Disclaimer: I don't own South Park.

Facing The Past
by Ben Barrett

Chapter One

I

The frigid wind blasted against Kyle, causing him to shiver even through his thick orange jacket. He clutched his arms close to his torso and blew through his hands in a futile attempt to warm himself. It was an unbearably cold day, even by South Park standards, and he wondered, not for the first time, what the hell he was doing outside. He could easily catch hypothermia or pneumonia. At the very least, he'd probably end up with a nasty cold, complete with runny nose and hacking cough. Was there anything that was worth that?

The answer was yes. He'd made a promise to Stan that he'd come over and hang out, and that was most definitely worth it. Stan was his best friend, had been pretty much since they were still shitting their pants. He thought the world of Stan and would have done anything for him. If that meant going out in this miserable weather and suffering the future consequences for it, well so be it then. He knew Stan would have done the same for him, and in a heartbeat at that.

He looked ahead when he reached the corner, gaging the remaining distance until he reached his destination. Two more blocks. No so much under normal circumstances. On an average day, it might take him five minutes at best to go that far. Today, however, was quite different. With the bitter cold numbing him to his very bones and the God damn wind doing its best to freeze him solid, it was going to take him at least fifteen minutes. Fifteen long, agonizing minutes until he stepped into the familiar warmth of the Marsh home and began to unthaw.

As he marched slowly forward, he began to fantasize about what he and Stan might do when he got there. Would they sit and play Gamesphere all day? It wasn't completely out of the question. In fact, the more he thought about it, the better it sounded. Just him and Stan, safe and snug on the couch with mugs of hot chocolate, maybe a plate of Mrs. Marsh's homemade cookies. Just the thought of it made him feel a little warmer, and he picked up his pace a little.

I'm coming Stan. I'm coming.

He kept his thoughts focused on Stan, the most important person in his life, and was able to clear the last two blocks in less time than he thought. When he finally reached the front walk and headed toward the door, he was so excited he could have kicked up his heels. He didn't, of course, because to do so would be gay, and one thing Kyle Broflovski was NOT was gay. Sure, he and Stan may have been closer than most friends, and had even showered together a time or two, but that didn't mean anything. Everything between them was purely platonic. They were best friends. nothing more, and woe to the stupid asshole who suggested otherwise.

Stopping at the door, he rapped sharply upon it three times with his knuckles. It echoed eerily within the house, as if he were knocking on the door of a mausoleum and not a warm and loving household. The sound chilled him far worse than the freezing winter air, and he found himself shuddering. He had no idea why such a sound would ever come from the Marsh home. The only way he could explain it was a trick caused by the weather, or perhaps his imagination. Why he would imagine such a thing was a different can of worms altogether, and not one he was interested in opening.

Several moments went by. There were no sounds of activity from within. Indeed, there was no sign of life at all, not even the obnoxious barking Sparky gave off anytime a person dared to knock, or even get close to the house. This added to the creepiness of the situation, making him feel very uneasy. What the fuck? Had they maybe left? Had there been a family emergency? No, because a quick glance to the right showed Kyle that the cars were still in the drive. Besides, Sparky hated car rides, and would not have been taken along.

I don't like this at all.

A second knock proved just as ineffective. A third, much louder, yielded the same results. Kyle was scared by this point, and could no longer control himself. Telling his good manners to fuck off, he opened the door and walked in uninvited. If the Marshes turned out to just be in some deep family discussion or something, well it wasn't like he was a complete stranger. He would simply explain to them that he'd come in out of concern, and offer a sincere apology. They were good people; they'd understand.

What he saw when he stepped inside, however, did absolutely nothing to ease his sense of foreboding. The entire place was pitch black, without a single glimmer of light anywhere. It even seemed like the windows were covered, as no natural lighting from outside was visible. This was not good. Mrs. Marsh liked to keep her home as bright as she possibly could. Covering the windows at the Marsh residence would have gone over about as well as eating a ham sandwich at the Broflovski residence. No fucking chance in hell.

As he stood there in the darkness, pondering this, he became aware of two other abnormalities. One was a faint charred smell, like roasting meat. Mingled in with it was the stench of burned hair. These were odors that definitely did not belong. They were fading, as if they'd been caused some time ago, but what the hell were they doing there in the first place?

Something is wrong. Really wrong.

It was as he was groping frantically for the light switch that he noticed the second thing: a sound like liquid dripping steadily onto an already soaked carpet.

PLOCK-PLOCK-PLOCK.

He felt his way along the wall, his heart pounding like a jackhammer beneath his ribs. The light switch! Where the fuck was the damn light switch?! He was starting to panic, his breath suddenly refusing to come and sweat beading on his forehead despite the fact that he'd just come in out of the cold. He was groping desperately, madly, praying to Whoever was listening that he'd locate it before he lost his mind. God, he'd been here how many times in his lifetime? Why was he suddenly unable to find something that had always been in the same fucking place?

PLOCK-PLOCK-PLOCK.

His hand suddenly found the thing it had been seeking, and the room filled with precious, reassuring light from the fixture in the center of the ceiling. He felt a great sense of release, like the youngster who spotted a "monster" in his room and vanquished it by calling for his parents. That same feeling of safety brought about by the arrival of mom and dad washed over Kyle, causing him to relax a little. Everything was going to be okay, after all. There was a rational explanation for everything, and it would become so painfully obvious when he turned to face it that he'd hit himself for being so stupid.

So why couldn't he do it? Why couldn't he turn around? Why was he rooted to the spot, unable to control his own legs?

PLOCK-PLOCK-PLOCK.

That noise was going to drive him mad if he didn't do something soon.

PLOCK-PLOCK-PLOCK.

Okay, all he needed to do was count to three and then just do it. Just like when the doctor says he'll count to three before jamming you with the needle. Take three miserable ticks of the clock, psyche up, and go for it. Simple, right?

PLOCK.

One...

PLOCK.

Two...

PLOCK.

He turned and faced the "rational explanation" he'd been sure had been behind him the whole time. He had told himself in those precious three seconds he'd used to psyche up that it was all just another closet monster, another terror brought on by nothing more than the darkness. Everything would be fine. In the millionth of a second it took his eight year old eyes to take in the reality of the situation, however, it occurred to him that he had been wrong. Horribly wrong.

Stan hung from the ceiling from a noose made from a length of his own intestines. The rest of his bowels were scattered on the floor below him. Where they had once been housed within his body there was only a large, jagged hole. The sound Kyle had been hearing was Stan's blood, flowing down off of his corpse by the pull of gravity and splattering on the rug and the remains of his entrails. He had been stripped of all his clothing, and it looked as though his testicles had been hastily removed with some kind of knife, probably the same one that had ravaged the rest of his body.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion after that. He felt himself moving forward, and he was vaguely aware of the fact that he was screaming Stan's name at the top of his voice. The next thing he knew, however, he was tumbling towards the floor. His feet had caught on something unsettlingly squishy. He landed face-first in Stan's internal organs and instantly recoiled, screaming in horror and disgust. He wiped desperately at his face, wanting the mess off, but only succeeded in soaking his green mittens in blood.

His breakfast suddenly spilled from his stomach onto the rug in a great rush, the remains of his bagels making a foul crime scene even worse.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

The tears began streaming down his face even before he was finished heaving. He sobbed through his retching, wishing with every fiber of his being that this would turn out to be some kind of nightmare, that he could just wake up and find that Stan was just fine. He couldn't bear the thought of his best friend hung up like some slab of beef behind him, his once friendly and loving eyes gazing lifelessly from their sockets. No, he'd rather keep his own eyes squeezed tightly shut and block that out than face it. This was all just a nightmare and would be over at any time.

Several minutes ticked by, and with each one the lie became less and less convincing. It certainly didn't help matters at all that directly behind him, Stan's bodily fluids were tapping out their haunting rhythm, each PLOCK! hammering the truth home, little by little. Eventually, he realized that no matter how much he might will it to be so, this was no dream. This was cold, heartless reality, and he was going to have to get up off his knees, open his eyes, and face it. He could not stay here at this crime scene, the stench of his own vomit becoming increasingly potent in his nostrils.

Slowly, he rose to his feet. His eyelids were still squeezed shut so tightly it was almost painful, but he had no intention of opening them until he absolutely had to. No point in tormenting himself unnecessarily. Besides, part of the reason he'd wound up on the floor to begin with was the squishy thing he'd tripped on. He wanted to see what that was about about as much as he wanted to lay back down and put his face in Stan's intestines again.

I can't get out of the house with my eyes closed, he reasoned with himself. I can't. Besides, the sooner I open my eyes, the sooner this will all be over.

The tears streamed down his face even harder as he realized what an awful situation he was in, and he realized that he had been reduced to what he really was: a scared and fragile little boy. Gone were all the adventures he'd had with his friends, saving the world and giving speeches that sounded as though they'd been penned by a man three times his age. He felt completely shattered, mentally and physically. He was terrified and he wanted his mother more than he ever remembered wanting her before.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

The "squishy thing" he'd tripped over had been Randy's arm. Unlike the rest of his body, which had been concealed from Kyle's view at first by the coffee table, it was laid out across the living room floor in plain sight, palm up. Sparky was on the ground next to him, his body completely blackened, in some places down to the bone. Kyle had only missed seeing them because he'd been too focused on Stan. Had his heartbreak not blinded him, he probably would have spotted their corpses a lot earlier. Regardless, though, the result would have no doubt been the same: Kyle ran screaming from the house, never taking a second look backwards.

"MY GOD! MY GOD! MY GOD!" he shrieked as he ran through the streets. "MY GOD! MY GOD!"

Eventually, someone stopped him and asked him what was wrong, and even went so far as to shake him roughly by the shoulders and slap him across the face in an effort to get some coherent answers out of him. All he would say other than "MY GOD" or "STAAAN", however, was one thing: "His eyes were gone. Randy's eyes were GONE!"

II

Nineteen Years Later...

The writer sat in his small, dimly lit office, a glass of Scotch on the rocks on the desk next to him. He tapped away furiously at the keyboard attached to him computer terminal, loving as usual the feeling of...accomplishing something when entire paragraphs just seemed to flow effortlessly from his fingertips. He only paused briefly to remove the smoking cigarette from his teeth and flick away the ashes, then replaced it and continued.

"'She didn't understand the changes that were taking place in her'," he said, reciting each word as he typed it. The cigarette bounced as he did so, keeping rhythm with him. He found this effect rather pleasant. There was something about it that added to the mood, making it easier for him to maintain focus. "'All she knew was that she was beginning to have very strange cravings. Did it have something to do with being bitten? She thought...'"

The telephone range, interrupting his thought patterns and completely demolishing what he referred to as his "groove". He swore loudly, pulled the remains of the cigarette from his mouth, and mashed it angrily into the right arm of his oak desk chair. It would take him at least fifteen minutes to clear his mind and get going again, which was fifteen minutes he could never get back. If this wasn't an extremely urgent call, some son of a bitch was going to pay.

He picked up the receiver and looked at the Caller ID. The readout displayed the name "BURTON, J.V." Fucking grand. It was his God damn agent. This was the last thing he wanted at-- a quick look at his watch-- eleven o'clock at night. What the hell could he possibly want at this hour? Didn't he have a personal life at all?

"Yeah?" he said after pressing the TALK button. No reason to beat around the bush and fake good manners. He saw no reason to be polite to anyone who called after ten, and even if he had made the attempt, J.V. would have seen right through it. He might have gone so far as to tell him to cut the bullshit.

"Broflovski," came the voice from the other end of the line, the one that always made him want to cringe. J.V. had smoked a pack of Camels a day, every day, since he was fourteen years old. Now in his forties, his voice was comparable to gravel in a blender. "Why am I not surprised to find you burning the late night oil again?"

"Maybe I wouldn't be up so late writing if my fucking deadlines weren't so unreasonable," he replied. He picked up the Scotch and drained the glass, then put it down with a grimace. He'd let it sit too long and the ice had watered it down. Next time he'd just have it straight. "What do you want?"

"Always straight to business with you, isn't it? Guess that's just the Jew in you."

He laughed heartily at his own wit, and Kyle was forced to hold the receiver away from himself to keep the loud, braying sound from busting his fucking eardrum. His lip curled in disgust, and he was tempted to hang up on the often antisemitic asshole. Was this the only reason he'd called, to make fun of him and piss him off?

"Aw, don't get a hair up your ass," J.V. said, somehow managing to read his mind, as always. "Listen, I've got news from the publisher regarding your, uh, request."

Super. This ought to be good.

"You waited until eleven o'clock to call me about this?" Kyle asked, rather annoyed.

"If I'd called at any other time of day, you would have come up with some kind of excuse why you couldn't talk to me," J.V. replied. "At least at this hour, I know that those same stories you always have about having to run off on some errand, or having some meeting to go to would be complete bullshit."

What can I say? The man knows me.

"Go on, then," Kyle prompted, just wanting to get it over with.

"They say that your request to skip Colorado is denied," J.V. said as nonchalantly as one saying that they think it might rain today. "They wanted me to remind you that a book tour will make or break a novel, and that your last two, uh, 'slash fests' barely made enough money to cover the production costs and your ridiculously large advances."

"That's a load of crap!" Kyle shouted, bringing his fist down on the desk with a bang. "I'm one of their highest selling authors! Small Town Horror outsold J.D. Robb and Stephen King!"

"Small Town Horror was five years ago," his agent explained, as if to a small child. Obviously, he was not enjoying Kyle's ego-driven temper tantrum. Kyle didn't give a shit. Doesn't having your first novel beat out two veteran writers on the New York Times bestseller list give you a right to a little bit of an ego? He thought so.

"I don't care how long ago it was!" he barked. "It made me famous enough to be able to call a few shots, I think, and there's no way in hell..."

"They say that if you don't do it, they'll drop you," J.V. cut in. "I don't want to see that happen to you. You've got too much talent to blow it over something like this."

Kyle felt sick. Had things really gotten so bad that he was being threatened with termination of his contract? He didn't understand how that had happened. He used to be on such good terms with his publisher. They had once called him "one of the greatest minds to come out of the late twentieth century." They had been so pleased with him then.

"You know how I feel about Colorado, J.V.," he said, swallowing hard. His Adam's Apple made a loud dry clicking sound when he did so, reminding him that he still hadn't refilled his glass of Scotch. "You know that I...I don't go there unless I have absolutely no other choice."

"I know," J.V. said sympathetically, "and this is one of those times that you really don't have any other choice."

When J.V. finally hung up, Kyle made a beeline for bathroom and his fully stocked medicine cabinet. He pulled out his container of Zanbars and smiled. These would help him to forget, if taken with a beer or something. Yeah; a beer, a burger, and a bar sounded like one hell of a way to end a night. Fuck all of those douchebags who said that mixing medication and booze was a bad idea. They probably just hadn't been through anything bad enough to make them want to do it. He had been, and he was not interested in remembering any of it until he absolutely had to.

Bottoms up, he thought as shut off the bathroom light and headed toward the kitchen.

III

The worst part about trying to do any writing on a plane was the people. People gawking, trying to sneak glances at the laptop screen, wanting to make conversation. It pissed Kyle off royally and always made him miss the seclusion and privacy of his own study. To make matters worse, smoking was strictly prohibited. The two things essential to Kyle's writing were privacy and cigarettes. Take those things away and he had a hard time maintaining focus, and thus became more irritable that usual.

Sliding his laptop back into his carry on bag, he glared sourly out the window and wondered, not for the first time, if there was some alternative he'd overlooked. He must have gone over his contract at least a dozen times, looking for some loophole or stipulation that might allow him to veto his orders and get out of the mess he was in. There was none, of course, and simply walking away wouldn't be in his best interest, either. Despite the fact that he had written bestselling novels, other publishing companies would probably be hesitant about signing him if he ruined his book tour and gave the company that had made him what he is the shaft.

I'd be lucky to get a job writing movie reviews for a high school newspaper if I pulled a stunt like that.

He was stuck in this situation whether he liked it or not, and he absolutely hated being stuck. It made him feel helpless, like he wasn't in control of his own life. He had worked his ass off to get where he was, had clawed his way out of the endless cycle that is small time life so that he could have something better than a job shoveling french fries or toiling away his life in some mill. When he was made to feel controlled, he always thought about poor saps in jobs like those, busting their backs day in and day out for a boss who didn't give a shit whether they lived or died. Anyone who thought they could treat Kyle Broflovski that way would quickly find out otherwise.

So why couldn't he do anything about it? All of that was big talk, sure, but the proof is in the pudding, as the saying goes. If he was really such an independent wild stallion, why did it feel as though there was a fucking bit in his teeth? Had he become complacent and weak? No, that was ridiculous. It was caution, that was all. He needed to do the adult thing and not burn his bridges as he crossed them.

"Sir?" a voice called to him softly, bringing him out of his thoughts. He looked over and saw an airline stewardess standing there, looking at him.

"Yes?" he replied, smiling at her. God, she was hot! She reminded him of this pretty little thing he'd met on a flight to Phoenix two years back. He'd taken her into the bathroom, and together they had joined the Mile High Club. He wouldn't have minded doing the same with this woman, if given the chance.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asked.

"That depends," he said, giving a playful smile.

"On what, sir?"

"On whether you'll sit down and have a drink with me," he said giving the seat next to him a pat.

"Ugh," the stewardess said with a slight roll of her eyes, "that has got to be one of the worst pickup lines I've ever heard, and I hear about two or three dozen every flight."

He laughed at this, knowing that she was right and that he deserved it. Sure, such rudeness usually gives people an excuse to scream for a supervisor so that they can bitch and moan about poor customer service and how they were being treated, but he hardly thought that was necessary. After all, he'd started it, hadn't he? Besides, he liked her spunk, her "fuck with me and I'll tear your nuts off" attitude.

"How about a double bourbon, then," he said.

"Coming right up."

Several minutes later, he was staring out into the darkness again, sipping lightly at his drink, imagining himself in bed with the stewardess. He didn't even know her name, but that didn't stop her from moaning his name over and over in this little fantasy. He wasn't sure if it was this or the thought of her bouncing tits that made the erection start forming in his pants, as he really hadn't been paying much attention, but the next thing he knew there was a tell-tale bulge between his legs that he had to conceal from a shocked old lady across the aisle.

He returned his focus to the window and tried to pretend like it had never happened, even as he felt his cheeks begin to burn with embarrassment. Fuck. This trip had barely begun and things were already starting to go wrong. It was gonna be a long fucking week.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our final descent into Denver International Airport."

Kyle opened his eyes groggily and looked around. What? Final descent? What the hell? He looked at his watch and saw that it read 8:09AM. Somehow, he'd managed to sleep through the entire flight, though he had no memory of ever dozing off. Either that bourbon had been really strong or he'd been more exhausted than he'd realized.

"Please put your tray tables up," the captain continued, "and return your seats to the full upright position."

Kyle went through his usual mental checklist. First make sure that the cell phone, computer and iPod were all still in his bag. Check. Confirm that no one had lifted his wallet. Check. Inspect the briefcase and inventory all important papers. Check.

Guess I'm ready.

He knew that was a lie the minute it entered his head. He was not ready for this, would never be ready for this. No matter how he might set his jaw and tell himself that he was strong, he was a professional, and he could do anything, he knew deep down that things were inevitably going to go to hell and he had no idea what he was going to do when they did. Would he manage to keep his composure or would he end up curled up in a fetal position, calling for his mother who was five years dead?

A bump, followed by the screech of tires on the runway, marked the end of the trip. Fifteen minutes later, he was walking out the exit gate with an air of confidence he didn't feel at all. Still, it was good to keep up appearances. He was famous, after all. What would it do to his image if people mistakenly got the impression that he was afraid of flying and started spreading it around? Rule number one of being a celebrity was DON'T GIVE THE PUBLIC AMMUNITION. There were many former celebrities who only lost their place in the spotlight because they made the wrong mistake at the wrong time.

"Kyle?" a voice called out to him, causing him to look over in alarm. He hadn't informed anyone he was coming, so he didn't think anyone would be waiting for him. Obviously, he was wrong. A man with shaggy blond hair and sparkling blue eyes was standing there, less than a foot away, smiling at him.

"K...Kenny?" he sputtered, unable to believe his eyes. "You're...I mean, how...I..."

They threw their arms around each other and embraced tightly. They hadn't seen each other since the summer after fourth grade, when Kyle's family had moved to Connecticut, but the guy had hardly changed a bit.

"What are you doing here?" he asked in amazement. "How did you know...?"

"I didn't," Kenny admitted. "I'm just as surprised as you are. To be honest, I was here to meet someone else."

"Oh? Who?" Kyle asked, and immediately wished he hadn't. That was really none of his business, and asking nosy questions was a horrible way to make a first impression after almost two decades. "Sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"It's okay, really," Kenny said with a smile. "I'm here to meet Wendy Testaburger."

Kyle felt a painful twinge as the name caused memories that he'd long since buried to come to the surface again, like skeletons raised up out of the cemetery during a flood. Wendy Testaburger had been...Stan's girlfriend. The last time he'd seen her was at the funeral. He didn't speak to her that day, and the dirty looks he'd given her at every possible opportunity had kept her from approaching him. Wendy had always treated Stan like shit when he was alive, so seeing her that day, weeping over the closed casket, had filled him with rage. In his opinion, she had always been unworthy of someone like Stan.

"She's...she's gonna be here?" Kyle stuttered, suddenly feeling a panic attack coming on. He didn't want to see her.

"Yeah, dude," Kenny replied. "Hey, are you okay?"

"I've gotta get out of here," he said. He was suddenly having to fight to breathe. "I've gotta get out of here now."

He rushed off before Kenny could get another word in. He ducked behind a large marble column and leaned back against it. He closed his eyes and began working to regain his composure. It was all going to be fine. All he had to do was steer clear of Wendy and it would all be fine. The problem was, how could he accomplish that without being rude to Kenny, too? Kenny hadn't done anything wrong, after all.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! I knew it was a bad idea to come here.

He sank slowly to the floor and put his head between his knees. He knew this was an undignified position, and that he probably looked like a damn fool, but he couldn't have cared less about his image at that moment. His false air of confidence was long gone. All he wanted to do was find a taxi, go to his hotel room, and...

"Kyle?" he heard Kenny say. He looked up and saw his friend standing there, looking down at him with an expression of great concern on his face. "Kyle, what's wrong?"

Before he could answer, a woman jogged around the column, a small bag slung over her shoulder.

"Sorry I'm late, Kenny," she said. "The boss made me stay and clean up."

She looked down at Kyle with amused recognition. Kyle understood why, but he didn't find it nearly as funny as she did. Wendy Testaburger and the airline stewardess he'd hit on at the start of the flight were one and the same. When he thought of what that meant, he suddenly felt very sick to his stomach.

I imagined myself fucking her! I fantasized about fucking Stan's old girlfriend!

Knowing he'd never make it to the nearest bathroom in time, he jumped to his feet and grabbed a nearby trash can. He barely managed to get his face over it before his guts contracted and he found himself vomiting. Wendy recoiled in horror when he did so, but this barely registered with him. All he could think about was how he had finally gone too far. He had had a fantasy that was just...wrong on so many levels.

God, he could really use a fucking drink.