Athor's *Edit* Note: Okay, so after reading a lengthy review from an annonymous reader, they convinced me to revisit the beginning of this story and make a slight change, which honeslty was a good idea, so I spent most of today revising the rest of my story. I kept most of the beginning, except for that lame lead-in with the whole 'My name is blah and yadda yadda blah' because I thought keeping part of the intro would still keep some people guesssong until the end of the chapter, which I what I really wanted.

I hope you all enjoy this story as much I have enjoyed writing it. Please read, laugh, and review.

Revenge – defined as taking a harmful action against someone who has caused you a grievance, personal or otherwise.

That's what I told myself, over and over again. This was revenge for all the times he'd ever humiliated me, tried to kill me, put down my race, convinced everyone that I was actually somehow evil, or was just plain being a dickhead. This was finally the universe getting on my side, albeit a little late, but none the less.

Vengeance at long last.

Chapter 1: Russian Roulette is Not the Same Without a Gun

"It's fucking August! August!" I exclaim for what seems to be the hundredth time that Friday morning. As if to prove my point, steam swirls out of my mouth and curling around in the air as little wisps before dissipating back into nothingness. Stubbornly, I clamp my arms around myself to stay warm but it little good it does me.

"Stop being such a fag, Jew-boy" Cartman interrupts my rant from beside me, glancing down the street a little impatiently for the bus. Even as a senior in high school, the Nazi still rips on me – some things never change.

"Fuck off, Cartman. You're only warm because of that lard, you tubby son of a bitch."

Well, who ever said I stopped ripping on him too?

"Hey, I'm not fat anymore!" he yells, turning on me. In truth, Cartman had lost a lot of weight, comparatively to his nine year-old self, and while he'd really filled out during junior high, getting taller, broader and a bit more muscular, there was a tiny bit of baby fat that remained. However, I'd also done some growing, actually becoming the second tallest of our group of four and possibly the skinniest, much to Stan's dismay and Cartman's outrage. Kenny had become almost freakishly tall, so I'd given up a long time ago trying to catch up with him.

"Oh right, you're just big-boned?" I ask in mock innocence, arching an eyebrow inquisitively in his direction. Cartman shoots me a seething look, as if he's ready to rip off my little Jew head, and he makes a move as if he's about to when suddenly Stan comes to my rescue.

"So anyway," he trails in as if it were the two of us who'd interrupted him, "I was thinking that to commemorate the start of this new school year, we could…oh, I don't know, raid my parents liquor cabinet and play a few video games, then probably pass out wasted on my couch, for old times sake? It is after all, a Friday tradition."

Kenny nods enthusiastically and when it seems like he'd about to say something, Cartman cuts him of.

"I can't."

His tone is casual but I get this prickling sensation in my stomach that tells me something is most definitely up. Stan gives him a doubtful look but Kenny just bursts into laughter, gripping his sides almost comically as his cheeks turn red from straining.

"Why the fuck not, dickwad?" he gasps between bouts of his uncontrollable giggling. Kenny had long since ditched the hood on his parka, settling with just letting his hair grow out into shaggy blonde tresses that hang straight like a curtain, nearly concealing his piercing blue eyes. He glances back up at Cartman through his bangs and I can see clearly the amusement dancing in his gaze.

"I'm busy, all right?" The reply sounds defensive and it only makes Kenny laugh harder.

"What would you be doing instead? I mean, seriously who would go on a date with your fat ass?" This makes Stan start to snicker and I try and bite back my own chuckles my clenching my teeth down tightly on the inside of my cheek. Cartman explodes beside me, launching himself at Kenny with a string of curse words.

"Fuck you, Kenny, you poor piece of shit!" Cartman and Kenny roll across the frosted ground, just a barrage of punches and kicks while Stan and I look on with mild disinterest. This happens more and more often as Kenny seems to always be pushing the Nazi asshole too far, which used to be my job.

"At least I can get with a girl, bastard," the blonde counters, quickly getting to his feet and diving behind me for cover, which seems suddenly like a bad idea. Oddly enough, Cartman pauses, at a loss for what to say.

"Anyway," Stan interjects himself a tad more forcefully, putting himself between Cartman and me, "what the hell are you doing tonight that's so important you can't even hang out with us? Who could possibly cooler than us, dude?"

His dark brown eyes get this far-away look, like he's seeing something very unpleasant on the horizon as he turns away from Stan, his shoulders slumping. Then Cartman sighs in the most un-Cartman-like way possible, his whole frame nearly collapsing in on himself. Just then, the teen we'd all come to know and hate looked so forlorn, it was yet again hard for me not to laugh.

"It's none of any of your guys' business." Once more with the defensive tone but this time we let him be, collectively deciding that if Cartman wanted to be Mr. Aloof, then fuck him.

Eventually we default silence and stay that way until the bus shows up to pick us up. The bus driver, an old haggard lady who's much more soft-spoken than the women we had as children, gives us the same questioning look as always; it seems that only Freshman ride the bus nowadays but we've been doing it for all four years, meeting at the same bus stop, and even sitting the same place in the back.

"Ma'am," Kenny greets her with sarcastic bow but Stan grabs him before he can make an even bigger ass of himself. We all crowd into out seat, me being sandwiched between the window and, most unpleasantly, Cartman.

Beside him, Kenny and Stan begin to chat idly about the sleepover, having a casual discussion about what liquor we should open, Kenny defending his 'good pal' Jack Daniels and Stan campaigning for Captain Morgan. Unsurprisingly, Cartman and I don't get involved. I glance back out my window, sighing and fogging up the glass as a result.

A thick arm reaches across me, drawing in a little swastika right in front of my face. Not even glancing back at the Nazi next to me, I etch in the Star of David right next to it, feeling Cartman's eyes on me. Triumphantly, I cross my arms and breathe out against the window, bringing our little designs back to life before fading away yet again, but before either of us can do anything else, we've pulled up in front of the High School's gates.

Kenny tips an invisible hat as we exit.

School passes as all days do – slow and excruciatingly boring, with Craig making unnecessary hand gestures (namely with his middle finger) at the substitute in English. I do my work, stay quiet, and thanks Abraham for the weekend.

I've really been needing a break and hanging out with guys is going to be awesome, especially since I won't have to deal with Cartman being around. Lately, what with my senior year just starting, my parents – namely my mom – have really been on my case about grades and colleges even more than normal. Studying is all I ever seemed to do during my sophomore and junior year, so for once I wanted to live it up with my friends before I end up moving out of the state or something.

I meet with Kenny, Stan and Cartman at the gates once more, my backpack loaded with text books along with the promise of a full weekend of studying and hard work.

"Man, this is going to be great," Stan pipes up, severing my thoughts.

"Yup, a good night without the resident fat-ass," I say, giving a pointed look at Cartman who unfortunately does not seem up for an argument.

"Oh, but Kahl, he's not fat remember? Just big-boned," Kenny coos, his voice imitating that of Cartman's usual nasally drawl. The 'big-boned' teen gives a low threatening growl, Kenny's one warning to knock it off.

"Well, you know what they say; a whale by any other name…," I trail off with a careless shrug, still attempting and failing to conceal my grin. Stan snickers as Cartman is now steaming, his cheeks holding a faint blush of anger and embarrassment as his fists clench and unclench at his sides.

"A whale? Why so generous Kyle, he's practically another Rosie O'Donnell!"

We all erupt into laughter at Cartman's expense. I grip myself, tears pricking at my eyes as I try and catch my breath. I felt a little bad for the fatass, but truthfully, he deserved every one of our insults, what with all the shit he's put us through over the years. Once more, we're all expecting Cartman to just lose it and murder Kenny.

"Fuck you guys, I'm going home!" he shouts, striding off to his house across the street and not once looking back. We all watch as he slams the door shut behind him before falling into another fit of laughter, howling and snorting all the way back our separate homes.

I'm still fighting off giggles as I close and lock my own front door behind me, though as I venture farther into my house, there's a suffocatingly tense atmosphere. Normally, Ike would've been home by now and playing on our X-box loudly in the next room, but there's only silence and a terrible stillness. Slipping off my snow boots, I creep as slowly and quietly as I can towards my room, barely making a sound as I even tried to stifle my breathing momentarily.

"Kyle."

Shit. My mother seems almost devil like when she just calls out for me, already knowing that I'm home. My heart drops to my stomach. Shit shit shit.

Forcing my feet to move, scuffle into the dining room only to see my mother's plump frame engulfing one of the chairs as she stares back at me with dark green eyes that are frighteningly similar to my own. One thing that might rival my hate for Cartman – my hate for being reminded that I'm my mother's child. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate her raising me and giving birth, all that jazz, but it didn't make her my role model, far from it.

"Yes, mother?" I try to sound pleasant, show her what a polite son she raised. Nothing. She barely even looks at me but instead down at a crumpled piece of paper that has been re-flattened under her laced fingers. Oh god, I think I'm going to hurl.

"Would you like to explain this to me?"

She turns around the paper so I can see the fat D- in red marker across the margin and feel dread begin to burn within my very bones. I'm screwed, royally, as it seems.

"I…," no words come forth. What can I say? How could I even defend myself? "I made a stupid mistake."

This does not have its desired effect on my mom. She stands up, nearly toppling the chair over behind her, looking as if she's ready to smack me.

"A stupid mistake?" she hisses. "Is that what you want to call it, because if you keep this up, you can kiss Harvard goodbye, young man. I will not allow you to throw your future away as a lawyer just because you're slacking off, do you understand me? If this continues, you can also kiss any and all of your college funding goodbye too."

"But, I do study-,"

"No buts, Kyle, now go to your room. I want you to review this test and see why you made a stupid mistake and finish your homework because I will be going over it with you," she threatens.

"Fine," I agree, holding my hands up in surrender. Each time we have discussions like this, I find it harder and harder to control my rage, my desire to talk back, but last time I did that, I got a very nasty slap in the face and grounded for a month, so I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.

"I can't believe it," Mom continues crossly, getting up from her place at the table with a thick grunt, "I let you have so much freedom, and you repay me by failing a test. I don't know why you can't be more like your younger brother Ike; he gets A's on all of his tests, never gets into any trouble."

"Mom, he's also only in sixth grade! You can't possibly-,"

It's a feeble protest which instantly sends Mrs. She-demon into a torrent of fury.

"How dare you talk back to me, you disgraceful son, how dare you! When I was a child, I would have gotten the paddle for speaking in such a way to my parents!"

She makes a move forward, drawing her hand back like she's going to hit me again.

"Shut the fuck up!"

I go from zero to sixty in a matter of seconds, exploding as I suddenly find myself screaming with an amount of vehemence that I'd kept locked away all this time.

"You're always pushing me, never letting me have anytime just to relax. It's always, "Kyle, do this" "Kyle, do that" "Kyle, you're such a disappointment" "Kyle, you need to be more like Ike". Kyle Kyle Kyle!" My voice hits a new kind of loud, practically tearing my throat muscles and making my lungs shake with how much volume I'm pouring into this.

Anger, so red hot and boiling, consumes every fiber of me, making me want to hit something, destroy senselessly. I snatch my mother's hand, gripping down tightly and applying enough strain on her to make her resolve suddenly falter. For the first time in my life, I see fear and am glad that I'm the one causing it.

"I'm so fucking done," I snarl. Turning on my heel, I storm up to my room, stomping on each step hard enough where I hope I break through the wood, and slamming my door with so much force that I actually knock a few pictures off of the walls.

The first thing I go to is my stereo, cranking up some heavy metal as loud as it can go, not satisfied until I feel the base reverberating in my chest. I pace across my carpeted floor for what feels like hours, just trying unsuccessfully to cool off. Pacing, back and forth, back and forth, I feel like a caged rat, a caged little Jew-rat. Cartman would be proud that I could at least admit it.

All I can see outside of my window is the sun that's very steadily descending upon the horizon and I make a snap decision. I have to get out of this place; I have to go somewhere before I lose it. For a moment, as I'm poised on my window sill, I think of going to Stan's house, but that suddenly doesn't seem far enough away. I have to get farther, put as much distance between me and this fucking place as possible.

I use the tree outside my house to escape as gracefully as I can without falling on my butt, which is a major personal win, but I don't revel in it too long and instead practically sprint to the Gray Hound bus stop a few blocks away. Cars pass, the passengers giving me obvious stares of confusion but I ignore them, not allowing myself the second to regret this because I know deep down that if I stop, then I'll go back to that house where she is – and I just can't handle that.

Luckily, the bus pulls up within five minutes or so of my arrival, and, after dropping in a little change into the fare box, I take a seat in the back. Old Habits die hard, I guess.

There are few people on the bus, as expected for a little isolated town in Colorado. I glance out my window into the fading light of the evening, watching the cold unforgiving landscape rush by in a blur.

I take the night bus as far as it can go, all the way into the next town over, and even then I don't stop. The air nips at any part of my exposed flesh as I walk down the unknown street, but the farther I go, the better I begin to feel. The sun has completely disappeared, leaving me at the mercy of the cold winter air.

My boots crunch the thin layer of snow underfoot and with my hands stuffed firmly into my pockets, I keep my eyes cast downward as I pass by drug stores and small cabin-like houses. Their golden light spills across my path but I don't look up, too lost in my own blank thoughts. Finally, something draws my attention.

A new neon blue light drenches everything with its radiance, turning everything around me a darker shade and the snow cerulean. I glance up at the sign of the bar and feel a sudden tug at my lips at the title.

Barbwire.

Clever, and there's even a bit of the real stuff strewn around the neon cursive name, making it look tough but entirely inviting. The outside of it is a dark wood and the red leather double-doors of the front are practically calling to me. I take a deep breath, and then make a reckless decision.

The interior of Barbwire is not unlike the exterior – the walls are a dark wooden paneling along with the floors. Booths take up the left side of the wall and a few smaller tables joining them. To my immediate right, there's a narrow hallway that leads to undoubtedly the bathroom, but as I venture in deeper, there's a long and extensive bar, stools lined up and adorned with vibrant red leather, and pressed against the back walls of where the restrooms share.

Straight ahead is a stage, risen above the ground level by a good couple of feet, but under that, there's a level below that makes the stage seem higher. In the lowered area, there are several smaller tables, stools and booths, all facing the stage for an audience. And then something else catches my eye – there are silver striper poles scattered about, though are oddly enough unoccupied.

"Son? Can I help ya'll?" the bartender twangs in a heavy Texan accent, stroking his handlebar mustache as he eyes me. My feet carry me over to one of the several stools and I plop down, feeling suddenly fatigued, and somehow, my eyes seem to communicate this to the man.

"I just really need a drink," comes my hoarse reply.

The man sighs, and I know he knows that I'm not twenty-one but then he doesn't ask for ID, much to my astonishment, and pours me a glass of whiskey over a few ice cubes. I think that's the kindest thing anyone's ever done for me. Smiling wide at him, a take a sip of the alcohol and let it burn its way down the back of my throat, chasing away the chills of the night.

Suddenly, from behind me, a piano starts up, playing up the scale and then hitting a few cords.

"On Friday nights, we have a musical entertainment rather than the usual gals," the man explains, glimpsing my puzzled face. "She ain't quite like the strippers, but we actually get more customers on her nights than any other, plus she's a pretty good singer."

There's a few whoops and hollers from the subordinate level where I now begin to take note of quite a few men. Some are sitting in at the tables at ground level, minding their business with their own beverage, but most are down below.

And then a woman walks onto the stage, her high heel pumps clacking against the wood. I guess the best word would be curvaceous to describe her, but even then that doesn't quite fit.

With long dark brown hair that falls in pretty curls at her shoulder, she's not half bad looking. She bats her fake eyelashes back at the crowd, her lighter amber eyes standing out from under her smoky eye makeup which is coupled with deep red lips that almost seem at a permanent pout. A giant feathery red boa conceals her neck and shoulders, falling down to her mid-thigh. For a top, it's a black leather corset with crimson lacing all up both sides that seems to make her look more petite than she truly is. Underneath that, there is a matching pair of black leather booty short that then clips onto her tights, which stretch all the way up her generous legs. And then to top it all off, she's wearing black pumps that have a small red bow on the top.

Is she ugly? No, but she's no Megan Fox. Is she fat? More like she has a few curves to spare. Can she sing? I wait patiently to find out.

"Hit it Ruben," she says in a smooth voice. The baby grand, tucked off to one side of the stage, begins to spout a very familiar melody, though I can't place it immediately.

"I wanna hold 'em like they do in Texas pla~ays, fold 'em, let 'em hit me – raise it, baby stay with me."

The woman begins to sing, her voice a very strange sound. It was good, smooth, and reminded me of the liquor I had in my hand, scorchingly cool. Yes, she can certainly sing.

"Russian roulette," she belts out, her voice reaching a new octave, "is not the same without a gun, and baby when it's love if it's not rough it isn't fun."

"Can't read my, can't read my, no he can't read my poker face, she's got to love nobody."

Her voice is tantalizingly familiar, and as the song plays on, I become more and more certain that I've heard her singing before, though I just can't place where. The radio? My brain supplies unhelpfully but I know instantly that that's not it. Somewhere else, but where? Contemplatively, I take a drink of my whiskey.

And it's not just the voice either, there's something about the way she looks too, something vaguely familiar. Every time she smiles, there's this glint in her eyes that I'm positive I've seen somewhere before. I rack my mind for answers, but find none.

As the song draws to a close, I study her closely, her eyes, her nose, her mouth, trying to glean how it is that this person reminds me so much of someone, though not someone I can picture.

"…He's got me like nobody."

The small crowd explodes with applause, whistling and cheering for her, who in return just grins back, beaming at them while she give a slight curtsey.

"Thanks, you guys," she nods graciously.

And then it hit me, like a train, like an avalanche. A gripping realization so powerful that I actually drop my whiskey glass, but I don't register until I hear the crash of it shattering upon the floor. I forget how to breathe; nothing makes sense, because standing up on that stage is Eric Cartman.