Life's Worth

In Too Deep

"Kenny. Hey, Kenny. Kennyyyyy. Are you even listening?" Craig snapped his fingers in front of my face, finally getting my attention.

"I'm sorry, what?" I'd zoned out again, lacking sleep once more.

Worry flickered in his eyes, but his face remained stoic as he said, "I asked if you could go with me again to get deliveries. Tourists headed to Denver have already depleted our supply."

It was about a week after I'd started working at Tweak Bros. It was odd transitioning to a life where I had something to do besides school.

"Sure, I guess..." I was hesitant to be alone with Craig after the events of last week. I mean, he saw me die and he remembered. Now he wants me to go back to that damn place? My paranoia told me it was a set-up.

"Tweek and his dad are running the shop, come on." He pulled his hat out from where he'd tucked it into his back pocket. He often did that when it got hot inside.

"Craig, th-that's way too much p-pressure!" Tweek exclaimed from the other side of the counter.

Tweek had always had a long list of issues such as being underweight, having an addiction to almost anything he relatively liked (coffee being a major one), and extreme anxiety. He never really spoke to me much, but I didn't think much of it since he was a nervous wreck just speaking to Craig.

Craig and I exited the coffee shop, and began heading back to where the deliveries had been picked up before.

The feeling of dread set in on the walk there, and got worse once we arrived, but I ignored it, telling myself I absolutely would not die that same way even if those guys are stupid enough to do the same thing a week later.

"This time, we're taking the truck back." He pointed to an old white Ford pick-up that looked like it barely ran. Pieces of paint were chipped off to reveal the frame underneath. A large crack spread across the front window with a few smaller ones stemming from it.

"Jesus, does it even start? That's almost as bad as my dad's old pick-up." I wasn't exaggerating either. The only difference is my dad's had one wheel and no engine because people stole it in the night. Why, I don't know. South Park has always had strange problems with the homeless.

"Of course it runs. We only use it for large deliveries because it doesn't run well, but at least it works. Now, follow my lead. We're gonna fill up the truck bed, and that should be enough to last the tourist boom."

Once again, we began moving stuff to take back to the shop. I kept a close eye on the men hauling scrap metal again. Craig watched me, examining my movements. I tried to ignore it, though I knew he'd ask something of me.
Just as we were finishing, I heard another yell, like the one a week before. Quickly, I dropped the boxes in hand and moved out of the way. It would have been some cool matrix shit if not for me tripping over my shoelace. The sharp, heavy pieces of metal hit the asphalt of the truck yard with a loud noise resembling a gunshot.

Craig rushed over as soon as he could, a look of fear on his face. "Fuck, are you okay?" he asked frantically.

His voice was a bit drowned out from the loud ringing in my ears, but I heard him nonetheless. I nodded in response. "I'll have a terrible headache later and my ears are currently ringing, but I'm fine."

"You're bleeding," he pointed out, staring at a place on my palm where I'd attempted to catch myself.

I shrugged, and looked up at the workers who'd dropped the metal. "Assholes," I mumbled. "Talk about dèjá vû."

"In the truck. Now. I'll be there in a minute," Craig ordered.

I looked at him, puzzled, but obeyed anyways because I didn't want to make the situation worse. After all, I'm the only one who really understands that the extent of the situation is not at all drastic. My life is replaceable, so even if I had died again, I'd be fine, and who knows, maybe Craig would forget and last time was just a fluke.