South Park © Matt & Trey.

This is going to get dark and disgusting. Cartman may seem too nice, but it's all part of his twisted long-term plan. Be warned.

Kyle's POV

An hour ago I lost my job. No, I wasn't fired… I was let go. But in the end, it's the same thing, right? The library doesn't get much attention these days and soon enough there will be contractors asking to tear the building down. So, now here I am – at the most obvious place. A bar. Isn't that where all people go when they lose their jobs? They sit down and they whine to the bartender about all the shit going on in their life and the bartender pretends to listen and be sympathetic. Fortunately for me, Kenny works here. I'm not the kind of man who will talk to the first stranger who asks what's wrong. I'm not digging for pity. I'm not. I just need a drink. I just need a distraction and on more than one occasion, Kenny has been here to offer me both.

"Come on, Kyle," he says in an attempt to reason with me. "You'll find a new job soon, a smart guy like you."

"Kenny," I seethe from my seat on the bar stool, "my intellect is hardly the issue. The economy is the issue! Do you know how damn hard it was to get a job after moving back here last year?"

"Sorry, you're right," he smiles faintly, fixing me a drink. "You should have left South Park for good."

I shrug, taking the glass Kenny places in front of me.

Feel.

Drink.

Forget.

Does it even help? You're all headache and nausea, unable to bring yourself to move a finger the morning after. You wake staring up at the ceiling light and it feels as if you're looking directly into the sun. Too bright! Too bright! You squint as the light continues to stream against your face and sore eyes, making your hangover worse than it already is. Once your headache is gone you get sick again, trying to remember everything that happened and all the stupid things you did or said. It makes things worse. It's a ritual for me. A ritual I can never remember.

"Where's Stan these days?" Kenny asks. "He hasn't dropped by in a while."

"Who knows?" I snort. "Now that he's finally happy, I rarely hear from him."

"Dude, you live with the guy," he chuckles.

"It's not like he's ever home anymore," I say in a bitter murmur. "Ever since Wendy got her own place, he's been there. I think he's going to move out soon and move in with her."

"You okay with that?"

"Tsk…" I click my tongue. "I can't afford to pay the rent by myself with the way things are going."

"He won't just ditch you like that, dude."

"He might," I laugh. "You know how he is… He's a good person, he just doesn't think sometimes."

"Yeah," Kenny relents. "I suppose you're right."

"Mhm," I murmur, taking a long sip of the drink in my hand. Kenny continues to talk. He says a lot more these days. He used to be the quiet one – saying nothing but seeing everything.

Minutes later, Butters walks inside and as soon as Kenny spots the naïve blond, he waves him over.

"Hiya, fellas," Butters greets us.

"Hi, Butters," I say, trying to liven up.

"Is everything all right, Kyle?"

Guess I wasn't convincing.

"Kyle just lost his job," Kenny supplies.

"Oh, no." Butters frowns.

"Yeah," I mumble, taking another sip.

"So, what'll it be tonight, Butters?" Kenny asks.

"Oh, um," he taps his chin. "I don't know, just make me something you think I'll like."

"Sure. I'll make you a special drink," Kenny winks at Butters and I just roll my eyes at them both – at Kenny for being so damn obvious and at Butters for being so damn oblivious. If you have feelings for someone, you should just fucking tell them. I swear I'm surrounded by morons.

"Make me another while you're at it, Kenny," I say.

As midnight approaches, I begin slurring my speech and Kenny is laughing. "It's so rare to see the dignified Kyle Broflovski getting drunk in public," he snorts.

Butters left a while ago. I wish I left, too. I'm now too drunk to drive home. "I'm hardly dignified," I roll my eyes, chugging my most recent beverage. "And it's hardly rare these days."

"I guess that's true…" he agrees.

"I'm sure I'll regret it in the morning," I snort.

"Probably," Kenny laughs. "Call me when you wake up tomorrow and I'll buy you McDicks."

"No, thanks," I say. "I don't need to be putting even more shit in my body."

"Aw, come on," he reasons. "You're in perfect shape; you can junk it every so often."

I shrug, yawning. "Alcohol always makes me tired. I should prolly head home…"

"How are you going to get home?" Kenny asks. "You drove here, right? You can't exactly drive home."

"I know," I press my forehead onto the countertop.

"I can drive you home after my shift is over."

"When are you off?" I ask.

"At three."

"What?" I moan. "That's hours away."

He shrugs, smiling sympathetically. "Your fault for getting drunk, dude."

And moments later, as if life is punishing me, Eric Cartman walks through the doors.

"Hey!" Kenny waves to him, all smiles. "I haven't seen you in a while!"

"Yeah, I know," Cartman says, taking a seat next to me. "I've been busy."

Honestly, I haven't said a word to him since I was eighteen – before I left for university. I'm twenty-four now and it's been six years since then. I've seen him around town, though. He's always surrounded by the people who work for him. His aides. He seems to have a different one every damn week. It's probably because he's too difficult to get along with.

"Wouldn't it be scandalous if the mayor was seen in a shithole like this?" I slur the question, finishing off yet another drink.

"Oh, Kahl," he says carelessly. "I didn't even know that was you… It's been a while."

"Yeah," I mutter.

"I didn't think you came here."

Cartman claims to have turned over a new leaf and the townsfolk licked the story up. I didn't believe him. I still don't.

"I'm visiting Kenny," I say.

"And, by the looks of it, you're making quite a night of it," he laughs boisterously, playing the nice guy. I can only grimace. "I didn't know you were still such a lush, Kahl."

"Kyle just lost his job," Kenny tells him.

"Yes," I say tersely. "Please, Kenny, tell everyone who walks in all about it, why don't you?"

He's too nice and too trusting. There are times when other people have to pay the price for it. "Sorry," he grins sheepishly. "Hey, Eric, what can I get you to drink?"

"Whisky," he murmurs, "straight."

Kenny simply nods, turning around to pour the drink.

"So," Cartman turns to me. "You got fired?"

"I didn't get fired!" I growl.

"Then you got laid off?" he asks. "Don't sweat it, it's not forever."

"I didn't get laid off either," I say, grinding my teeth.

"Then, what?"

"They let me go. Permanently," I admit sourly, not wanting to talk about it. "They didn't need me."

"Weak," is all he says. I can tell how much he doesn't fucking care.

"To put it simply, yes, it's weak."

"You know what," he mentions somewhat offhandedly, "you may be in luck."

"Oh, and why's that?" I ask tartly.

"I'm looking for a personal assistant… An aide, if you will. I just fired mine."

I snort, "Yeah fuckin' right, like hell I'd work for you."

He smirks. "Well, good luck finding another job in this little town."

"Kyle," Kenny cuts in, "you should consider an offer like that."

I wrinkle my nose at the both of them.

"You studied business, right?" Cartman asks.

"Only for four years," I say. "I didn't like it much, so I came back here after finishing my degree."

"That's perfectly fine," he insists. "I know you're more than capable."

"I never said I accepted the offer," I say tersely.

"Come on, Kahl. We both know you will."

I let out a sigh. I know that this is hardly a selfless offer, but honestly, I'm so fucking desperate and stressed out right now I don't have time to think hard about what the consequences may be. I know I'll regret it, but… "Fine," I grit out. "When is the interview?"

"Come in tomorrow," he stands up after finishing his drink. "I'll be at the office all day, so just drop by anytime and we'll settle things."

"Fine," I mumble, pressing a hand to my forehead. I feel a migraine coming on…

"Hey," Kenny calls to Cartman as he nears the door.

"Yeah?"

"Drive Kyle home, would yah? He's getting sick."

"No," I groan, rubbing my temples.

"Yeah," Kenny says. "I don't need you hurling on the counter, dude."

"Tsk…" I click my tongue. Tonight sucks.

I can hardly stand up straight as we leave the bar, and I almost slip on a patch of ice as we near Cartman's car. "Ah, fuck!"

"You good?" he asks after I collect myself.

"Fine," I hiss, opening the passenger door and getting in.

The car ride is completely quiet, and I'm fine with that. I'd rather not be friends with someone I will be working for, but I suppose that's just how it has to be for now – at least, until I find a new job. This is just back up…

I give him directions and as we near my apartment, I begin to feel nauseous. "I'm gonna puke," I moan, and Cartman immediate starts driving faster.

"Not in the car, not in the car," he chants as we pull into the parking lot. I open the door and bend over, immediately puking on myself before it hits the pavement. How awful. Of course I had to look like this in front of Eric fuckin' Cartman. He's probably going to laugh at me for it and never let me forget about it. Just what I need. "Ah… Jesus Christ," he says, getting out of the car to help me.

"Stop it!" I yell, stumbling as I push him away.

"Stop what?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "Stop helping you?"

"Stop being so fucking nice!" I growl, puke still on my chin. "I know it's all an act so you can drop it!"

He smirks. I fucking hate that stupid, smug look. "I don't know what you mean, Kahl."

"Everyone else might believe you, but I don't," I whisper, finally wiping the puke off my chin before digging the keys out of my pockets. I'm silently hoping that Stan isn't home. He probably isn't. He's rarely home these days.

I try to walk straight and I try even harder to imagine I have at least some dignity left – but I probably look even stupider than I feel and that's saying something because I feel pretty fucking retarded right now. Jeez, I wish I would just pass out already. I unlock the door to my apartment building, ignoring the fact that Cartman is following me. "Kahl," he says. I don't say anything, so instead, he keeps talking. "You live with Stan, right?"

"Yes," I bite.

"Is he home?"

"I dunno. Why the fuck's it matter?" I ask him, opening the door.

"Because I don't want you to drown in your own vomit," he says as we walk down the hall. "I just hired you and I don't need you dying on me."

I roll my eyes, almost tripping as we go up the stairs. "How fuckin' selfless of you."

As we reach the apartment I share with Stan, I drunkenly struggle to unlock the door. "Fucking hell," I let out a frustrated sigh.

"Tsk," Cartman clicks his tongue, taking the keys from me. "Let me do it." He unlocks the door with ease and opens it to reveal empty darkness.

I change my mind, I wish Stan was home. I'd rather have him take care of me than Cartman. Honestly, I'm worried he'll do something creepy. It wouldn't be surprising if he tried, and with the state I'm in right now, he would easily get away with it. Everyone knows I never remember things come morning. That's why I am careful to only drink around friends. Eric Cartman is no friend of mine.

"You don't need to be here," I murmur, holding the walls as I make my way to the bathroom. "You can go home."

"You sure about that, Kahl?" Cartman asks.

"Yes!" I hiss out, slumping down in front of the toilet and rubbing my forehead. "I don't want or need you here, so fuck off." He doesn't answer, so I try to ignore his presence. I lean over the toilet bowl, spitting and drooling into it. I hear Cartman make a sound of disgust and I laugh bitterly at his reaction. Seconds later, I feel my stomach muscles tighten before I begin to vomit again. I wonder why it feels so damn good to puke when you're too drunk. It's relief, I suppose. "Hey," I say to Cartman, spitting into the toilet some more.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"You don't need to fucking stare at me in here… Go watch TV or something, you sadistic fuck."

"You know, you have quite the mouth on you," he snorts before walking off.

I wipe my teary eyes and wipe my mouth with a piece of toilet paper. "God dammit," I whisper to myself, taking a breath before shakily standing up. I flush the disgusting mess down the toilet before moving towards the sink and washing my hands and rinsing out my mouth. I brush my teeth for a good few minutes before finally exiting the bathroom.

In the living room, I see Cartman on the sofa aimlessly flicking through channels. When he spots me, he says, "You should probably change."

"I'm gonna," I mumble as I stumble to my bedroom. Once inside, I immediately take of my puke covered shirt and pants, shuddering slightly at the rush of cold air on my skin. I leaf through my dresser, pulling on a plain grey t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants. A minute later, Cartman enters my room without even knocking. He's holding a glass of water. I glance at it suspiciously.

"It isn't poisoned," he says with a scoff.

"I never said it was," I spit, taking the glass from him and downing its contents.

"You shouldn't have drunk that much at the bar," he accuses.

"Don't gimme that shit," I murmur, slamming the cup down on my nightstand like I'm slamming down an empty shot glass.

"Since when do you drink like that?"

"Fuck. Off."

"Kahl –"

"I can't deal with you when I'm like this, so leave me the fuck alone. I'm goin' t'bed." I flop onto my mattress and lay down with my back facing him in hopes that he'll leave.

As I close my eyes, I swear I feel a hand on me, but I'm too exhausted to budge an inch.