The old cassette player in the City Wok kitchen doesn't work right, hasn't functioned since sometime in the middle of '97 or '93, wavers between the two. Mr Kim's told the story a hundred times, during the off hours, when the ceiling fans sluggishly cut through the stagnant air, sticky and thick as pork fried rice, and when not a soul sits slumped in the stiff chairs, modelled with motifs of the Ming or Qing or whatever dynasty. He leans over the front counter, talking over his shoulder, about how he bought the thing when it first came out in nineteen-eighty-something, when it was a damn big deal that something could play radio stations along with cassettes. When City Wok opened, he set it up in a nice snug corner, so as he slaved over the hot woks and chopping boards, he could listen to anything, anything on FM or AM or stored in a little plastic box.

But then something gummed up the works—he hit the buttons with hands slicked with peanut oil, or he elbowed it whilst wrapping dumplings, or he splashed some General Tso's sauce on it; that part changes every time—and the radio died. From then on, only cassettes played, ones he bought at garage sales, at flea markets, at places that'd give away boxes for under a buck. Some were broken, robbed of their tapes entirely and sold to rip off the unsuspecting, while others had specially edited versions, from people cutting out the strips that stored their least favourite songs. One he bought off a homeless guy, The Mama's and Papa's 16 Greatest Hits, or maybe he pocketed it at an estate sale because the mourning relatives were charging too much. Someone cut out fifteen of the tracks, leaving only the first, California Dreamin', taping the ends together to form an endless loop of psychedelic. Of course he didn't know that, when he popped it in the player, didn't really mind when the track ended and, before Dedicated to the One I Love could start, the guitar played the same damn tune as it did before, unable to depart from 1965. And when the tape got jammed, so stuck that no amount of prying with forks or beating with fists could force the Sony to cough it out, the kitchen couldn't leave either, forever filled with the voices of Cass, John, Michelle, and Dennie.

Sure, the thing had a plug, one that could easily be pulled during the working hours, but Kenny liked the music, preferred their voices to the silence. He didn't mind whistling the fluid rhythm, as he stir-fried or sautéed snow peas, or tapping his foot to the beat, as he dropped wontons or bamboo shoots into broth. It gave him a tempo, a tempo to follow when Mr Kim shouted orders to him from the front, whether people wanted city chicken or city sour soup. He can rely on those riffs and chords, to keep the fumes of spices from going to his head, keep the flames in the ancient stovetop from jumping too high, keep the thoughts of his own life's mess confined to a neat carryout carton with a red pagoda printed on the side and a packaged fortune cookie sitting over the folded top.

Water spurts from the factory faucet, in a hard torrent, pipes embedded in the walls whining from excessive pressure. The water hits the dirty wok, like liquid bullets, firing rapidly into the dark steel, using brute force to scrape off the grime. Crisped noodles—from lo or chow or whatever kind of mein—washes off into the silver basin, tumbling with clumps of charred baby corn and burnt carrots. Carefully, as not to put his hand in the line of fire, Kenny turns the wok from side to side, water swashing this way and that, waves sweeping up the gross leftovers. A mist, light but hot, brushes over his face, carrying with it the smell of chlorine and MSG. He takes a deep breath, squeezing the rag wrapped around his hand, making a soft squish. Sudsy secretions seep between his fingers, harsh antiseptic wash carving wrinkles on his palms.

"You' jus' like that girl in Chungking Express, Dennis," Mr Kim always says, says when he hears Kenny's unconscious singing drift over the sounds of sizzling pans and simmering pots, "A'ways-a listenin' to loud music. Don't wanna think." Kenny might not know a damn thing about Hong Kong cinema, but he does know Mr Kim's right about that: he doesn't want to think. He doesn't want to think about how, five years out of high school, he's still in the same small town, working as a cook in a Chinese joint run by a white man pretending to be yellow, coming home every night reeking of moo shu pork and cheap menthol cigarillos.

He leans the wok over, directing water over the far edge, in an uneven chug-chug-chugging current. The miniscule cubes of beef and flabby slices of mushroom latch to the flow, riding the rivers down the drain, disappearing forever into the black void of sewage. The dull scents of culinary chemicals die away, flushed out. Then, he slides the wok in, angles it so it rests at a slight incline, the closest he can get to laying it flat in a basin too small. He nudges the spigot with his wrist, flow still near-boiling even with his sleeve as a buffer, so the nozzle hovers over the higher end. Under a screen of water, the black steel shines, shimmers under the LED bulbs too bright for their sockets.

The Mamas' voices rise over the tap, singing about how they got down on their knees, got down and pretended to pray, and Kenny remembers how he found this wok, in the dumpster behind P.F. Chang's. He thinks about, as he puts the soapy rag to the metal. Bubbles of discount cleaner cling to adhesive water, foaming walls rippling out with each circular motion, Kenny gently rubbing away the slick and oily remains. He doesn't know exactly how it ended up leaned against a bag of spoiled cabbage, but he scooped it up from the back, rinsed it off at home, and the next day offered it up to Mr Kim as a replacement, for the wok he scorched a few weeks before, so badly no amount of re-seasoning could salvage the cast iron. Mr Kim gave a close inspection, his eyes squinting more than their default exaggeration, before allowing it, merely ordering Kenny give it a few more thorough washes. Every damn day since, Kenny's used it, and every damn day he wonders, wonders what flaws the managers saw, what made them order some part-time gopher to toss it with the rotting pad thai and half-eaten firecracker chicken. But, every time, he reminds himself that it doesn't take much—not much at all—for people to toss something aside.

That's the kind of town South Park is, anyway: a town of discarded things, filled with half-hearts and half-asses. People everywhere—in the magazines and on the TV—warn against the concrete jungle, how that's the beast that'll kill, but never, ever do they talk about the goddamn lethality of small towns like this They never bring up those itty bitty dots on the big state maps, the quiet little mountain towns. Places like these, insignificant spots sprinkled in the remote backwoods, don't just swallow a person like the merciful cities; they eat slow, gnaw and nibble away at the edges, until eventually there isn't enough left to leave. That's why so, so many counted down for graduation, for high school to unlock the shackles around their ankles and free them to pack their bags and head off, to Denver or Boulder or Fort Collins, to Berkley or Salt Lake or San Antonio, to New York or Boston or Anywhere-But-Here. Because mixed in with the evergreen's aroma and crisp breeze was something poisonous, toxic, one that kills all those pretty dreams of escape, and paralyses a person with perpetual winter days.

Most people left, left before it got to them, left after they threw their square caps up to the gymnasium ceiling. Then, clutching their diplomas tied with silken green ribbons, they embarked on their journeys, to the huge state system universities and the quaint liberal arts colleges, eager to start the next chapters of their lives and refer to South Park only as the place of their childhood. There, there the town could sit, affixed in some craft-store shadowbox or art-show landscape, so, so pretty so long as it stayed far enough away, far enough that its bite couldn't hurt them anymore.

Most people left—Bebe flew to Pasadena, Cartman snuck to Reno, Stan and Kyle drove together to Boulder—but some people stayed, and Kenny was one of them. He stayed because, the week before he turned eighteen, Carol and Stuart got busted as accomplices in some tristate meth operation, with enough evidence against them to haul them to the big house, keep them gone for ten years before even thinking of parole. He stayed because, that birthday when the law celebrated him as a bona fide legal adult, Kenny filed for legal guardianship of Karen McCormick, ensuring dear old mom and dad couldn't screw with her life ever again. He stayed because, with Kevin deployed somewhere in Afghanistan fighting the Taliban, there was no one else to look after her, no one but him to keep his Kare Bear safe. Kenny stayed in South Park so that, one day, she could finally leave.

The wok sheds its dirtiness and becomes clean, under his gliding strokes. The player coughs static, as the song ends, begins again. He washes off the browned orange peels, humming about the still brown leaves. The rag absorbs the gross and disgusting, damp to wet to soaked, drenched in awful excess. The silver floor floods with tainted water, sloshing from side to side, slapping and splashing, clusters of foam drizzled throughout. The drain glugs, its throat thinning with clogged rice grains and jammed water chestnuts, slow in gulping down the suds. At the end of the night, everything starts getting tired; the sink's exhausted, the plumbing's exhausted, Kenny's fucking exhausted.

Just this last one, he tells himself, as he reaches for one of the handles, just this one more. Mitted hand grasps around the metal wood, tightening his grip with a gurgling squash. Avoiding the direct stream, Kenny lifts the wok from the sink. A collection of cluttered bubbles sits in a low pool, collected at the bottom, capturing the light bouncing off the eggshell walls. He dumps it over, all that extra pouring into the basin, one quick gush that stirs the already raging seas. Then, he brings the steel to his face, to search for any lingering stains, confirm that all he has to do is pop it on a burner at high heat, tell Mr Kim he finished, then pop it in the cabinet and be on his way.

Tired blue eyes narrow, drying retinas stinging as he scans over the dipping contours, searching for any lingering stains. He concentrates, focuses everything into his gaze, to keep his vision clear and steady, stave off the fatigue oh so gradually consuming him. He bites the inside of his lip, canines lightly chewing, just to cross that threshold of minimal stimulation, to keep boredom from crossing his eyes. Then, he inhales, inhales that awful stench, that nauseating mix of Chinese and cleaner. It burns his nostrils, like bleach going right to the brain, the smell all bad trips are made of. Teeth press harder, praying the fumes don't paint on imaginary blotches on the black, force him to spend another fifteen minutes on things that aren't there. When the doctor, years and years from now, diagnoses him with cancer, he'll blame this shit before the cigs. He already blames it for the nights when it takes ten tries to unlock his front door, or when he keeps tripping on his own two feet cruising down the sidewalk, high as all hell and hoping it wears off soon. The only real upside here is the music, the mellow marijuana beats more soothing to his ears than the shit he and Craig got baked to in high school, playing MSI and NIN and all that other punk-ass shit; not that the pretty little alto flute solo can fix the headache he'll have tomorrow morning.

The door opens, and the loud creaks of its hinges scratch along the inside of his skull, dragging on him like Freddy Krueger's razor nails. He can't make out the rounds, of the Papas or the Mamas, the pins grating within the tight hug of the plates, whining for aerosol oil even though the owner's too cheap for such low-level repairs. His shoulders pinch together, snip a nerve, send a sharp pain radiating through the fibres of his back. As his brain receives the signals, the ones that say ouch and ow and motherfucker, his teeth bite, bite too hard. As he looks away from the steel, he tastes iron in his mouth.

Shades of imperial red silhouette Mr Kim, his form outlined by the hues of the restaurant proper, by the crimsons and carmines and cardinals, by the colours of good luck and happiness and communism. They all blend together, into one aggravating sore, eyes parched and itchy, too vivid for vision adjusted to the stark kitchen, to cold white and bleak black. Mr Kim is made up of an easier palette, of textures and lines, his body shaped by bad posture, his face by deep-set wrinkles. A ray of light reflects off the bald spot crowning his head, filtered only by his thin comb-over, by black hairs like the tip of an ink brush. His skin matches the bottled shrimp sauce, a light peachy colour with a wonky dampness, always clammy. He always wears a soured expression, lips set in a harsh line, his frown as much a part of his uniform as his dowdy restaurateur vest. He peers at Kenny, through the folds around his dark eyes, eyes that might be brown or blue or hazel or grey, but never open wide enough for Kenny to definitively tell.

"Dennis, how many times I-ah gotta terr you," He speaks in a grinding voice, in that stereotyped accent borrowed from Breakfast at Tiffany's, in a near-yell that'd make a deaf man snap up. He raises one hand, the hand clutching the wad of bills fresh from the register. The cash rustles—Washingtons flapping against Lincolns, Hamiltons beating on Jacksons, a few Grants tackling Franklins—as he shakes his fist, "No waste watah!"

That voice echo in his head, as the toxins dissipate and dilute in his bloodstream, clear out of his head. His eyes flutter, regaining concentration, as lashes driving out the smoke and vapours. He swallows down the spit and blood, tensing his grip on the metal as his mouth tastes metallic. Then, his ears perk, hearing that the preacher still knows, knows he's gonna stay, and the water's still running, with nothing in the sink.

"Shit," Kenny mutters, under his breath, hearing the words as he thinks them. He slaps the wok on the stovetop, plopping it on the coiled burner, the landing clatter loud as a hundred ritual gongs. It spins in place, rounded bottom turning it into a top, following the swirling paths of an outdated range. He moves two steps, one foot over the other, natural clumsiness making him stumble. The rag oozes soap, when he grabs the hot water knob and gives a quick twist: one twist and the flow halves, another and it quarters, one more and it's off. The wok evens out, noise tapering off as it steadies, its watery rival silenced. The music keeps playing, playing out those lousy little speakers, and with nothing else Kenny hears the melancholy between the tambourine's jangles.

Fingers flip through bills, in droning susurrus, as in Mr Kim counts—yī, èr, sān, sì—counts out his wage. He always pays in cash, always pays at the end of each shift. Just like back in middle school, when he hired a bunch of kids to work under the table, valuing the child labour force prohibited under United States law. And when Mr Kim offered him his old job back, after hearing how Kenny was having issues paying for Karen's second semester of community college, he insisted on continuing the arrangement they had before: come in for a shift, do the work, get the money, leave without a paper trail. Maybe this is his way of being nostalgic and honouring Kenny's long-term service, or maybe he's just so accustomed to doing shady business that he can't operate any other way.

He slides his hand out from the towel, skin greeted coldly by the conditioned air. A damp hand grabs a soggy cloth, wringing it with his palm, so frothy clumps fall into the sink like mutated snow, plummeting down to moist thunder. He reaches over, with his dry hand, to the knob on the stovetop, flicking it on and pointing the plastic arrow towards the HI marker. The stove grumbles, crankily waking from its brief slumber. The coils flush an angry red, then furious tangerine, and start to heat the underside of the wok. He gives the rag one more good squeeze, before draping it over the faucet. Beads of water drip, drip, drip off the cloth's edges.

Mr Kim shuffles, his loafers squeaking on the tile floor. Paper crinkles, seven bills plucked from the stack: one fifty, two twenties, four ones. An even ninety-four dollars, he earns for ten hours work. Should be something like ninety-three sixty, or his boss told him, but he always rounds up. Generosity, he says, but he might just be lazy, might just hate dealing with change, stupid little coins that slip out of pockets and fall on the floor, roll under tables and chairs and turn into money lost.

Kenny wipes his hand on the side of his leg, patting blotches into his jeans. He dyes the denim with his palm, and his phone vibrates against his leg, buzzing with new unread message of some sort. Not an email, not at this hour, not when he only gets Discover statements and YouTube alerts. A text, yeah, but options dwindle after dark, when most people in this town are either on a bender or on their way, him included. Praise small town predictability.

Mr Kim bursts his bubble of personal space, affording only a couple inches between them. He pulls that crouching-tiger-hidden-dragon stance, acting like he can intimidate like Bruce Lee or impose like Jackie Chan, like he can loom over someone with almost half a foot on him. Up close, Kenny sees just how sweat textures his already pasty skin. A fishy odour invades his nostrils, some off-brand cologne he always reeks of. It used to gross Kenny out, now all it does is desensitise. Everything does that these days.

He listens to the light ruffle, Mr Kim holding out his ninety-four dollars, measuring the distance between them with the length of the bills. Then he hears the thick crumple, of his boss surreptitiously folding the rest of money over his thumb, and stowing it in in his slacks. His eyes flit down, to the ridged and lined faces of past presidents, their eyes as hollow as his. Once upon a time, seeing this much money made him euphoric, back before adulthood happened. Now, his mind automatically sorts—Grant goes towards the month's electric and water, a Jackson covers this week's groceries, a couple Washingtons pay for another pack of smokes—things to buy now, things to pay for later, things that thin and pinch the pile into a meagre few bucks, which get deposited straight into his savings. Survival is expensive.

His shoulders slump as he raises his head, gaze shifting back to those narrowed slits. He shoves one hand in his pocket, and the phone buzzes again, vibrates against his fingers as they curl around the edges of a recycled paper wallet. With his other hand, he takes his money, compresses seven fabric-softened bills between two fingers and a thumb. His body is one dull ache, all the little pains bleeding into one another, until they become him. His lips pull into a weary smile.

"Arigato gozaimasu," Kenny thanks him, as he does every night, like a real Japanese princess. He steps back, towards the backdoor, and takes out his wallet, puts the money in. His wallet slaps shut, and the burner clicks off, Mr Kim taking over the final closing duties.

"Méi wèntí," A perfect Mandarin reply, the other half of their cordial exchange. It marks the end of them being employee and employer, and he always honours that, considers Kenny's shift completely over as soon as the payment transfers, doesn't ask anything else of him. He grabs the wok, all moisture fully evaporated from the surface, opens the cabinet, and stores it with the rest of their kitchenware. He doesn't mention anything still in need of doing—taking out the trash, scrubbing off the stove, unplugging the player—assuming those chores without complaint, without any requests for one more thing. For all of his quirks, Tuong Lu Kim isn't the worst boss, not even a bad one.

Kenny passes the inlaid line of cookers, shining silver becoming blank concrete. On an otherwise bare wall, next to the door, his parka hangs off a single coat hook, dangling by the hood. He picks it off like fruit from a tree, and slips it on, left arm then right. With a quick twist of the knob, the door flies open, wood too light and hinges too loose. Chilly wind carries the aroma of evergreens and stench of dumpster juice, stinging his face as it usher him out. He flips up his hood, strands of messy gold mingling with synthetic fur. Maybe he'd be safe and warm if he was in LA, but in South Park it's always fucking freezing, no matter the season. Even in June, he walks around in traffic cone nylon, lined with burnt umber down. It's supposed to ward off the chill, but it always nips him anyway.

"See you to-mahr-row, Dennis!" Mr Kim calls out, in a vaguely friendly manner, as Kenny steps out on the backlot's asphalt. Kenny glances over his shoulder, gives a quick wave, then uses his foot to kick the door closed. Last thing he hears is that fucking song: California Dreamin', on such a—

Shitty night. Clouds mar the sky, streaks of ash snuffing out the starlight. The moon sits under a suffocating veil, its pale glow tarnished by the thick blankets. Its beams sift through, but their brilliance is dimmed, touching the ground as shadows of themselves. Looking up, Kenny thinks how God must be using this town as an ashtray tonight; and how much he needs a goddamn drag.

From his coat's pockets, he fishes around for his pack of Cheyennes, fingers poking for the opening. The half-empty pack rattles around, until his fingertips find that nice cigar paper, pulls out a much needed menthol. Ironic, how he only smokes the frosty peppermint shit way up in America's icecaps, like he needs something hot to make him cold. Karen keeps telling him to quit, like a good nurse-in-training, begging her big brother to stop sucking on what she called killer cinnamon sticks. She's right—Kenny thinks, popping the filter in his mouth—they do look like cinnamon sticks.

He rescues his little Bic lighter from the depths of his jacket, holds it up to the paper. He cups another hand around, shielding the ignition from the wind, as he rolls the etched wheel down, holds his thumb on the button. A slender flame ignites, with an easy flick. The fire licks the paper, while he tongues the filter, and peels apart the brown, turns tobacco to ember. Smoke fills his mouth, and he invites it into his lungs, forgetting momentarily how he's not supposed to inhale. Hard habit to break, after years spent lining his insides with ash, back when he only smoked with buddies after school; he hasn't had one of those since Craig finished up his Associate's in Business Administration, before he earned a managerial position at the pet store and filtered nicotine out of his life, and Kenny along with it.

He starts walking, house keys jangling with each step, walking along the white painted lines, the ones that direct delivery trucks and garbage men. The backroad runs behind all the shops of CtPa Town, because this place turned historic less than a decade ago, and if the area can truly be rejuvenated by the magical process of gentrification, that means all the ugly needs a special place to be hidden away. Kenny's a part of that ugliness, working in the shadows of the most modern district in town, and living in the rundown skeleton of the town's first attempt at 'revival'. He gave up on dreaming for a pretty life long ago.

A cloudy puff leaks from his mouth, steaming out on either side of the cig. Saliva glues the paper to pursed lips, lets him exhale hands-free. He trades his lighter for his phone as he inhales. His breath rekindles the cherry, tobacco smouldering, flushing red. He holds the smoke in his mouth, and then holds up his iPhone. The tangerine glow reflects off the cracked screen, speckling inactive black with bits of orange. He lets out another breath, and presses down a couple times on the gammy home button. Everything here needs a few hits to wake up.

The side street illumines, with the blinding light of the Father, the Son, and Steven Jobs' ghost. Kenny squints, waiting for the backlit words to turn legible again, eyes slow to adjust. All he sees is the time—big skinny numbers reading 10:34—and a wall of notifications, all the messages he ignored during his shift, names and texts of different lengths. If anyone looked over his shoulder, didn't read the gapping time stamps, people might think he was popular or something. He swipes his thumb across the top message, and pounds in his passcode, so he can send out replies once the fuzzy blurs turn legible.

Kenny takes a turn, rounding into a thin alleyway, the one separating City Wok from Skeeter's Bar. Newspaper crumples and cans crinkle under the weight of his boots, kicking aside a few random bits of trash. At the end, he sees the streetlamp, shining warmly to showcase the clean façades. Still in shadows, mounted on the edge, is a small smoker's receptacle, purposely out of street view. Kenny asked once, why it was so out of the way, why he couldn't at least put it somewhere with better lighting. Skeeter looked him dead in the eyes, said "To discourage smoking." Maybe it would've bothered Kenny less if it was tobacco, not alcohol, that told his dad to give his son a black eye, for overhearing him moaning another boy's name while he jerked off in the shower; but he stayed his tongue, took a gulp of his Coors, and let Skeeter continue serving drinks his patrons, serving up the more fashionable method of eventual suicide.

Lines and curves define themselves, scribbles becoming words inside the blue and grey speech bubbles:

Tonight still good? – 11:32 AM.

yeah shift ends 10:30 ish – 11:41 AM.

Sorry. Running late. Be there soon. – 10:31 PM.

A sigh leaves Kenny's lips, as he stops, just before the streets glow. He takes another drag, lets the smoke travel up, heat rising to the sinuses, to play with all the nerve endings embedded in the bridge. The mint activates his old-factory senses, the little sorta-tingles-kinda-tickles type sensations that convert his nose into a coal burning plant. He always called them that, even though Craig used to yell at him, correct him by saying they were olfactory senses, but Karen told him that wasn't the right term to use. Kenny agreed, not because of academic book-learning of medical know-how, but because it sounded far too smooth to him, lacking the corrosion and coarseness that the smoke cleanses from his systems. It leaves through his nose, slowly, and he takes the cigarillo from his lips, "Dammit, Ger."

At eighteen years old, Colorado law still thought Kenny too young to be Karen's legal guardian, hesitant to grant him custody, when by the time he met their requirements Karen would be an adult herself. But things were still too dicey, with too many open possibilities, too many chances for other people to screw things up for his baby sister, at only her expense. Luckily for him, one of his best friend's dads had a law degree, and knew damn well how to use it. So, while he helped Kyle fill out college applications, he also helped Kenny file legal paperwork, prepping him for an uphill battle in court to have the justice system award him guardianship early. At first it was weird, visiting the Broflovski residence without Kyle there, but somewhere between talking about statutes and preparing for appeals he and Gerald became friends. Hell, he treated Kenny to his first legal drink when hit twenty-one, almost like father and son. Maybe it happened because of the absence, of Kenny's father and of Gerald's son.

He takes the cigarillo from his lips, and taps it on the disposal's ashtray. Cinders crumble in pale clumps, breaking when they impact that fireproof plastic. He types out his reply—np having a smoke—and presses send, before taking puff. The crisp flavour consoles him, assures him not to worry. Besides, if he walks in with a light, the bartender'll tell him to either put it out or butt out. He decides, with time to spare, he can read any other messages his missed at work, pop the blue bubbles next to contact names and hope passers-by just pretend he doesn't exist.

In his main inbox, he goes down the list, selecting the name right under Gerald's. The screen swipes to the side, and brings up another string of multi-coloured speech blobs. Small grey text and a line severs the week-old from the most recent, and Kenny scans over the blurbs beneath:

hey cant do tonite late shift sorry – 11:24 AM

Aww : ( – 1:57 PM

Tomorrow? – 1:58 PM

Just had the carpets steamed ; ) – 1:58 PM

He chuckles in puffs, smoked expelled with each laugh. Not many people expected Token Black to bat for both teams, their lenses tinted with the shades of racial profiling, determining that being African American, upper middle class, and LGBT would be a little too diverse. Nevertheless, when Token finished up at Howard University, he returned home, wanting to take a year off before entering either Georgetown or Johns Hopkins. He came back expecting to join his parents on their year-long tour of Europe, only to find his parents already gone and a note informing him of his real reason back: housesitting. They sipped vintage wines on the French Riviera and sampled goat cheese atop the Swiss Alps, while Token loafed in white bread Middle America and struggled to find entertainment. Then he found Kenny.

A couple walks past him, kitten heels and boat shoes scuffling on the concrete slabs. Then one of them—the woman—coughs, noticeably fake, a statement for a tobacco free nation, even though she wears a marijuana perfume. Kenny looks up, too late to see their faces, only seeing their backs. They walk arm-in-arm, with a dark-haired woman leaning on the shoulder of a stocky man. He hears the woman murmur something—probably how some dumb smoker totally ruined the romance—and watches the man plant a kiss on her head, whisper something back. As they pass City Wok, the yellow lights switch off, windows blacking out as the couple walks off to finish their date back at his place.

Yeah, no, he and Token are nothing like that. Theirs is a relationship of convenience, not even countable under the unspoken laws and dogmas of dating and screwing. They're friends who have nothing better to do, both with gaps in their lives the other just so happens to be able to fill. They mess around so they kill time, and kill time so they don't dwell on the circumstances that brought them both to where they are now. They meet up, they watch shit on Hulu, they fuck, they eat Doritos on the couch, they say goodbye. Kenny is Token's leisure activity during his life's standstill, and Token is Kenny's periodic distraction from his life's tedium. Any other kind of relationship is out of his grasp.

Kenny quickly writes out a reply: afternoon u tell me when n ill come. He sends without expecting a reply, at least not tonight. No, he predicts sometime tomorrow, when booty calls, Token will shoot him a time frame, and then Kenny will say when he can show up. If there was money involve, it'd be straight-up prostitution, but no one cares if someone's selling their service for free.

Next on the list is a short message—restocked fridge! tell gerald hi from me tonight!—from Karen, labelled in his phone simply as Kare, an emoji of a bear beside her name. Everyone knew all three McCormick siblings were close, their shared and shitty childhood forging between them an unbreakable bond. They survived parental neglect and domestic abuse by looking out for one another, and as much as Kenny looks after Karen she does the same for him, by doing some of the chores around the house, by double checking his work schedule, by just checking on him and being herself. His eyes glide over the words, his mind ascribing her voice to the text, hearing the gold leaf notes float upon her airy timbre. He knows that, by the time he gets home, she'll be sound asleep, curled up in her blankets, her anatomy and biology textbooks still open at the edge of her bed. His lips soften into a small grin, and he sends her a less-than-three.

He peers out from the darkness, glancing down the street. Picturesque storefronts line the avenue, with their masonry finishes and their metal awnings. Some windows still glow, with warm light crèmes or cool sea foams, preserving the atmospheres created during operating hours. Others merely reflect the streetlights, mirror the few people strolling on the sidewalks, either concluding their outings or just beginning them. He looks right then left, left then right, right then left, still seeing no sign of Gerald. The cherry flares and fades with his breath, then Kenny looks back at his phone. Only one more text still sits unread in his inbox, the conversation dating back to the morning. He reads this one slowly, starting under the marker saying today:

congrats on bein a homeowner stanny boy : ) – 11:30 AM

Haha were barely moved in – 11:32 AM

*we're – 11:32 AM

Kenny can't say he was surprised when he heard the news, when heard that Stan and Wendy were coming back to South Park. Even though Stan earned his Bachelor of Environmental Design, few companies and agencies felt inclined to hire a recent graduate, only offering at most an unpaid internship. Wendy fared no better, her Bachelor of Arts in Sociology meaning little to potential employers who wanted years of experience just for her to make copies. They tried staying away, lingering in Boulder for as long as they could, but the job market never let up its brutality.

bullshit uve got more furniture set up than i do – 11:33 AM

Bc if I didn't Wends would kill me – 11:36 AM

idk if she wants to b a single mom n have ur kid b an orphan – 11:37 AM

When a little pink plus sign appeared on a pee stick, fiscal trepidation harshly overshadowed parental jubilation. After months of smooth talking on his father's part, Stan found a job in town, one that paid well enough for him to start a family. His parents helped him buy a house in the west part of town, and both Marshes and Testaburgers transferred furniture in piecemeal portions, until they virtually settled before stepping foot through the door. Stan and Wendy only got to town officially a couple days ago, with most of their hours spent either sleeping or unpacking the remains of their apartment. He doubts they've even left their new home.

Lol – 11:38 AM

We haven't hung out in a while. You free? – 11:39 AM

The last time Kenny saw him was last August, at his wedding. Stan and his high school sweetheart stood at the altar, with his three best friends standing beside him, as his groomsmen, and vomited his vows until his pukey promises became holy matrimony. He slipped a diamond ring on Wendy's finger as she slid a platinum band on his, and he sealed their commitment with a bile-laced kiss. Cameras flashed, and captured the moment just before the groom ruined his bride's two-hundred dollar shoes.

not tonite man work – 11:44 AM

That was the last time Kenny saw any of them, saw Stan or Cartman or Kyle. When the four of them gathered together, their arms slung over each other's shoulders, posing for pictures and laughing between shots. Then, they were unchanged, getting along just like they used to, same jokes and same insults and same, same everything. They could've been right back at the bus stop, age six or eight or twelve or seventeen, as though they'd never been apart. Just like the photographs being taken, they were timeless.

Sorry had lunch. Maybe later this week. – 12:27 PM

But at the reception, that's when the differences showed. As a newlywed, Stan spent more time running between guests than genuinely socialising. Every two minutes, he heard Stan utter thanks for coming, sounding like a broken record before his first dance. Cartman lived at the snack table, stuffing his mouth with the gourmet goodies generously provided. He pocketed pastries for later, barking at anyone who saw, threatening to feed them their parents if they tried to stop him. Kyle delivered the longest best man's speech in history, holding his wine glass with the same hand splinted with a wrist brace. When he wasn't talking, he kept his lips on his date, on Mr Tall-Dark-and-Handsome David Rodriguez. And Kenny just stood around, in a sea of faces he didn't all recognise, finding solace in his free glasses of French champagne. What was their eternal turned ephemeral, and he wondered what the hell happened.

Btw she wants to kno if city wok can cater the reunion? – 12:29 PM

A groan escapes the back of his throat, as Kenny clenches his jaw. The filter bends between his teeth, and the cherry illuminates with angered breath. That's right, the reunion. Because even though five fucking years ago everybody wanted so damn desperately to get out of this place, all of a sudden it's time for everyone to come back. This town raised them, made them who they were, but they don't want to mention how it also tried to destroy them, attempted to murder them alive and trap them in this animated grave. Those pretty romantic memories of adolescence went through too many washes, all the shit-stains bleached out, until they couldn't tell it was a hellhole. Why would they ever want to come back to this?

"Kenny?"

He looks up, only to see Gerald, standing before him. Red colours his cheeks, from walking at too quickly down the blocks, breathing still strained. His pink knitted kippah hides most of the grey streaking his hair, although the brown of his beard has faded with time. He really doesn't look all too much like his son, except for his eyes; Kyle got those eyes, got that green colour, that rounded shape, that kindness and compassion imbued so deeply in the irises. Kenny doesn't know why, but seeing them makes him… melancholic.

Kenny takes the cig from his lips, all the smoke blowing from his mouth with an easy breath. He lets it dissipate, ebb away into the night air, "'Sup."

"I'm sorry," Gerald shakes his head slightly with his apology. The wrinkles on his forehead form and disappear, knitting and unknitting his brow. Light purple shadows underscore his eyes, "I should've left the house earlier."

"It's fine, man. Not like I have anywhere to be," He pauses, shakes ash into the tray, then pops it back in his mouth. Red lights, then fumes spread, "Kare says hi."

When Gerald smiles, he smiles like a dad. There's something in the curve of his lips that reads I'm proud of you, that really lets off that fatherly vibe. Maybe it's just projection, Kenny imagining things to make up for his own shit parents, "So does Shels."

He likes to think that Gerald means it, "So, Ike back from the Big Apple?"

"Next week," He says hoarsely, with the heave of the chest. He partly says it to himself, as a reassurance. A homecoming meant lots and lots of cleaning, and lots and lots of cleaning meant one Jewish housewife going into overdrive, inducing heart attacks with just one look. Gerald rolls his shoulders back, goes on thoughtfully, "He's back next week and Kyle's back tomorrow."

Kenny stops, midway through an inhale. The last time Kyle came here, came to South Park, was the summer between freshman and sophomore year. That was before, before the summer semesters stole him away, loading him with so much work that he dropped off the face of the earth every so often, only resurfacing sporadically. It might've been different, felt less upsetting, if he hadn't spent three weeks with that shiner, without mentioning it was his name that caused it, "Really?"

"Well, tomorrow night, technically," He bobs his head as he shrugs, always one for tiny animations, the subtly his wife lacks, "I don't know how late him and David are coming in."

"Right…" He remembers the high school David, the kid who showed up around freshman year, showing up as part of the ethnic wave, adding Latin spice to a bland predominantly white school. He was friends, friends with Kenny, with Kyle, with Stan and the rest, but they weren't overly close. Obviously in the years at Colorado University that changed, at least for him and Kyle. They'd been together a month or two as of the wedding, close to a year as of now. If they talked more, perhaps he'd feel happier for him, "Are they, like, here early for the reunion?"

"Yeah," Gerald looks to the side, to the window of the bar. His eyes capture the light emanating from the other side of the glass. He licks his lips, thinking of the grape on tap, "Their lease was up so they decided to come back now."

Kenny nods, and a few flecks of cinder fall gracefully to the ground. He can't decipher his feelings, can't tell why he isn't happier, why being happy is so hard. It's just the fatigue, he tells himself, nose pressed too hard to the grindstone, or however that saying goes. After he sleeps off the hours behind a kitchen stove, showers off the layers upon layers of grease, shoots up enough caffeine, he can feel good about it; he hopes, anyway, "So they staying with you or?"

"No, no," His words come out short chuckles, "Komfort Inn 'til the end of the week. I think he said something about them subletting somewhere in town 'til mid-August."

Kenny draws the smoke deep into his chest, letting the ash penetrate his lungs, coat the sensitive tissues. His whole body feels like peppermint, to make up for how he can barely feel at all. Then, ignoring the numbness in his muscles, he forces a smile, "Good for 'im."

A few more laughs leave his lips, his eyes still glued to the windows. As much as he values Kenny as a friend, there is a reason they meet at a bar, "How about… I let you finish that and I get us a spot at the bar? I'll order you a Chardonnay."

He rolls his eyes, snorts, "Got no qualms with a Keystone, y'know."

Gerald flashes him a smile, then walks away. Kenny listens to his footsteps trail off, then stop. The din of the bar floods out when the door opens, rousing greetings from its patrons. The noise slowly dwarfs, until the door finally shuts on its own. The street falls into silence, into stillness. This is what the writers all talk about when they go up into the mountains, babbling about the serenity; but Kenny hates how it gets like this, how lonely it is, isolated. That's what being here is like: isolating.

He looks at his phone, screen black from idleness. He sees himself through the cracks. Quickly, he turns his phone back on, returning to Stan's conversation history. His lips tighten around the paper as he sends out his message: how bout u n me grab ky tues for a threesome? Then, Kenny leans back, on his heels, and exhales another cloud.

The moon gazes down at him, solemnly. It doesn't matter month it here; it's always winter. The leaves look green but inside they're brown, and the skies look blue but actually they're grey. And he can't leave, can't leave this, can't leave South Park. He is the cassette, with its tape glued together, stuck in a loop for ever and ever. And all he can do is stare up at the clouds, and hum California Dreamin', on such a winter's day.

A/N: Hello everyone! I really hope you enjoyed the first chapter of my latest method of self-destruction! I have no idea how long this will be, all I know is that I have a very large plan filled with stupid emotions and sad gays. I'm really hoping you guys will stick around and read more, maybe even drop a favourite or review, but that's entirely up to you. Either way, thanks for reading!