the asmodai ↣ style

Chapter Nine

Chapter 9: When the Situation Warrants Mace

Stan was leaning against the bus sign, staring moodily down at his feet. He would have liked to be in bed right now, eating soap and watching TV, but his mother had pulled the 'I'll call the doctor card,' so he'd had to stuff his things into his bag and grab a piece of toast on his way out the door.

After he'd gotten home yesterday he'd flopped back into bed and ran over what he'd uncovered in Kyle's room. (His face had heated up when he recalled the porn collection, and he'd buried it in his pillow, hoping halfheartedly that he'd suffocate to death.) He felt... God, he didn't even know. Like he'd been tricked out of a week or gone around in a circle or something. He simultaneously wanted and did not want to see Kyle. Because, well. He'd completely invaded his privacy for what had turned out to be nothing.

Nothing.

Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.

"Stan!"

Stan straightened, shifting his weight off of the frozen sign and back to his feet. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Kyle, who was waving at him with a surprised, pleased expression on his face.

Pleased because he liked him. Not because he liked him.

"Hey," he said a little sullenly.

"God, am I glad to see you," Kyle said, crunching through the snow and joining his side. "I always manage to forget quite how much I hate Cartman until I'm stuck in his company again. And Kenny's... tolerable in small doses only." His eyebrows rose a little in abrupt concern. "What were you sick with?"

"Oh... just a... sore throat."

"It's not contagious, right?"

Stan couldn't help but crack a small grin at Kyle's unabashed selfishness. It made him feel a little less guilty for lying about his health. "No."

"Good."

"So," Stan said, "did you get the report done?"

"God, we'd better have," Kyle let out a low growl that confused Stan utterly.

"Huh?"

"Fatass wrote it. Supposedly."

"Cartman?"

"Do you know any other fatasses?" Kyle asked, grinning a little.

"Why Cartman?"

"I had to meet Wendy and Kenny flaked out on us. Speaking of..." he said, narrowing his eyes as none other than Kenny made his way to the bus stop.

"Hey dudes," Kenny said

"Where the hell were you?" Kyle demanded, skipping morning pleasantries.

Kenny seemed to deliberate the point, then said quite simply, "Hell."

"Oh," Kyle said, his fury at being stood up switching to indifference at his friend's most resent demise. "So you were dead."

"Christ, don't cry your eyes out," Kenny said sarcastically. Then he said, "You'll be interested to know I did some very fascinating research."

"Really," Kyle said flatly.

"Really."

"And that would be...?"

"Hitler is a weakling when it comes to arm wrestling. Also, listening to German is like listening to someone with whooping cough."

Kyle rolled his eyes.

"So you got the report done, then?" Kenny said conversationally. "Weren't too busy sobbing over my grave?"

"Cartman did it."