"Hey, Token!"

Token blanched when he heard his name being called. He looked over to the table where his four friends were sitting, and shuffled over while balancing his lunch tray in his hands. "Hey, guys," he said warily, making sure to glance especially intensely at Stan, who had called him over.

"Hi Token," Cartman said with a bored tone, picking at a cafeteria chicken breast with his fingers.

"Hey dude," Stan repeated, gesturing to the chair next to him, which was empty. "Have a seat."

"Um." Token looked like he wanted to put his tray down, but something was stopping him. "This is really awkward," he began. His friends at the table looked up at him with blank stares, knowing exactly where this was going.

"Oh, fuck me, Token," Cartman said, wiping his hands off on his pants. "Don't tell me you're a fag now, too."

"Well, ah." Token shifted uncomfortably, trying very hard not to sit down. "I, um, wouldn't say that. But, well, yeah. I'm going to sit at the other table."

"The other table!" gasped a boy with a filthy mess of tangled blond hair, which looked almost gray from lack of attention. "Oh, Jesus!"

"It's okay, Tweek," Stan said calmly. "There's nothing wrong with the other table."

"Are you blind, Stan?" Cartman asked, going back to his chicken. "It may have escaped your lovey-dovey commie-hippie worldview, but they're all gay over there."

"Yeah, but," Stan started, but someone interrupted him.

"Bye Token," Clyde interjected. "It's been cool, man."

"We'll miss you," Stan added.

"Thanks." Token barely smiled, and shuffled off again to sit down at the table on the opposite side of the room. The four seated boys looked at each other. None of them had anything left to say on this subject for the moment.

A shriek pierced the silence.

"Oh, god!" Tweek cried. "Another one! They got another one! What if it happens to me?"

"Maybe it won't," Stan said flatly.

"Ah! Oh, lord. My dad said if I turn gay, he'll sell me into white slavery!"

"At least you'll enjoy it."

"Be quiet, Cartman." Stan was always trying to be reassuring, even if he knew there was nothing to be said. "Maybe you won't turn gay, Tweek."

"I'm sure as hell not turning gay," Clyde asserted, licking the lid of his pudding cup.

"Me neither," Cartman added. "I'm all man. Sometimes I go up to chicks and I'm like, hey, bitches! Do you want me to take you down to the river and fuck your brains out? And they say—" Cartman cleared his throat and continued in a falsetto. "—'Oh, please, Eric, fuck us, show us the ways of amore." Cartman pronounced this word 'ahm-ohree.'

"Dude," Clyde said. "That's not a word."

"Shut up, hippie," Cartman scoffed. "I'll tell you what's a word."

"Shut up your fat face, Cartman." Stan looked down at his lunch, which no longer looked appetizing after watching the asshole rip off bits of skin and eat them with his hands.

"I'm not fat," Cartman replied. "I'm just seriously pissed off at your being a little bitch."

"I think you're both little bitches," Clyde added.

"Yeah!" Tweek cried, pulling at his hair with the fork that was suddenly and inexplicably tangled up in the mess on his head. "You're freaking me out!"

"I'm too ugly to get gay," Clyde mused, apparently still interested in that topic.

"Oh, fuck me, you guys," Stan said, finally pushing his tray as far away as he could without knocking over Clyde's Yoo-Hoo. "This shit's not normal. Who's to say what's going to happen?"

"You said I wouldn't!" Tweek's left eye began to twitch massively. "My father would kill me. Once I asked him to make me a mocha and he made me sit in the back of a van wearing a tutu and he made me sit in there with a homeless man who smelled like pee."

"That didn't really happen."

"It did, Stan! I remember like it was yesterday! It was yesterday! Omigod omigod." Tweek paused. "I asked for a mocha yesterday. Maybe I'm gay now! Oh my god, I'm gay, you guys! Holy shit! I can't do this!"

"Fag," Cartman said cheerfully, smearing some butter on his chicken.

"Ugh, Tweek," Stan said, exasperated. "Do you want to screw a dude?" Tweek shook his head slowly.

"I can't even hold my own cock while I pee. That's apparently why I peed on the floor last week. Ohhhh, they were not happy about that, no no no."

"You pee on the floor because you're a fucking skeazed-out meth addict, Tweek." Cartman was now licking butter off of his fingers.

"Lunch is worse without Token," Clyde said morosely, eyeing Cartman's buttered chicken.

The boys ate in silence for a few minutes — all except for Stan, who generally lost his appetite by this point in a meal.

"Hey," Stan said, suddenly realizing a certain absence. "Where's Kenny?"

"Maybe he's at the other table," Clyde guessed.

"The little buttfucker's dead," Cartman said lazily, tearing into a chicken leg. "What's new?"

"Actually," Tweek interjected, the spoon in his hand clanking noisily on the table. "I hear he offed himself."

"No way," said Stan.

"Yes way," Tweek insisted. "He stuck his head in an oven! I bet it baked to a crisp! Oh, Jesus, can you imagine it? It's so freaking … ah!" Tweek dropped his spoon on the floor, and covered his eyes with his hands.

"Kenny's not the type to kill himself." Stan looked over at Cartman for confirmation.

"No, I bet the little asslicker did it."

"He would not!" Stan protested.

"Did too," Cartman insisted.

"That's what I hear," said Tweek, who was now pushing the spoon on the floor back and forth between his feet; his right shoe was missing and one of his toes was sticking out of his holey sock.

"All you hear are the voices in your head," Clyde scoffed.

"I'm serious, man!"

"Shut up, Tweek."

"You shut up, Cartman," Stan said definitively, getting up from the table.

"Where are you going?" Clyde asked.

"I'm going to ask Kyle what happened to Kenny."

"Oh god!" Tweek said. "They'll give you gay, Stan, Jesus!"

"Shut up, Tweek. You can't catch gay. You have to decide to be gay."

"You know that's not how it is, fat ass," Stan said derisively. He wasn't afraid of his best friend, and he wasn't afraid of the other table. As he approached, the entire group of laughing boys stopped, and looked at Stan. "Hey guys," Stan said coolly.

"Hiya, Stan!" Butters said cheerfully, waving.

"Hi Butters," Stan replied dully. He looked at Kyle, who was sitting with Craig on one side of him, and the nervous-looking Token on the other side. "Kyle, did Kenny kill himself?"

"What?" Kyle asked, distracted. "Oh, yeah. Yeah, he did. Why?"

"I dunno," Stan said lamely. "It's just not, very … well, it's not very Kenny."

"You know Kenny," Kyle said calmly. "He'll probably be back tomorrow." A few of the guys at the table gave each other confused looks.

"But killing yourself is really serious, fellas," Butters said genuinely.

"That's right, Butters. Killing yourself is serious."

"But not for Kenny!" Kyle was digging around in his pocket now.

"He's our friend, Kyle."

"Yeah, and we'll see him tomorrow."

"Don't you get what's wrong here?"

"Not really." Kyle shrugged. Craig gave Stan the finger.

"Oh, ha, Craig," Stan said without enthusiasm. Then, returning to Kyle, he said, "Maybe something's wrong with him. Maybe he's in pain."

"But he'll be back!"

"Ugh, Kyle." As Stan walked back to his table, he heard the chatter resume behind him. Stan didn't know if they were discussing him or what, but he figured he just didn't care.

XXX

"He is such a dick," Craig said sympathetically, rubbing Kyle's shoulder.

"Stop it, Craig," Kyle replied, pushing Craig's hand away. "I don't want to do this again."

"Do what again?" Token asked, completely lost.

"You don't know?" Butters asked, index fingers pushed together in a rather delicate-seeming way.

"Know what?" Token asked.

"You guys don't know over there?" asked a boy with a nausea-inducing faux-French accent from the other side of the table.

"Other where? At the other table?"

"I don't think—" Kyle began, shuffling his feet nervously under his chair.

"Kyle's in love with Stan!" Butters burst out, hardly able to contain himself. "I was sure you guys would know, it's about the most obvious thing."

"It's not," Kyle protested, pushing some potatoes around his plate.

"Oh, please," came that voice again.

"Shut it, Christophe," Craig nastily, shooting the other boy his middle finger.

"Do not call me that!" the angry boy shouted. "That name is fucking shit and so are you."

"Are you guys always like this?" Token asked, suddenly feeling even less confident and sure of his decision.

"Sure," came a muffle reply, as Butters was apparently now sucking on a lollipop.

"Basically," Christophe offered, "if you think sitting at this table is going to make life into less of a fucking shit parade, you have another thing coming."

"I like it here," Butters said casually.

"What the hell are you kids talking about?" Thomas asked from the other side of the table.

"I honestly have no idea," Token confessed. Then, softer, and to himself: "Maybe this was a bad idea."

"Stan is being a bitch again," Craig said, not really trying to make sure diners at other tables didn't hear this.

"No, he's not," Kyle said sadly, crumpling up his napkin and throwing it on his plate. "I have to go now." Kyle stood up and collected his tray. He scrambled away from the table as quickly as his legs could carry him.

XXX

That afternoon, Stan was ambling through the halls of South Park High School. Almost everyone he walked by said hello to him — it was an incredibly small school, with a fairly close-knit student body. The student population was something like 100 kids. Maybe less. Stan never counted. All he knew was that they all liked him.

Still, Stan wasn't looking for just anyone to talk to — he was looking for his best friend. He spied the redheaded boy kneeling by his locker with a black backpack by his jacket, which was also down there on the floor.

"Hey," he said warmly.

"Hi, Stanley," Kyle said glumly, shoving books in his backpack like there was no tomorrow. Stan still felt weird when Kyle called him by his full name. Only his mother called him that. Kyle had started doing this shortly after he told Stan he was a homosexual. It was five years later, and he tried not to vomit when Kyle said it, primarily because it reminded him of his mother. And his ridiculous, feckless retard of a father. And, well, it just caught his attention in a bad way. He couldn't describe it. All he knew was that Kyle never called him Stan anymore. But if Stan puked every time Kyle called him 'Stanley,' he would never keep anything down.

"Aren't you late for practice?"

"Ah, no," Stan said. "It's been postponed until 5."

"Great." Kyle finished packing his bag and slammed his locker shut. He picked up his brown pea coat from the floor and slipped it on. "Do you, um, want to get some coffee or something?"

"Oh, fuck no," Stan said smilingly. "I've spent too much time with Tweek today to deal with that crap."

"Ah." Kyle shuffled his feet, which was becoming a frequent habit of his. "What else is up?"

"Oh, you know," Stan began, walking Kyle down the hallway. "Kenny's dead."

"Oh, gee, not this again." Kyle stopped walking and poked Stan right on his sternum. "He'll be at school tomorrow, I guarantee you. You're such a freak, Stanley Marsh, worrying about a little thing like Kenny trying to kill himself."

"The thing is," Stan said slowly, trying to let his thoughts catch up. "The thing is not that he's dead, but that he wanted to be dead. Why doesn't that concern you?"

Kyle just shrugged and pulled on the hat he had been holding. "I have more pressing concerns."

"Like?"

"I have a paper due for Am lit on Monday that's only a quarter done."

"I haven't started mine. Really, what's bothering you?"

"Oh, my god, Stan," Kyle sighed, crossing his arms. "I'm fine. You're fine. Kenny? Will be fine."

"Well, maybe you can come over after practice."

"What is so great about your house?"

"I don't know," Stan shrugged. "I just need someone to shield me from my fucking father. Plus, you know, trig homework."

"Okay," Kyle said. "It's a date." Stan gave him a funny look. "I mean, like, you know…"

"I know what you mean, dude."

"That's why I like you, Stanley. You speak my language." Kyle left Stan standing in the hallway by himself, scratching his head.

You speak my language? he mused. What the hell does that even mean?

XXX

"Dammit, Frank," Carolyn Thompson spat, wringing her hands. "How the hell did you do it?"

"Well, Carolyn, if you'd really like to know, it is merely a testament to my flawless skills as a researcher, in addition to my, shall we say, casual charm."

"Ugh. You're charming like fucking sewer water." Then, in a hushed voice: "You know I needed that grant, Frank. I'm in debt up to my crotch, and I've got to present this thing at the conference next December. How am I supposed to finish it without that money?"

"I don't know, and I don't care. I'm sure you can hook your way to the British Library if you want it bad enough." He smiled devilishly, still throbbing with triumph.

"Where the hell are you going, anyway?"

"I already told you, it's a town called, um." He thought for a moment. "South Park. Anyway, the town isn't important, it's what's happening there that's important, and I need to talk to some of these kids."

"So you're spending that money to go to fucking Colorado to talk to some kids about why they're gay." Carolyn paused. "Brilliant. How much could one ticket cost?"

"It's not merely the travel. It's the room and board, and renting a car. And having a little funding left over to, shall we say, lubricate the project. Assist. Make things go more smoothly."

"Huh." Professor Thompson spun in her chair, thinking about how much she might like to murder Frank Granger in his sleep. "And when do you leave?" she added.

"A few days. I have some contacts to make before I go. I wouldn't like to arrive in the mountains and then be entirely shut out from resources as well as any kind of human civilization."

"It still amazes me that you were able to secure any kind of grant, let alone a prestigious one, for this project."

"Well, there are people who want to know. It's one of the great mysteries of our time. Can you honestly tell me that if you had a chance to look into why human sexuality develops as it does, you'd turn your nose up?"

"I prefer slum novels," she shrugged.

"And I'm sure you still will when I return with the great sociological discovery of our time. Meanwhile, the world will have learned nothing about the fucking Jago, and I'll be securing myself a tenured position at an Ivy."

"I hope you fucking fail," she muttered, returning to her papers. "I bet you can't figure out what causes homosexuality." She paused. "And even if you can, it's fucking horrible to even go there."

"I know what you think. I think it's horrible to be deprived of the choice. Don't you wish you could choose?"

Her lip quirked a little, but she answered resolutely. "Get out of my office."

"The next time I come to this office, Carolyn, you'll be hailing me as a victor."

"Get out, Frank."

Without saying another word, he stomped out of her office. He'd spent the morning idly perusing the town website and now, with information in hand, he had a few phone calls to make.