenny has only begun to hear hinted details since accepting Damien's proposal. His body will recover from these brutal, humiliating fucks. It's recovered from worse.

On his hands and knees in the snow, Kenny's skin burns in the blistering wind, his nipples already sore and tight against the icy air. Damien is taking his time, making low, pleasured sounds as he paces around Kenny in a circle.

"You're mine," Damien says in a hushed voice, in awe of himself. "My fallen angel. Claimed at last by the dark."

"Master," Kenny says, his head bowed. Damien can never know what he truly is. Only Kenny can bear this torment and transform it into the world's salvation. "I am at your mercy," Kenny says, his shaking voice making this sound true. Damien is too full of himself to guess that this could be an act, anyway.

Damien whispers a soft spell as he comes to stand behind Kenny and admire his presented hole. Kenny's trembling is becoming intense. He needs Damien's heat, almost wants it. There is something real and primal that drew them together, even if Kenny could never feel real love for this creature.

The spell must have been a lubricant. Damien's cock is slick against Kenny's crack, teasing him. Damien laughs in a low rumble as he leans down over Kenny, feeling his chest with warm hands and playing with a nipple until it heats between his fingers and softens.

"Beg," Damien says, his voice rough near Kenny's ear.

"Please," Kenny says, and his whimper is authentic. The cold is excruciating, his skin raw and rippled with goosebumps. "Master, my betrothed. Enter me!"

Damien cackles and almost purrs as he lines his cock up, his hand soothing over Kenny's back. The warmth is needed, and Kenny arches into it, spreading his knees as Damien begins to press inside.

"Yessss," Damien says, relishing him. Kenny cries out at the pressure, the walls of his unprepared ass straining to contain Damien's girth. "Ahhh," Damien says, sighing. "Nothing feels as good as the rectum of the angel I've sullied."

Kenny has to contain a disbelieving laugh. Everything Damien does and says is over the top. He has a massive tattoo of his own giant demon wang on his back.

Perhaps Damien sensed that withheld laughter, because when his searing hot balls are pressed against Kenny's ass he leans down to whisper in Kenny's ear:

"I'm going to release the barbs."

"Uhhh," Kenny says, letting his head fall between his arms. "Have mercy, my lord."

"Shh," Damien says. He rubs Kenny's chest again, and reaches down to touch Kenny's shamefully hard cock. It got stiff as soon as Damien breached him. "You can take it," Damien whispers, sounding almost gentle as he rubs one fingertip around the head of Kenny's dick.

Kenny howls when the barbs on Damien's cock press outward, slowly, sinking into the tender walls of his ass. They never draw blood, but they hurt like hell, as if there are jaws inside Kenny's butt and they're going to tear him apart from the inside. Kenny whimpers and goes limp, his shuddering chest cradled in Damien's arms. Damien nibbles at Kenny's ear, and when he pulls back Kenny comes with him, Damien's barbed cock fully anchored in him now.

"Humble cherub," Damien says, a kind of insult laced with nauseating sweetness. "Yes, weep for me. Cry yourself dry on my dick. Ah, but you're so hard, Kenny."

It's strange for Damien to use his actual name. Kenny sniffles and tries to stop his pathetic sobbing. Damien is riding him, his cock staying place as he pulls Kenny's body back along with his and then presses forward again. It's like he's fucking Kenny's soul, and it hurts, but Damien is right. Kenny is so hard, and he whimpers a plea when Damien brushes soft fingers along the length of his dick and down over his swollen balls.

"My, my," Damien says. "You do love being shown your place."

"Yes, my king."

"Your cock is very full, Kenny. Mmm, so hard. Does it ache?"


"Do you want to spill your pitiful seed upon the earth?"

"Yes, please, sir!"

"Who is your master, angel?"

"Damien Thorn. He who fucketh my ass this very moment."

"Don't get cute." Damien grunts, and the barbs retract. Kenny sighs with relief, lolling in his grip. "How does your ass feel now?" Damien asks.

"Raw. Used. Claimed."

"Ha, and I haven't even begun."

Damien starts fucking Kenny hard, and Kenny doesn't try to contain his screams. He allows them to split the silent night, wondering what would happen if someone came running to see who was being fucked mercilessly in the street. He thinks Damien would probably kill anyone who came near, so he shuts up, though it's likely that Damien has cast a silencing spell on this entire suburban block, keeping all mortals at bay.

"Ahh, yes," Damien says, ramming his huge cock into Kenny so deeply that he feels like it will choke him. "Scream for me!" Damien says, and he takes a handful of Kenny's hair, pulling him up so that his back is bowed painfully while Damien's cock slams in and out, faster now. Kenny howls up at the black sky, his eyes closed. He's not sure if God knows that this is happening. He has never been given much direction from Heaven. This espionage was his own idea.

Damien's come is hotter than lava, and Kenny feels like it's going to kill him every time, seeping into the raw spots left by the barbs and making Kenny jerk with pain in Damien's crushing grip. Damien is growling with victory, his cock shoved in deep as he unloads in Kenny's ass, wave after wave of come filling him until it spills out around Damien's dick and drips onto Kenny's balls. Damien grabs Kenny's cock and jerks it until Kenny screams again, coming in his hand and spraying the snow. Kenny feels himself approaching his true form as he orgasms around the demon dick that is still invading his exhausted asshole. He tampers it down and remains in his human body, forcing himself to breathe, stay focused, keep the secret a little longer.

"You sound like such a little bitch when you come," Damien says. "Soon I'll impregnate you with the next Anti-Christ," he says, whispering this into Kenny's ear while more lava-hot come leaks out of him and sizzles onto the snow, melting it. "The plans for our wedding move forward every day. My love," he adds, and he licks Kenny's cheek. Kenny moans and sags in Damien's grip, wanting to sleep. Filled with Damien's come, he's warm all over, sweating under his arms and at the small of his back.

"Good," Kenny manages to say, tiredly. "I await the day when I can join you in Hell forever."

"Ah, but we will not need to remain there for long," Damien says.

Kenny's attention perks up at this, but he stays perfectly still, his heart beating a little faster.

"Where will we go?" Kenny asks.

"Don't worry your pretty little head over it, bitch." Damien gives him a kiss on the cheek and pulls out, his hands sliding along Kenny's sides as he does. "Yeahhhh," Damien says, sitting back to admire his handiwork as Kenny begins to feel the chill of the cold air again. "That," Damien says, "Is one beautifully wrecked ass."

"Thank you, sir." Kenny puts his forehead in the snow and winces when he feels the ache in his back. Worse is the feeling of more come sliming out of his ass, which feels like it's been opened wide enough to drive a bus through, raw and throbbing at the rim.

"Come, slut," Damien says, and he helps Kenny up. "Take warmth from your Dark Prince." Damien unbuttons his jacket and pulls Kenny to his chest, letting him shelter there. The heat and smell of him is intoxicating. Kenny moans and nuzzles in closer, shameless and in need of any comfort he can find. Damien whispers a spell, and Kenny's ass is no longer sticky with come. He whispers another spell, and the pain of the barbs disappears, Kenny's ass again feeling as tight and untouched as a virgin's. A third spell returns Kenny's clothing to his body, and Kenny allows Damien to push him away.

"Enough coddling," Damien says, touching Kenny's cheek. "I'm tough on you for your own good, my love," he says. "We have many hurdles ahead before we can reign."

"You already reign," Kenny says.

"I don't mean in Hell." Damien smiles. "Oh, my pet. We shall rule many kingdoms before I'm through. Every squirming Anti-Christ you birth for me will have its own domain."

"There can be more than one Anti-Christ?" Kenny honestly did not know that, and isn't sure it's true. Damien's smile stretches more widely, his eyes narrowing.

"Our union shall make many things possible. Now I must go. Are you recovered enough from my sporting that you can find your way home?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

Damien leans in to give Kenny a very gentle kiss over the bridge of his nose, then pulls back to stare into his eyes as if making a silent vow to him. Then, in another puff of acrid smoke, he is gone.

Kenny sighs and rubs a hand over his face. His cheeks are raw from the cold and from the sting of tears that leaked out while Damien took him. At home, if the McCormick household's water heater will allow it, he'll have a nice bath and relax before bed. There is much to think about, but for now he is tired.

He's only taken two steps when the sad little flip phone in his pocket buzzes with an incoming call. Kenny doesn't want to answer it, but it's Butters calling, and Butters is a sheep who has lately been straying into territory that worries Kenny.

"Hello?" Kenny says. Butters sounds like he's masturbating, or running. His breath is jagged in Kenny's ear. "Butters?"

"Ken," Butters says. "I'm at the airport Hilton."

"Okay. What are you doing there?"

"I need your help." Now he sounds scared.

"Sure thing," Kenny says, though the last thing he wants to do right now is drive to Denver. "What do you need?"

"Oh, hamburgers, Kenny, I- I need you to help me get rid of a body."

Kenny laughs. "Okay," he says. "Seriously, Butters, I'm—"

"I am serious! Dead serious. I seem to, um, oh, jeepers, golly, hamburgers. Kenny, I- I killed a man tonight."

Kyle wakes up to a knock on his window that has only meant one thing at this hour of the night, ever since the gang hit puberty: Stan is drunk and wants to fuck his ass. The window is unlatched, and Stan doesn't bother to wait for an invitation. He fumbles the window open and crawls inside, his breath visible in the frosty air that leaks in around him.

"Hey," Stan says when he sees Kyle lying on his back. "You awake?"

"The fuck does it look like? Hurry up, you're letting the cold in."

Stan shuts the window behind him and pulls the curtains over it, standing on Kyle's bed with wet snow boots. Kyle is going to say something about the boots, but before he can, Stan crouches down, straddling him. He takes Kyle's hand and brings it to his crotch. Stan is hard inside his jeans, and as soon as Kyle feels the heat of that big dick, stiff for him, his own cock begins to fill with blood. He's still glowering, angry, but he already knows he'll give in. Like every time.

"Dude," Stan says, throaty and low as he mashes Kyle's fingers against his trapped boner. "Roll over."

"Your breath reeks," Kyle says. He's never tried whiskey himself, but he's become very familiar with the smell, and he knows the taste from the heat of Stan's tongue when it pushes into his mouth, breaking him down so easily. Kyle breathes out against Stan's warm, chapped lips. "Stop," he whispers, and Stan leans back to peek at him.

"I need you, dude," he says. His breath is fragrant with drink but so warm. "Please? It'll feel good. Don't I always make you feel good?"

"You're drunk, you pathetic fuck. What time even is it?"

"I dunno."

They both glance at Kyle's bedside alarm clock, and Kyle groans when he sees that it's almost four in the morning. They have school tomorrow.

"What the hell are you even doing awake?" Kyle asks when Stan tries to kiss him again. "And wandering around, at this hour? Or did you get dressed and sneak out just to come over here and molest me?"

"I'm not molesting you," Stan says, avoiding the question. He's been weird lately, cagey, even outside of these nighttime visits. Stan takes Kyle's hands and pins them over his head. When he has Kyle restrained he grinds his hips down, rubbing his erection against the tent Kyle has pitched under his blankets. Kyle groans and lets his head fall back, lets Stan lick his exposed throat. "You love it," Stan says, whispering this against Kyle's skin. "You're shaking, Kyle. Do you need to get fucked?" Stan murmurs this question hotly into Kyle's ear. Kyle shudders, his legs spreading under the blankets.

"Asshole," Kyle says, softly. He peers up at Stan when he lifts his head to give Kyle a cocky grin.

"Roll over," Stan says, more firmly this time. Kyle obeys, feeling like a spineless dipshit. He's so hard now, tingling with the need to get filled, fucked, used for Stan's greedy pleasure. Tomorrow morning at school, Stan will be Wendy's perfect boyfriend again, the sweet star athlete who everybody loves, but tonight he'll be rough and shameless, a dirty boy who's come to stick his big dick in Kyle's ass.

"Your hands are cold," Kyle complains when Stan reaches up under his t-shirt to stroke his back, trails of goosebumps rising under his touch.

"Shh," Stan says. He leaves Kyle's shirt on and tugs his flannel pants down, moaning with approval when he sees that Kyle did not wear underwear to bed. Kyle hisses when those cold hands rub over his chubby ass cheeks. Stan digs his fingers into the supple flesh, pulling the cheeks apart and humming in approval when he's staring down at Kyle's exposed, twitching hole. Kyle whimpers and hides his face in his pillow, his back arching a little. "Yeah," Stan says, teasing at the wrinkled pucker with one finger. "There's the sweet little pussy I came to fuck."

Kyle snorts; Stan is a corny drunk. "Don't call it a pussy," Kyle says, lifting his head to speak. Stan spanks him on the ass, as hard as he can without making the slap loud enough to wake Kyle's parents. Kyle muffles his surprised shout in the pillow, his dick leaking when he feels the raw burn Stan's hand left behind on his skin.

"How does it feel?" Stan asks, still holding Kyle open with his other hand. He teases Kyle's hole again, tickling him there with one finger, then two. "Hmm? Empty? Lonely?"

"Lonely?" Kyle says, mocking Stan's drunken speech. Stan grunts and flicks Kyle's hole, laughing under his breath when this makes Kyle whine and press back, wanting more.

"Your ass needs servicing," Stan said, scooting down between Kyle's spread-open legs. "The check engine light is on."

"Oh my god," Kyle says, laughing into his pillow. He sucks in his breath when he feels the tip of Stan's hot tongue on his hole, still just teasing, flicking over him in tiny passes. "Stan," Kyle says, whining his name out, hips pressing back. "Ah, yes."

"Yes? You want me after all?"

"You know I do, please!"

"That's right. I know exactly what you need, Kyle. I could smell it from across town. You need dick, hard and deep, all night long."

Kyle withholds a disbelieving snort at the idea that Stan could go all night long. He's a typical teenage boy, and even when drinking he can barely be inside Kyle for five minutes without coming. Kyle flexes and arches again when Stan licks him properly, his mouth hot and hungry on Kyle's hole.

Kyle knows he's Stan's whore. He hates it, but can't ignore the knocks on his window. It's just too fucking good to let Stan eat his ass until he's trembling, begging, rubbing himself down onto the bed sheets, ready to give up every shred of dignity he still has just to feel Stan's thick cock sinking into his ass.

Stan slicks himself with the bedside lotion that he's become familiar with since these visits started last year. Kyle stays in position, spread open with his face buried in his pillow, his breath jagged and his dick leaking. He's in heaven when Stan's cock presses against his hole, then inside, stretching Kyle so wide that his breath stutters and his fingers scratch at the headboard. Stan grunts and leans down as he slides in deeper, covering Kyle's hands with his own and pressing them to the mattress.

"Steady," Stan says, muttering this against the back of Kyle's ear. "Shh, breathe. You can take it. Deeper now. Even deeper, yeahhh, open up for me. Got so much dick for this hungry hole."

Kyle tries to laugh, but it comes out a dry little huff. Stan is so deep and still coming, pinning Kyle to the bed like a butterfly. Kyle whines happily when he finally feels Stan's hairy balls resting against his split-open hole, hot and heavy. Stan is heavy, too, dumping his full weight onto Kyle's back and moaning under his breath as he savors the feeling of being balls-deep in his personal slut.

"Fuck," Kyle says, overwhelmed with the feeling of being claimed by Stan. He's everywhere, deep inside and all around, and it feels so good: warm, full, safe.

"Yeah," Stan says, beginning to twitch his hips. He licks Kyle's ear and nuzzles his neck. "Goddamn, you feel good on my cock. You like that?" He gives Kyle a shallow thrust and laughs under his breath at the wordless, pleasured sound that drags out of Kyle. "I know you do," Stan whispers, almost tenderly.

What follows is the kind of rough sex that Kyle was once surprised to learn that he loves. It was scary at first, being taken by Stan when he held nothing back, out of control and barely sounding like himself, but Kyle has never wanted him to stop, not even once. This is the thing he's been dreaming about since he got his first erection: Stan's bulk pressing him down, Stan's cock holding him open, Stan's mouth so wet for Kyle's kisses. Kyle comes against the mattress as Stan fucks him down onto it, and Stan growls into Kyle's ear when he really gets going, the bedsprings squeaking. In the aftermath of his own orgasm, Kyle prays his parents and his brother will never hear what goes on in here at night. He doesn't want them, or anyone, to see him like this: wide open and surrendered, getting fucked like a whore who can't get enough.


Stan always cries Kyle's name out like a helpless plea when he comes, as if he's suddenly been pierced to his vulnerable core. It doesn't fit with the rest of Stan's posturing during sex, and unloading into Kyle's ass seems to weaken him profoundly, returning him to the shy, smiling boy who will help Kyle carry his science project at school. Stan pants against Kyle's neck as he spurts an unreal amount of come into him, shaking all over. When his dick has finally emptied, he stays inside Kyle, slowly relaxing his full weight down onto him. Kyle can barely breathe, but he remains still and quiet, wanting Stan to fall asleep like this, inside him and on top of him. He knows it makes him a pathetic putz, but he just wants to breathe Stan's air wherever he goes, and to always have Stan's hand at the small of his back, guiding him.

Kyle's ass is throbbing when Stan pulls out, leaving Kyle's hole sticky and gaping. He'll be sore tomorrow. He stays on his stomach, his own come cooling between his belly and the sheets. When Stan rolls him over, Kyle avoids his eyes.

"I can't kiss you," Stan says. He looks sad and slightly queasy. "I had my mouth on your hole."

"I know. It doesn't matter."

Stan touches Kyle's cheek, his hand trembling. He always seems broken up afterward, like he can't believe what he's done. Like Kyle doesn't want it just as badly as he does. Stan hates that he's attracted to men, apparently; he never mentions it in the light of day. Everyone says Stan and Wendy will get married before they even finish college, despite Wendy's fierce independence. They're just that perfect together.

"Look at me," Stan says, his voice small. Kyle doesn't want to make his growing anger into a big thing, so he gives Stan a mild look, trying to seem bored. Stan digs his tooth into his bottom lip when it shakes. "Kyle," he says. "Are you okay?"

"Of course I'm okay. It's just sex. Are you going to sleep here until sunrise or what?"

Stan shakes his head. He's sniffling as he pulls up his jeans and tucks in his cock. Kyle grabs a handful of tissues from the bedside table and mops at the mess on his belly.

"Oh, shit," Stan says. "I got snow on your sheets. They're wet."

"It doesn't matter," Kyle says, again.

Five minutes later, after some awkward mumbling about their upcoming Spanish test, Stan is gone. Kyle is wide awake, his ass burning. He reaches down to touch it and hisses when his fingertips brush the raw skin around his hole. It feels good, and terrible. Just like everything to do with Stan these days.


Cartman doesn't get out of bed for less than ten thousand dollars, or anyway he wouldn't if that were an option. He likes to think the principle still stands, in theory, because it's beneath him to get out of bed at seven o'clock in the morning, in the dark, in the middle of winter, just to show up to goddamn high school on time. Fuck high school, is his feeling, but unfortunately he does need to graduate in order to go on to become a successful entrepreneur, or anyway it would probably help, at least wouldn't hurt, so he does manage to drag himself out from under his blankets at nine thirty, when the sky is still gray but at least not dark enough to make it seem insane to leave his bed.

He's missed first period and half of second by the time he pulls up to school in his truck, the heat blasting and his venti caramel macchiato from Harbucks lukewarm and half-finished in the cup holder. He's wearing his pajamas, because flannel sleep pants and a huge Aeropostale sweatshirt pulled over the t-shirt and boxers he slept in doesn't technically break dress code, as long as he's also wearing his boots. He blusters into the school and snarls at the empty hallways, hating being here already. He has fucking Geometry this period, and he decides to just skip the rest of that class and start fresh with third period History. He walks past the in-session classrooms and toward the theater and band room, where the vending machines are. Wedging himself between the Coke machine and the back windows that look out onto the snow-covered soccer field, he finishes his coffee in grim silence. Youth is miserable, and anyone who says otherwise is a fucking liar. He can't wait to be middle-aged and powerful, with the kind of financial sway that means he can set his own goddamn hours and show up for the day's business whenever he pleases. He'll have a secretary, too, who will fetch his venti caramel macchiatos for him throughout the day. Preferably Kyle, though that's a long shot. The little Jew bastard has gotten awfully good at getting one over on him throughout the years, literally and figuratively.

The bell for the end of second period rings, and the classrooms empty out. Cartman finishes his coffee and pitches the empty venti cup in the trash, the caffeine and sugar starting to kick in as he makes his way toward his locker. On the way there, he passes Stan and Wendy, the school's resident douchebag prince and bitch princess. Stan's got his arm around Wendy, and she's spouting some dumb shit about god knows what while Stan pretends to listen. Cartman knows Stan fucks the Jew when he's drunk, and he's been trying to figure out the best way to use this information as blackmail. The downside would be that Kyle will stop putting out if Cartman exposes Stan, or so he says. Cartman spots Kyle following ten steps behind the golden couple and snorts. In Kyle's biased opinion, Stan's dick has a magical red string tied around it that leads up Kyle's asshole, but the truth is that Stan just uses the poor dope as a come bucket when he's bored. Cartman is the one who really cares about Kyle, though he also wants to splatter him against the nearest concrete surface half the time. That's just honesty, which is something a doucheturd like Stan Marsh will never be deep enough to understand.

"Hi," Kyle says when he approaches Cartman, who continues pretending not to notice Kyle loitering around like the needy little firefly he is.

"Ey, Jew," Cartman says. "How's stalking Testaburger's favorite dildo going today?"

"Shut up," Kyle says. He's mumbling and avoiding Cartman's eyes, which always means he needs something. Cartman wishes he had the willpower to deny Kyle his forthcoming request, but willpower has never really been his thing. "Um," Kyle says, shuffling in place. "You busy right now?"

"I'm at fucking school, aren't I? I've got class."

"Right, well. I just thought, maybe we could do something more worthwhile, uh. If you want."

"Kyle, you fucking pussy. Just spit it out."


Kyle looks up and down the hallway, which is beginning to empty out as the warning bell sounds overhead. He's holding the straps on his bookbag, fidgeting his thumbs. He frowns when he turns back to see Cartman smirking at him.

"Just give me a yes or no so I can get on with my day," Kyle says, his jaw tight. Cartman snorts.

"Well, you're in luck," he says. "I'm horny, and we're doing the Civil Rights Movement in History, which fuckin' blows. Where do you want to do this?"

They walk together to the usual place: the storage closet behind the band room. Kyle has a key because he's a marching band fag. He plays the trumpet and marches around in a gay little uniform during half time at Stan's football games, which is the most pathetic thing in the world as far as Cartman is concerned. Even more pathetic, really, than the fact that Cartman is pushing down his flannel pants in the band closet so Kyle can fuck his ass.

"So, uh," Cartman says, because it's always worth a try, "How about, this time, we—"

"No." Kyle is jerking his cock in order to get fully hard, which is pretty insulting. Cartman whines.

"You don't even know what I was gonna ask!"

"Yes, I do. You're not fucking me, Cartman, ever."

"Why not? Unh! It's so unfair."

"If you don't like the current arrangement, we can stop at any time."

"Then who will you pork?" Cartman asks, raising his lip. "Stan? I don't think so. That asshole doesn't let you put it in him, does he?"

"Shut up and bend over if you want this," Kyle says, holding his dick. It's fully hard now, and Cartman does want it, his own admittedly smaller cock leaking at the sight of Kyle all stiff and ready to give it to him.

"Just think about it, that's all I'm saying," Cartman says, turning to lean onto the cubbies that hold black cases containing flutes and clarinets. "Stan thinks you're good enough to fuck, but not good enough to fuck him? Me and you hate each other, so I don't give a shit what you think about me, but— ahh!"

Cartman winces and presses his ass back when he feels Kyle's slick fingers on his hole. Kyle keeps lube inside a velvet compartment in his trumpet case. The lube is for the instrument, but it works fine on Cartman's ass.

"Think about it," Cartman says again, his eyelids fluttering as Kyle fingers him. This is rare; Kyle usually acts like Cartman's ass is so vile that he can barely stomach putting his condom-covered cock inside it. "I'm seriously, Kyle. Stan supposedly respects you. If, if that were true, um—ooh, yeah, there—he would let you put it in."

"Shut the hell up," Kyle says, almost fondly, or maybe Cartman is imagining things. He rests his cheek on the cubbies and sighs with anticipation when he hears Kyle rip open a condom packet. It's not like he thinks Kyle is worthy of fucking him, really. It just feels better than sitting in History and listening to shit about marches and protests and black people having dreams.

Kyle is rough with him, like always. He works out his Stan issues on Cartman's ass; it doesn't take a Freudian analyst to figure that out. Cartman drools and moans, and he clenches when Kyle tells him to be quiet and spanks his ass in warning. Kyle's dick is not as big as Cartman would like, but it still feels better than all of the dildos he's stolen from his mother over the years. Hot, condom-covered flesh wins out over cold, hard plastic every time. Cartman would love to forget the stupid condom, but he doesn't trust any bare cock that belongs to someone who takes dick from a slut like Stan.


Cartman always does this embarrassing whinny thing when Kyle starts striking his prostate. Today Kyle is grunting with every hard thrust that lands against it, fucking Cartman hard and at a merciless pace. Cartman's mouth is wet and sloppy and he wishes there was somebody around to kiss him, or at least give him a reach around, but Kyle is a stone cold Jew with a no-kissing rule, and Cartman ends up spurting into his own hand, unkissed. Kyle comes inside the condom with an efficient shudder and pulls out without so much as leaning onto Cartman's back for a moment, which happens sometimes but not often.

"Fuck," Kyle groans, bracing himself against the opposite wall of the closet as he rolls off the condom. Cartman is still bent over the cubbies, wiping at his mouth and clenching around the newly empty feeling in his ass. "Um," Kyle says, balling the used condom into a tissue that he will dispose of elsewhere. "Thanks."

"I don't do this for you," Cartman says, glowering at him. Sometimes these fucks put him in a jolly mood, but most of the time he feels like shit afterward. He tugs up his pants and boxers, noticing Kyle's judgmental look as he does. "Yes, these are the clothes I slept in," Cartman says bitterly. "I don't give a fuck about what people here think of how I dress. It's high school, not some goddamn fashion show in New York." Cartman sneers at Kyle's ensemble as he says so. Kyle's pants are gray wool and very tight, probably professionally tailored. His shirt is tucked in, pressed, though slightly rumpled now. A sweater vest completes the 'I bend over for dick' look.

"Anyway," Kyle says, his cheeks still red from exertion. "I'm going to go wash my hands. I'll see you around."

"Wait just a minute, Jew." Cartman holds up his finger, surprised when Kyle actually stays. "I want you to admit to me that you know Stan respects you just about as much as you respect me. Which is to say, not at all. Say it, or I'll tell everyone about these little meetings here in the closet."

"You will not," Kyle says. He doesn't seem worried; Cartman could call his bluff, but everyone would laugh at him for taking Kyle's dick after all those years of ragging on him. Kyle knows this and coolly folds his arms over his chest. "And don't pretend to understand what goes on between me and Stan," he says. "I never should have told you anything about us. You don't get it."

"That's right, I don't! If you guys have some special connection bullshit, why is he still fronting with Wendy at school? Huh? Because he's ashamed of his drunken, slumming nights with you? Ya think, maybe?"

"Whatever," Kyle mutters, and he turns to go. "I'll see you around. We're not doing this again until you shower, by the way," he says, pausing with his hand on the closet's doorknob. "You smell."

"Fuck you!" Cartman says, louder than he meant to. Kyle shushes him and makes his exit. "You smell, asshole," Cartman says, mumbling this once he's alone in the closet. It's true, but Kyle smells pretty good, unfortunately, like bourbon-soaked cherries and polished cedar, or whatever the hell his gay cologne is supposed to evoke.

Cartman sits down on the bench near the cubbies, miserable and sore from that hard fuck. He could go to third period late, or wait here until fourth, or just go home. He curses when he remembers that he has some dumb community service shit to do later for the very minor crime of stealing Scott Malkinson's faggy electric scooter and driving it into Stark's Pond back in October. Scott decided to be a little tattletale baby and get the cops involved, and now Cartman has to do eighty hours of volunteering at some community outreach hellhole as punishment. The judge told him he got off easy. Cartman doesn't agree and would rather chill in jail for sixty days than hang out with poor people at a soup kitchen or whatever the hell. He has to show up for his first shift there at four o'clock, just half an hour after school ends.

He decides to stick it out at school for the rest of the day, but skips the rest of third period in favor of masturbating in the band closet, using some of Kyle's trumpet lube. In his fantasy, he's fucking Kyle hard, making him cry and beg for more and less at the same time, Kyle's whole brain offline from the sheer power of the huge dick that Cartman has in this particular fantasy. Cartman's actual cocktail wiener looks puny in his fat hand, and he has to switch to a less depressing fantasy. He goes with an old stalwart: the Denver Broncos fucking him in the locker room, calling him fat and laughing about how much he likes dick. It's not something he's proud of getting off on, but it does the job.

The rest of the school day sucks, as usual. Two other people mention that he smells, and he starts to wonder if it might actually be true, trying to remember the last time he bothered to put on a fresh pair of boxers. It's winter, and he would rather be hibernating. Society is stupid. The people who originally settled in Colorado were retarded assholes. Nobody should have to live somewhere this cold and still be expected to undress and put on new clothes; it's fucking inhumane. Everything is lame as fuck, and Cartman knows that the community center volunteering bullshit will be the rancid cherry on top of this diarrhea sundae of a day.

He stops for his afternoon venti caramel macchiato at Harbucks on the way to the community center and ends up being twenty minutes late. He figures it's not some big fucking deal, because it's not like the poor people have tight schedules to keep or anything, but he gets attitude about it from the receptionist when she leads him back to meet his supervisor.

"Sorry," Cartman says, making it as clear as possible that this is not a sincere apology. "There was a huge fucking line at Harbucks."

"For future reference," the woman says, bitchily. "We have free coffee here, in the break room."

"Uh, no offense, but shitty break room coffee is beneath my pay grade."

"This is a volunteer position that you are legally required to take on. You're not getting paid, Mr. Cartman."

"It's an expression," Cartman says. He enjoys being called 'Mr. Cartman,' so he leaves off the remark he might have made about how stupid she is for not having understood that he wasn't being literal. She leads him back past a bunch of dingy-looking offices to one where a guy in a Jew beanie is hunched over some paperwork on a cluttered desk. He looks up and smiles when they enter. Cartman withholds a groan: it's Kyle's fucking father, Gerald Broflovski.

"Hello!" Gerald says. His voice is horrible, and hearing it makes Cartman's ass clench around the lingering soreness that this pathetic tool's son left behind. "Eric, right? Come on in and have a seat."

"What the hell is this?" Cartman asks when the receptionist leaves. "I thought I'd be dishing out gruel to bums."

"Ah, no, we don't do food-related charity here. That's next door at the food bank. This is where homeless people come to get help with applying for jobs, finding shelters and dealing with legal issues. I volunteer with the legal aide department, and you're going to be helping me get this office a little more organized."

"Oh." Cartman looks around. The walls are lined with stacks of caved-in banker boxes, and manila folders stuffed with papers are crammed between legal books on the bookshelves. There's a single window, high on the wall behind Gerald's desk, and the gray afternoon light that shines through it illuminates the dust that's floating in the air. The whole places makes Cartman's nose itch, but he supposes this is better than dealing with smelly bums, anyway. "Okay," he says, shrugging. "Where do I start?"

"Why don't I give you a tour of the facility?" Gerald says, capping the pen he was using. His iPad is sitting on the desk amid the papers. Cartman considers stealing it, but that would probably be a bad move. He finishes his macchiato while he follows Gerald around the community center, every room they peek into more depressing and neglected than the last. Cartman takes a stinky dump in the hall bathroom before rejoining Gerald in the legal aide office, and he's self-conscious about his body odor when he sits down in the chair across from Gerald's desk, hoping that the reek of what he just flushed isn't lingering on his person.

"You're Kyle's dad," Cartman says when he's been organizing pro bono filings for like an hour in silence. Gerald looks up from the forms he's working on and nods.

"That's right," he says. "Are you and Kyle still friends?"

Cartman snorts. "Not really." He thinks about how funny it would be to tell Gerald that they fuck like twice a week. "He's okay, though."

"Yeah, Kyle's pretty okay." Gerald smiles, and Cartman realizes that, while Kyle's mom is the biggest bitch in the universe, rivaled only by Kyle himself, Kyle's dad has always been kind of nice. "Are you in marching band with Kyle?" Gerald asks. He's fiddling with his pen, probably as bored as Cartman is by this dumb shit.

"I'm not in the band," Cartman says, withholding a comment about how he wouldn't be caught dead wearing one of those frilly penis hats that Kyle and the other band fags march around in.

"Ah, I see. You're probably on the football team, right?"

"No," Cartman says, flattered. "I could be, um, but I don't like playing in the snow and shit, when it's cold."

"Do you do any extracurriculars?" Gerald asks, like suddenly Cartman is applying to college or some shit.

"Just this," Cartman says. "Because I have to."

"Right, well, mandatory community service still counts! I'm sure you're thinking about college already, like Kyle is."

"Probably not like Kyle is." Not like a super-neurotic asshole who thinks lifetime success can be measured by the prissiness of the Ivy League school you get into. "But I guess I'll go somewhere."

"Do you have any career aspirations?" Gerald asks.

"I want to own a business and get rich," Cartman says.

Gerald laughs. "Well, that's a start!"

"Hey, Mr. Broflovski. Can I ask you something?"

"Sure, Eric."

"What did you do?"

"I'm sorry?" Gerald says.

"What did you do that landed you in this shit hole? I bet you're volunteering against your will like me, aren't you?"

"Uh." Gerald laughs and looks down at his pen. "Well, damn. How'd you know?"

"Why else would anyone with half a brain spend time in this pit?"

"I do admire their mission," Gerald says. "But you're right, I'm afraid. I have a bit of a gambling problem, and I fell off the wagon recently. Illegal cock fighting got me here."

"Cock fighting!" Cartman says, grinning. "Cool!"

"Now, son. Learn from my mistakes, okay? There's nothing 'cool' about betting on cock fights."

"Yeah huh there is! My friends and I used to do it all the time!"

"What— Your friends? Did Kyle ever gamble with you?"

"Shit, yeah! He was always there. Stan and Kenny, too. Even Butters."

"Oh, Jesus." Gerald puts his pen down and rubs the bridge of his nose. "God, no, don't tell me that."

"Hey, relax, guy. Kyle doesn't have a problem or anything. S'far as I know he hasn't gone to a cock fight since we were ten years old." Unless the ones he loses to Stan's cock counts.

"Well, I'll talk to him about it," Gerald says. "Um, thanks for telling me."

"No problem." Cartman grins, enjoying the idea that he has the ability to get Kyle in trouble with his father. "But speaking of things about Kyle that are cause for concern," Cartman says, "What do you think about Stan Marsh's influence on your son? I'd be worried about that if I were you."

"Oh?" Gerald frowns. "Why's that?"

"Ah, well, I don't like to spread rumors, but I've heard Stan has a pretty bad drinking problem and that he can be abusive when he's wasted. Kyle's such a delicate flower, I'd hate to think that he's getting bullied by his old friend when he's drunk and out of control."

"Interesting," Gerald says, still frowning. "I'll ask Sheila about that. She's better at keeping tabs on Kyle than me. I guess I can be a little naïve about him. He's a good kid, basically. I trust him."

"Hmm," Cartman says. "Well, if you want, I could let you know if I hear about anything that might worry you."

"Well, thanks, Eric, I'd appreciate that."

The rest of his volunteer shift is actually pretty sweet, to Cartman's surprise. Gerald goes out to get dinner and brings back a burger for Cartman, too. They share a side of fries and talk about the Broncos a little, as well as some of the worst cases Gerald has had to deal with since getting saddled with this community service assignment. They even have a brief discussion about Cartman's mom. Apparently Gerald has tried the homemade soaps Liane sells on Etsy. Apparently he likes them.

"Hey, Mr. Broflovski?" Cartman says at one point, when it's been about an hour since either of them did any real work.

"Please, call me Gerald."

"Oh, okay, um. Gerald, uh. Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, Eric."

"Uh, this is a weird question, um, but, could you tell me, and be honest, like. Do I smell?"

Gerald bursts out laughing. Cartman's cheeks get hot with embarrassed rage. Gerald is shaking his head, holding up his hand.

"Sorry," Gerald says, still laughing. "But, no, son, you don't 'smell.' Why on earth would you think that you do?"

"I, just. Never mind."

When he leaves, Cartman realizes that he's looking forward to going back. Talking like that, with an older guy who isn't just some dickhead teacher at school, was kinda new and weirdly enjoyable. For a moment there it almost felt like having . . .

A dad.


Date night is supposed to be fun. Stan knows that, but things that are supposed to bring him joy have been the hardest things to bear for years. He forces a smile when Wendy answers the door at her house, and he hopes she can't see the desperation on his face when he leans in to kiss her. He closes his eyes and tries not to leave any trace of saliva on her innocent skin. It's harder to hold back with Kyle, whom Stan wants to devour in two bites most days, which sometimes happens in his haunting nightmares. Wendy is a bearable companion, meanwhile.

"This movie has a ninety-eight percent on Rotten Tomatoes," Wendy says when Stan walks her to his car, his hand resting gently on the small of her back. Her words seem inane, even alien. Lately all Stan can relate to on the face of the earth is lustful consumption, mostly of food and sex, with increasing indiscrimination.

"Cool," he says, opening the door for her. She snorts.

"Are you sure you want to see it?" she says, looking up at him once she's seated. "It's animated."

"I like animated stuff," Stan says. "Terrance and Phillip was my favorite thing in the world until I was, what? Twelve?"

"Stan, that was five years ago."

Wendy speaks as if she's sure Stan has matured enormously since then. Stan, meanwhile, has felt like he's been in a kind of stasis ever since he was ten years old, when he was briefly possessed by Satan. He tries not to think of that as the source of his incrementally weak grip on reality, but he's not sure what else could be to blame when he wakes from hellish nightmares smelling brimstone and sweating in horror for the fear of what he might become.

"Let's stop by Sooper Foods on the way there," Wendy said. "I want to get some candy, and I'm not paying movie theater prices."

Stan does as she asked, as always. Wendy is a force of good, and she lacks the vulnerability of Kyle's sweet but too-trusting goodness. She's got a strength that Stan wants to cling to, and he needs to cling to something or the hateful need that's growing inside of him will sweep him away entirely. Everything in his poisoned body tells him that the thing he should latch onto is Kyle: that milky, open, needful submission Kyle offers is like the purest and strongest drug to Stan's raging id, and he wants to swallow Kyle whole and lick his sharp teeth afterward, but that's not really him. It's the thing that has lodged inside him, secretly, and taken root in a way that he doesn't know how to extract but is damned determined to fight. When he was fourteen he tried to go to confession and beg for help, but as soon as he set foot on holy ground the rubber soles of his shoes melted, and when the ends of his shoelaces caught on fire he was too afraid to find out which other parts of his physical self might be consumed by flames if he walked on.

At Sooper Foods, Stan wanders the store while Wendy peruses the candy aisle. He doesn't want candy and stopped craving sweet foods years ago. His stomach is rumbling, though he ate dinner at his parents' house before leaving to pick up Wendy, and he ends up standing in front of the raw meat cooler, staring hungrily at bloody red steaks and ground hamburger. He startles when Wendy appears beside him, holding Snow Caps and Junior Mints.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asks, and only then does Stan realize that he's reached into the meat case to touch the thin layer of plastic that's covering one of the juiciest-looking steaks. He wants to shred the plastic away and sink his teeth into the raw meat, wants to gnaw and swallow it so badly that he's tempted to growl at Wendy for intervening. But he's not actually that gone, so he laughs awkwardly and removes his hand from cool, plastic-coated surface of the steak.

"Just looking at these steaks," Stan says, feeling his face get hot while Wendy frowns at him. "They, uh. They look pretty good."

"Are you running a fever?" Wendy asks. "You seem out of it."

"I'm fine. Is that what you want to, uh, bring to the movie? Let's go, let's pay. Wouldn't want to miss the previews."

"Stan, you hate the previews."

"Yeah, but, um. You like them?"

Wendy rolls her eyes and grabs his elbow, pulling him toward the register. Stan pays for the candy in a kind of daze, still thinking about how the bloody steaks would feel between his teeth, tearing apart while pink juice dripped from the corners of his mouth. He licks his lips and thinks about Kyle's ass to calm himself down. Maybe later he'll dip his tongue into that hot little hole, the only thing that seems to soothe the needy hunger that lives within him, and suck on Kyle's entrance until his dick is welcome inside that perfect, clinging heat— but, no. He can't keep doing that to Kyle.

"Are you listening?" Wendy asks, and suddenly they're outside in the parking lot. Stan can't remember if they saw the movie yet or not; he keeps losing track of time. "We parked over there," Wendy says, pointing. She's still got the candy boxes tucked under her arm, so they haven't made it to the movie theater yet. That's good news, but Stan dreads having to sit in the dark and pretend to pay attention to some piece of shit film. He'll be thinking about raw meat the whole time, and Kyle's ass, and other, undefined pleasures that some inhuman thing in him craves.

He's pretty sure he should kill himself before he does something horrible to the people he loves, but killing himself would amount to doing just that, so he's stuck in an agonizing limbo with a fake smile on his face, buying movie tickets and trying to pay attention to Wendy's words.

They find seats in the back, and when Wendy excuses herself to use the restroom before the previews start, Stan pulls out his flask and sneaks some whiskey into the soda he bought from the concession stand. He can't get drunk like he used to. It's like pouring cups of water into an ocean, but little sips of the hard stuff still give him a temporary salve of calm that's better than nothing. By the time Wendy returns, he's had enough whiskey to make it through the lowering of the theater lights without freaking out, and he returns to the cup of soda frequently throughout the movie, desperately trying to ignore the erection that he's managed to get just from the thought of maybe ending up at Kyle's house later, climbing through the window and nailing him to the bed.

Stan is sweating under his clothes by the time the movie is finished, but the whiskey has at least dampened his arousal, and now all he can think about is food. He nods along with Wendy's commentary about the movie as they make their way to his car, and when he suggests grabbing a bite to eat he's surprised that she's up for it.

"I'll probably just get coffee," she says. "How about the Village Inn?"

"Fine," Stan says, because they might be willing to serve him a rare steak there, with butter and bacon piled on top. "Sounds good."

It's almost ten o'clock by the time they get to the Village Inn, and Stan is already counting the hours until he'll be mad enough with deranged desire to allow himself to climb through Kyle's window. He's relieved when they spot Kenny and Butters sitting together at one of the booths in back, and he waves to Kenny. Joining those two will mean that Wendy can talk to them while Stan eats, and he won't have to concentrate so hard on listening to what she's saying or struggling to come up with responses.

When they reach the booth and slide in across from Kenny and Butters, Stan feels less confident that their presence will lighten the mood. They both look pale and have bags under their eyes, and Butters is tearing up a napkin into tiny pieces on the table, his lips trembling when he forces a smile. Kenny has his arm draped across the back of the booth behind Butters, his posture even more protective than usual and his heel is bouncing under the table. Stan gives Kenny a strained smile, wondering if he should mention that Kenny and Butters both look like reheated shit. Sometimes he feels like Kenny can see the evil thing inside him, though Kenny never looks at him with accusation; it's more like a kind of subdued pity, but Stan is probably just imagining it, anyway.

"You're out late," Wendy says, speaking to Butters. "Do your parents know you're here?"

"Please don't tell them!" Butters says, and he slaps both his hands on the table, his eyes widening. "Ah— I'd get in such trouble, please, they can't know—"

"Butters!" Wendy says. "Of course I'm not going to tell them— What's wrong with you?" She looks at Kenny, addressing this question to him while Butters dissolves into whimpers and tugs at his hair.

"It's just hard for him to disobey them," Kenny says. He squeezes Butters' shoulder, then rubs it a little. "What are you guys up to?" he asks, pointedly changing the subject.

"We just saw a movie." Stan doesn't mind the subject change; he doesn't really care what's going on with Butters or how Kenny is involved. He mostly just wants the waitress to get her ass over to their table so he can order a steak or two.

"That's cool," Kenny says, still rubbing Butters' shoulder. They both have steaming mugs of black coffee that look untouched. "What movie?"

"Uh." Stan looks to Wendy. He has no idea what they just watched. She raises her eyebrows at him.

"It was called Palmetto," she says, keeping her concerned gaze fixed on Stan. "It's an animated film, but also a serious crime drama."

"Nice," Kenny says, nodding. "How was it?"

"It was okay, but I didn't like the ending. The killer got away with it."

"Really?" Butters gapes at Wendy. "Hah— how'd he go about that?"

"Butters," Kenny says, tightly, and they share a look. "Don't, uh, spoil it for me."

"Whoops," Wendy says. "Sorry."

"Excuse me!" Stan is desperately attempting to flag down the waitress while this inane conversation plays out. When he finally succeeds in getting her attention, she gives him a long stare before walking slowly over to the table. Stan is unimpressed with her irritation; he's so hungry that he feels like the hollowness in his stomach is consuming him from the inside out, and he's slightly breathless as he gives her his order. "I'll have a New York strip, rare," he says. "And I mean rare, as rare as you're legally able to serve it. Pile about four fried eggs on top, sunny side up, and bring a side of bacon and a loaded baked potato. And a cup of chili. Extra cheese on the chili."

Stan stares at her to make sure that she knows he's serious, and he watches her write it all down. When he turns to Wendy to see if she wants to order anything he's met with an expression of horrified disbelief. Kenny has a similar look on his face. Butters doesn't seem perturbed, at least not by Stan's order. He's tearing up his napkin again, into smaller pieces now.

"Um," Stan says, wishing he had something to shred up like that. "You, uh, you want anything? My treat."

"I'll have a cup of coffee," Wendy says. She touches Stan's wrist when the waitress is gone. "Honey," she says, softly. "Are you okay? I think you might have a tapeworm or something."

Stan laughs nervously and pulls the napkin from beneath his own place setting. He's suddenly boiling hot, and his sweat stains the napkin when he dabs at his upper lip.

"I'm fine," he says, darting his eyes to Kenny's. "Just hungry."

The food arrives, and Stan shamelessly concentrates on eating, trying to contain his enthusiasm for the food enough not to scare the others. Wendy stares at him and sips her coffee, nodding as she half-listens to Kenny make awkward small talk. It's obvious to Stan, even though he's not really paying attention, that everyone at this table doesn't particularly want to talk about whatever they've got on their minds.

"Can I have a piece of your bacon?" Kenny asks at one point, and he recoils a little when Stan looks up from his plate with hateful rage at the request. He didn't intend to snarl and warn Kenny away from his food, but that's what happened. Kenny holds up his hands. "Forget it," he says. "I'll stick to coffee."

"Stan!" Wendy grunts in annoyance and grabs a piece of bacon from Stan's plate, tossing it to Kenny. "Don't be ridiculous," she says when Stan looks at her, not quite managing a second snarl. "You've had plenty."

"Sorry," Stan says, and he watches Kenny take a cautious bite of the bacon.

"It's okay," Kenny says, staring at Stan like he's a venomous snake who might strike at any moment. "I get it. You're hungry."

It's gotten cold out, and Kenny and Butters walked to the Village Inn, so Wendy offers them a ride home on Stan's behalf. Stan doesn't really mind; it's awkward to be alone with her anyway, and he doesn't want a talking to about his eating habits. He drops Butters off first, and watches as he creeps like a prowler into his own backyard, where he'll scale the tree that he uses as an access point to and from his bedroom after his parents are asleep. Wendy's house comes next, and she leans in through the driver's side window to give Stan a peck on the lips while Kenny climbs out to switch to the passenger seat.

"Are you feeling okay?" Wendy asks, placing her palm on Stan's forehead. "You're a little warm."

"I'm fine," Stan says. "Thanks for the date. I had fun."

Wendy sighs and gives him a look like she doubts that, then kisses his cheek before waving to Kenny and turning for her front door. Stan waits and watches to make sure she gets in safely. When her porch light goes out, he peels back out onto the road.

"What's up with Butters?" Stan asks. "He seemed like a wreck tonight."

"He's just stressed about school," Kenny says. Stan doesn't believe that but doesn't really care enough to pry out the truth. "Hey," Kenny says, tapping Stan's arm. "What's going on with you, man? You seem like you're in another world."

"That's kind of how I feel," Stan says, admitting this without really meaning to. He's always had a hard time lying to Kenny. "You ever feel like something bad's gonna happen?" Stan asks. "Imminently, and there's nothing you can do to stop it?"

"Sure," Kenny says. "Kinda feels like that right now."

"Yeah. Wait, what? You're not afraid of me, are you?"

Kenny laughs, and there's something strange about it, like he's having a private joke with himself. He shakes his head.

"There's not much I'm afraid of anymore," he says.

Before Stan returns his eyes to the road, they share a look, and Stan can see it in Kenny's eyes: he's got a deep, dark secret, too. Maybe more than one. They could discuss it, confide in each other, but what would be the point? Instead, Stan speeds along the empty roads toward Kenny's house, eager to get rid of him and to shimmy up a tree of his own, into Kyle's room.

"Take care of yourself," Kenny says when they reach his house. "Don't let that tapeworm get the best of you."

He winks and climbs out of the car. Stan watches him jog toward his dark, sad little house, alarmed by how accurate Kenny's assessment of the situation is: there is something living in Stan, insatiable and dark and becoming bigger than what's left of Stan himself. Kenny doesn't seem willing or able to help; he's got problems of his own, plus whatever is going on with Butters. They both had dirt under their fingernails. Stan doesn't want to know.

Stan floors the ignition on the way to Kyle's house, licking his lips. He's hungry again, but not for food. If he was good enough, deep down, he would be able to fight these cravings and spare Kyle's body and soul from the connection that rattles them both to the core when they allow themselves to indulge it, but whatever good he once possessed has been assailed for too long by the creeping darkness. Stan drives faster and palms his tightening pants with his free hand, rubbing his thumb over the head of his tented dick and breathing hard enough to fog the windows of the car. Kyle is waiting, twitchy with need; Stan can feel it. He won't have to wait much longer. Stan feels like the embodiment of the apocalypse itself as he races toward the explosive climax that he's going to pump into Kyle's ass around midnight, and in the moment he doesn't mind it: I am become Death, destroyer of worlds. He cackles to himself, and for a moment he doesn't recognize his own dark laughter.