I needed some light relief. El Dia de los Muertos is way heavy – it's butchering me... And I am busy and very writer's blocked also. Sigh.

WARNING: The style of this is a world away from what you're used to from me. I realise it may be kind of an annoying read. But, hey. Give it a try. What's the worst that could happen?

Ladies and Gentlemen, Kenny is your narrator. Please enjoy him and bring him back in one piece when you're through.

So, The Butterfly Effect - we all know this, right? we all have TVs and watch movies? – is an element of Chaos Theory (sounds awesome, I know: like physics times raving). It's an element of Chaos Theory which states that the tiniest action, say, the flap of a butterfly's wings, can have, like, a double-G-cup effect on the world.

Okay. I did the Wiki on this shit for you guys because, seriously, despite what they tell you, who doesn't trust Wikipedia way too much?

Yeah. I'm with you. Check it:

The flapping wing represents a small change in the initial condition of the system, which causes a chain of events leading to large-scale alterations of events. Had the butterfly not flapped its wings, the trajectory of the system might have been vastly different. While the butterfly does not cause the tornado, the flap of its wings is an essential part of the initial conditions resulting in a tornado.

The point is: my friends' lives were the precariously balanced little system and I butterflied the fuck out of them. I'm kind of proud of that.

Let me back up a little, though.

Originally I'm from this tragic little town in Colorado, South Park, which you will not have heard of because it's seriously in the back of beyond. It's like the groin of America and I don't mean that in a sexy way. Don't feel bad for not knowing it. I fucking wish I didn't know it and I was born there. I got out of that place as soon as my scrawny legs could carry me, back when I was eighteen. The story of my escape goes like this: My brother Kevin got kicked out of the state years back and hitched or whored or pimped his way cross-country to make it here to California. He got some cash together and ploughed the lot of it into opening a bar. He did alright. The bar's a cool place: kind of Indie and chilled out. But my brother? He has all the smarts of a watermelon and his people skills are pretty hit and miss. Mostly miss. So, to get the place running smoothly and to keep the entire staff from bailing, he needed a manager with a little more grey matter between the ears and the sense to keep his dick in his pants around the female members of staff, if you get what I'm saying. That's where I stepped in. My brother and I, at heart we're the same. It's in our blood. But I hide it better.

That bar is my baby. The place is flourishing. We're looking into opening another a few blocks over.

Where'd Kev get the capital? I dunno. Couldn't tell you. To be honest, I've never asked. I don't want to know. I want to be able to tell the truth when the police come knocking one day and I say, "Jesus, really? I swear I had no idea."

I truly dig my life out here. Cali and I have a love affair the likes of which the cold, cold heart of my hometown could never even imagine. She's sultry and sweet and breeds the world's hottest bodies. Out here, for the first time in my life, I'm not a nothing. I left all my crap behind me in that piss-poor excuse for a zip code and never looked back.

I don't miss it.

I never meant to lose touch with all my friends back home, but...somehow that shit just happens. You get me? If you've ever moved clear across states, you'll know where I'm coming from. Those guys, they were too much a part of something that I was trying hard to leave behind and I guess they got sacrificed to the cause. When I first moved out here, I thought about them a lot. In bed at night, in the fuzzy gap between awake and asleep I'd catch flashes of them skittering through my mind: a glossy movie-star wink here, an authoritative cackle there. And every now and then, a smooth, intelligent smirk against snow-white skin. But now? There just ain't enough space in my head any more. Trivial day-to-day stuff has taken the place of their memories.

You never have friends like the friends you grow up with. And once you leave them behind, that's the end of that. 'Course, if you don't leave them behind, you can't progress. You just fester and fester in the groin of America. It's a tough call to have to make and you're partly fucked either way. I know I made the right choice.

It's weird though, right? Because I did actually get to thinking about home and those guys on the day I got the invitation before I even got it. I'm such a psychic.

There was this kid I had to throw out of the bar that night. Scrawny kid. ID so fake I could have spotted it a mile off. Now, I'm not pretending that I was a stranger to fake IDs when I was his age. Younger than his age. But if you're gonna try to pull that shit, you damn well better do it right. There's no excuse for workmanship that poor. No excuse at all.

This kid was no hassle; he went quietly. I could see that I'd put the fear of God into him the second my eyes narrowed while staring between the smudgy image on the ID card and his terrified little real-life face. I didn't even need to call a bouncer. I just walked him to the exit, nice and calm, and held the door for him on his way out. I sent him on his way with the advice that next time he'd do well to cough up the extra ten dollars and get himself a decent fake. The kid was kind of nervy and skinny enough that a strong breeze would have knocked him on his ass. His hair was dyed black (bad job – roots showing) and cut all emo, but his face. Jesus Christ, in the face he was so much like my friend Kyle that it was uncanny. Same haughty lips, same cut-glass cheekbones. Kyle and I had been good friends back in the day. Real good friends. I'd know his face anywhere. And this kid...if he had turned round and told me that his veins were full of Broflovski blood, I would have believed the fuck out of him.

It unnerves me, shit like that. Feels like life is trying to make a point.

The invitation had nothing to do with Kyle, though. At least, not directly. I came home at the crack of dawn, paper cup full of coffee tucked all delicate in the crook of my elbow and found the fancy envelope slumped in the box with the rest of my mail. It was good quality paper: ivory, thick and silky - rich like cream. It looked lost and ostracized in my ragtag bundle of convenience store promotion leaflets and Indonesian takeout menus. People like me got no business getting mail like that. But my name was printed there, clear as day in curly, curvy letters, right out of a fairy tale. I'm a curious fucker. You'll get to know that about me. I couldn't even wait to get inside the apartment before I opened the damn thing. Put my coffee in the mailbox, stood right there in the hall and tore it open. And I swear to God, I literally felt my mouth drop wide open, the way it happens in cartoons.

So, the card says:

You are cordially invited to celebrate the wedding of
Wendy Testaburger
and
Stanley Marsh
on Tuesday afternoon
June the 2nd
at four o'clock
South Park Church
followed by a reception
R.S.V.P.

'Course, I guess those names mean nothing to you, right? Yeah, I'm a retard. No shit, you aren't impressed.

Stan was like the unofficial leader of the crew I hung around with in school. He was a good guy. Real nice guy. He'd been with this girl, Wendy, basically since time began. Yep, she got hold of Stan young and sank her claws in deep. She's alright, though, Wendy. As girls go, you know? She's pretty easy to chat to and shit. She's hot, too. Most perfect tits I've ever seen and trust me, I've seen my fair share. No boast.

Her and Stan were a pretty good match. If Stan wasn't going to get gay with Kyle (and trust me, if you knew those guys the way I do, you'd know that really isn't as far-fetched as it sounds), then Wendy was always going to be the one for him.

But, shit. Marriage at twenty-two? That's bullcrap. There's no need for that unless you're wearing silver rings and desperate.

I was kind of outraged on Stan's behalf - so much so that I locked my coffee inside the mailbox and headed up to the apartment without it. Seriously. I left it there like a fucking spastic. And when I packed my bags and skipped town the next day, it just stayed there, mutating silently. Hell of a surprise to come home to three weeks later, I can tell you that.

There was an unfamiliar number to call at the bottom of the invitation. I ignored it and phoned my friend Stan direct because holy hell, this shit was huge.

An answering 'click' on the end of the line and then the sound of Stan's voice, distracted and harassed as if I'd interrupted him jerking it.

It must have been two years since we'd spoken. Our first conversation in all that time? It goes like this:

"Dude," I say, by way of greeting, "Marriage? For real? What the fuck's wrong with you?"

There's a static-y, long-distance pause as Stan puts two and two together. Then:

"Kenny," he states, incredulous and I can hear the wideness of his eyes.

"You know it, bitch."

"Oh my- What the fuck! Kenny!" he yelps, all puppy-like and I can't help but be a little thrilled by his reaction.

"Yeah, dude," I grin, "Don't piss yourself."

"I didn't think you'd even..."

"What?"

"No. I mean, Christ. How long's it been?"

"Couple a years."

"Yeah. Yeah. Couple of years," he echoes.

"Well, fuck. What do you expect? I get this thing telling me you're getting married. Married? Dude! What is that?"

Stan's voice goes sheepish. I picture him rubbing at the back of his neck and kicking his toe against the floor.

"Yeah. I don't know. It just...It's just the right time, I guess."

"Sure?"

"Am I sure?"

"Yeah, man! Are you sure? You sure you're not letting her bully you?"

"Kenny..." Stan warns, but there's a smile in his voice, so I know he doesn't mean it.

"Seriously, dude!"

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, man, I'm always serious. How's the super-best holding up anyway? He okay? Should I call him, lend him some moral support? I guess he's crying himself to sleep every night now, huh?" I splurt, still grinning like I'm brain-dead, and maybe that's the first flap of a butterfly's wings because Stan's voice twists off into the kind of strangled noise of scorn that I had no idea nice guys like Stan were even able to make.

Stan and Kyle. Christ. What to say about Stan and Kyle?

It's kind of too early. I guess I'll come back to that.

"What?" I ask, unnerved.

"No," Stan says, and the sound of his dry swallow is magnified over the phone line, "No. It's-"

"What?" I repeat, but,

"Dude. Are you coming, then, or not?" he dodges swiftly and I let him get away with it because I haven't spoken to the guy in two years and this could so easily turn awkward.

"To the wedding?"

"Yeah."

"Of course! Jesus, fucking- Of course, Stan! What the hell do you think I am?"

"Really?"

"What the shit, dude? Yes! I just said yes, didn't I? I wouldn't miss your wedding for the world."

And just like that I was distracted from the signs and nagging him for ceremony details like a goddamn girl. I might as well have begged to be allowed to put on a dress and scatter petals down the aisle, for Christ's sake. I'm such a gimp, sometimes, I swear it.

I booked a flight that very night, packed a case and left the next day, all the while trying to ignore the bits of my brain which were screaming blue murder at the mere thought of going back to my shithole town. Because, deep down, you know...I think maybe some part of me could sense it all coming.

It's cool for me to smoke in here. Right?

A/N: Eventual...Style. No questions. Multiple pairings to get there...but in the end this fic ain't going no place but Style City. I promise this time. ^^

I am very not happy with it. Very nearly didn't post it. Then thought...eh.