Stan woke up with a skull-splitting headache and a depression that could kill Paris Hilton. He could just barely remember the night before, coming over to Kenny's and whining about his problems, and perhaps a vague memory of some drug use, but that was all of the recollection he could muster. He blinked violently, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the light. There was something rather unnerving about the airiness of his limbs and a deep feeling of dread festering at the back of his skull, but Stan tried his hardest to ignore it and wrench himself up from the blanket.

He knew that there was something off concerning the energy in the room. Sure, there were still beer bottles littering the place and a pungent smell that could only be described as pot, but the spiritual energy felt weak. Something was so off kilter that it made Stan sink even farther into a depression; a realization so devastating that to somehow recover from it would be a miracle.

Kenny was gone.

He wasn't sure how much time passed as he calmly recollected the night before, but he tried to measure it in the sounds of the doors in Kenny's shitty apartment slamming shut, starting the day for every piece of sleazy filth in South Park. Weaving his hand through his soft, black locks, Stan thought about coming over in complete distress, and doing drugs for the first time, and kissing Kenny…

"I kissed Kenny," he whispered out loud, trying to hold back tears that suddenly crept up on him. Yes, and before he kissed Kenny, or, more accurately, before he asked Kenny to kiss him… Kenny told him that he was going to die. In a fuzzy, dazed state, Stan had watched Kenny die and he did nothing, nothing at all. And now, he had to try and think logically about what to do with the body. It was so fucked up, he realized, to have to deal with the corpse of your best friend this early in the morning, this early in life. He wasn't even in the mob, for Christ's sake, and now he had to worry about what to do with this rapidly decaying body?

Why the fuck did shit like this always happen to him? What did he do to make God and everyone else on earth to hate him so much? Only bad people who killed their grandmothers or John Lennon deserved shit like this, and here was Stan, poor Stanley Marsh, already considered a washed up high school star quarterback whose life had taken a wrong turn, dealing with the consequences.

He was sick. Sick and tired of feeling so fucking depressed all of the time, sick and tired of feeling so bitter and abandoned and alone.

Picking up his jacket and grabbing his keys off of the cardboard box strewn with marijuana, Stan had finally had enough.

Kyle walked up the steps, running his hand nervously through his curly red hair. He wasn't altogether sure about why he was so nervous, or why he felt the urge to dress in his nicest pair of black jeans and a button up shirt. He chalked it up to what he liked to call his "sixth Jew sense." Ringing the doorbell to Stan's house, he just figured that perhaps he wanted to make a good impression on his friend, or-

"What the fuck are you doing here, Jew?" Or maybe he could just tell that today wasn't the day to dress like the college slacker he was. In this particular situation, Kyle realized that he could turn around and fly at Cartman in a fit of passionate rage for calling him the nickname he absolutely detested. That was definitely an option worth considering, if one was still an immature high school kid with a quick temper. But no, this was Kyle Broflovski, straight A Harvard student extraordinaire. He was going to handle this unfortunately situation with class and even temper.

"Hello Eric," he responded evenly, not bothering to gaze upon the fat boy's visage. "Coming to see Stan as well?" Yes, that'll throw him for a loop, Kyle thought proudly. He waited for someone to answer while he waited for the fat ass to reply, but shockingly came to pass. Maybe, he figured, if I just stand here and face the door, someone with open it, and then I can go in and-

"Jew, I think it's pretty apparent that your butt buddy isn't coming to the door." Kyle felt his face flush at the accusation, and suddenly his blood was boiling under his skin like it hadn't in over a year. Now Cartman had gone too far.

Pounding the poor wooden portal with a fist before wheeling on the fat ass, Kyle had no thought of any consequences as he went face-to-face with his enemy.

"Don't ever call him that again, fat ass. He's my best friend, only my best friend, and you fucking know that."

"Well gee Kahl, the way you're getting all hot and bothered, I'd say that you're just covering up your-"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU RACIST, EGOTISTICAL, FAT SON OF A BITCH!" Kyle roared, trying his hardest to refrain from punching the fat bastard in the mouth. There were tricks that Cartman used to get under Kyle's skin, tricks that he must have picked up from some secret fucking government agency because no one could turn Kyle from calm to irate in three seconds flat like him. What seemed to infuriate the ginger even more was the fact that Cartman retained that smirk, that goddamn cocky smirk that even Kyle had to admit was pretty nice to look at. Oh fuck no.

"My my, Kahl, I didn't know that daywalkers were capable of turning redder than their hair," Cartman retorted, coolly staring down the green eyed boy through his sunglasses. Perhaps this trip to America's asshole wouldn't be too bad, he thought as he moved his body towards Kyle. And just before Cartman could get to the actual fun, a loud sputtering car spewing exhaust and just overall ugliness pulled up to the Marsh residence.

"GET THE FUCK IN THE CAR!"

Kyle woke up to the sound of a rhythmic beeping. It was a sound that he had heard frequently in sad movies, the type of beep that indicated the life of someone and whether or not it was hanging by a thread. He blinked open his eyes, trying to figure out if maybe this was all just some nightmare, or if he really was where intuition told him.

"Mr. Broflovski?" That was never a good sign. He looked over at the voice, taking in the middle-aged doctor handling a clipboard. The identification on his credentials said that he was Dr. Thomas Weaver, M.D. "Mr. Broflovski, can you understand me?" the voice came again, and Kyle had no choice but to respond.

"Yes, I understand."

"Good, good," Weaver responded as he checked a few things on the clipboard. "Mr. Broflovski, do you remember what happened?" Kyle shook his head immediately, wanting answers as soon as possible. He heard the doctor exhale, running his hand through his hair.

"Mr. Broflovski- may I call you Kyle?" After a quick nod from the Jewish boy, he continued. "Kyle, you were in a car accident with your friends, Stanley Marsh and Eric Cartman. Upon impact, your seatbelt failed and your head was pretty nicely bashed into the dashboard. You sustained minor fractures in your skull, as well as a concussion..." The doctor continued in the background as Kyle blinked rapidly at his blanket, trying his best to accept what the doctor was telling him. Millions of questions fired off in his head, like why was he in an accident? When did he meet up with Stan? Why in God's name was Eric Cartman there? What happened to his friends?

"Kyle?" he heard the doctor question, quickly snapping him out of his reverie and back to the situation at hand.

"What happened to them? My friends, what happened to them?" Weaver looked troubled for a moment, shifting back and forth nervously.

"Mr. Cartman, the plumper of the two, he managed to escape the car and sustained a broken arm and a few cracked ribs."

"And Stan? What about Stan?" Kyle asked desperately, fearing the response but needing to hear it.

"Mr. Broflovski, I'm sorry to tell you that Mr. Marsh is currently in a coma."