first ever attempt to write SP fic!
Here's the scrap of the first ever SP fic I tried to write! You'll notice some themes that surface in LATER WORK
They're halfway to their third job of the day when the song comes on the radio. Kenny is the one who makes Stan listen to country music when they're in the truck together, but Kenny isn't paying attention to the radio, just staring out the window and smoking his third cigarette of the day. He gets one per job, one after work, one after dinner, and one first thing in the morning, according to their agreement. It usually amounts to about half a pack a day, but Kenny has his own room in the apartment they share, so for all Stan knows he cheats and sneaks cigarettes all night long while surfing for porn on his computer.
“This fucking song,” Stan says, and he reaches to change the station, then just turns it down a little. Kenny takes a long drag on his cigarette and turns to squint at him.
“What are we doing next?” he asks, letting the smoke out in a long stream through his nostrils. Stan hates the smell of it, but Kenny is a lot easier to deal with when he's not trying to quit, so Stan doesn't pester him about it that much anymore.
“Termites,” Stan says, trying not to listen to the stupid lyrics. He hates country music. It's corny and obnoxious and sentimental, total crap.
“So I told you that I was happy for you,” Tim McGraw sings with his stupid twang. “And given the chance, I'd lie again.”
It's almost Hanukkah, which means Kyle will be in town soon, followed by Cartman and Wendy and Butters, home for Christmas along with all of the other kids who escaped South Park and only come back for the big holidays. Wendy and Bebe will arrange some kind of get together, and Stan will have to show up to babysit Kenny, who got so drunk at last year's reunion party that he ended up in the emergency room. Kyle helped Stan drag him there. Stan doesn't want to think about it, so he changes the radio station. That Tim McGraw song had played in the waiting room while Kenny had his stomach pumped, and Stan and Kyle had muttered together about how godawful it was, trying not to listen to the lyrics.
“We should skip town for the holidays,” Stan says. “I don't want to do the same old shit this year. My sister and her bratty fucking kids, her dick husband. And, you know. All the people who come back to town.”
“Kyle,” Kenny says with a smirk. “Specifically.”
“No, not just him,” Stan says, flushing, that song still stuck in his head. “Everybody. Fucking Wendy going on about her life in D.C., and Cartman with all of his bullshit, and - Butters.” Stan glances at Kenny, but he's looking out the window again.
They get to the Johnson house around three o'clock and start spraying for termites, Kenny doing the perimeter and Stan working on the inside of the house. Mrs. Johnson is in her bathrobe, following Stan around like she thinks he's going to steal something, and the house reeks of cats. Stan tries to tell himself he should be proud that he's the owner of his own successful pest control business, that he shouldn't feel like a failure just because he's not on the fast track to becoming a congressperson like Wendy or the district attorney of Boston like Kyle, or even a rich, sleazy defense attorney like Cartman, who works out of Boston largely so he can continue to harass Kyle. Stan has a decent life, getting stoned with Kenny in the evenings and rousing him for work in the mornings. He's his own boss. He's doing okay.
“You're Sharon and Randy's kid, aren't you?” Mrs. Johnson says when Stan climbs down from the attic.
“Yep,” he says, trying to be cheerful despite the suspicious look she's giving him. Out in the foyer, Kenny bangs inside, coughing and cursing about the cold. He needs to work on his customer service skills, but he's been needing to do that for the past five years, and Stan is almost ready to give up on it ever actually happening.
“You're about the only one of those kids who stuck around, aren't you?” Mrs. Johnson says. “Little Clyde Donovan used to live next door, but he's in Florida now, in real estate. Even that crippled kid Jimmy who used to live across the street moved away. I've heard he's out in Hollywood.”
“Yeah, that's right,” Stan says, trying to keep his boiling blood from showing on his face. “We're friends, me and Jimmy.”
“Oh, really?” Mrs. Johnson looks like she doesn't believe this. Kenny is standing in the doorway now, looking back and forth between the two of them.
“I'm not the only one who stayed,” Stan says, gesturing to Kenny. “There's Kenny here.”
“And Timmy,” Kenny says. Mrs. Johnson raises her eyebrows.
“The retarded boy?” she says.
Stan is in such a bad mood after the Johnson house job that he calls their next customer and tells him that he'll have to come tomorrow morning, that he's running behind. Kenny says nothing about this, but he's watching Stan like he's waiting for him to explode as he drives them back to their apartment.
“Hey,” Kenny says, jabbing Stan in the shoulder and pointing to the clock radio in the truck. It's twenty minutes past four o'clock. Kenny grins.
“Great,” Stan says, muttering. He never thought he'd end up a pothead, stuck in South Park, rooming with Kenny, who might be his best friend these days but doesn't even know how to do simple things like clean the lint out of the dryer or which kind of soap to use in the dishwasher. Kyle has accused Stan of only sticking around so that he can take care of Kenny, but Kyle is just jealous that Stan has a new best friend, even if Kyle is the one who left in the first place. When they were seniors in high school, Kyle got accepted to Yale and Stan barely got into Colorado State, where he put two years toward a psychology degree before flunking out and moving home with his parents. His heart was never really in it, especially after he had to start hearing stories about Kyle's ivy league success.
As soon as they get back to the apartment, Kenny fires up the bong and they fall onto the couch, still in their pest control jumpsuits. Stan puts the television on, and the Christmas commercials depress him. His parents still live across town in his childhood home, just a few streets down from the Broflovskis. He'll have to go over there on Christmas Eve and listen to his sister brag about how she has a vacation home in cape-something and that her children are certified geniuses, according to her. She married a know-it-all dweeb named Richard who programs computers or something. Kenny will be there, too, because his family doesn't do anything for Christmas, and he'll get drunk and embarrassing and Stan will have to carry him to the car. He glances over at Kenny, who grins and passes him the bong.
“What am I doing with my life?” Stan asks.
“Making the most of it,” Kenny says. He lets his head loll back onto the couch cushions. “I mean, you get to make your own schedule, you don't have some stupid wife nagging you or kids driving you crazy - and, hey, man.” Kenny whacks his arm. “You got me.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Stan mutters. He's almost thirty years old and this is what he's got: Kenny, the bong, and the freedom to cut out of work early and come home to watch the end of Oprah.
“This is the best fucking show,” Kenny says, and after a few more hits on the bong Stan agrees.
They make mac and cheese for dinner and eat it at the counter, out of the pan. Stan likes seeing Kenny well fed, after growing up listening to his stomach growling all the time. Kenny is a pretty good employee, despite the customer service issues. He's not averse to working hard when they need to. This is the slow time of year for them, when most bugs are dead or hibernating.
“This is the best thing we've ever cooked,” Kenny says as he scrapes crusted cheese from the sides of the pan.
“Totally,” Stan says, in a much better mood now.
An hour later they're both asleep on the couch in front of a Monday night football game. It's snowing outside when Stan wakes up, and he drags himself into the kitchen to do the dishes, stopping for a beer on the way. He drinks it while he watches the snow fall, feeling cozy, wondering if it's snowing up in Boston. Maybe it won't be so bad to see Kyle and the gang, and to have their successes rubbed in his face. Stan is happy for them, Cartman with his investment advice and Wendy with her brand new fiancé. He's glad they're all able to keep in touch, even if they only talk a couple of times a year.
When he's finished with the dishes he gets another beer and pads back to the couch, where Kenny is half-awake, his eyes slitted as he stares at the game. He puts his hand out, and Stan passes him the beer.
“Livin' the dream,” Kenny says when he passes it back.
Stan knows Kenny isn't happy like this, that he's being sarcastic, but he smiles over at him anyway. It's easier to just pretend. Kenny has his own issues to deal with when it comes to the return of South Park's prodigal sons. He used to sneak into Butters Stotch's bedroom at night when they were in high school, and he was so glazed over with authentic happiness back then that he actually quit getting fucked up for awhile. It was a secret, and Butters would blush and smile whenever Kenny stood close to him, his hands twitching at his sides. Kenny would brag about what an amazing lay Butters was, and Stan and Kyle would moan and put their hands over their ears, though Stan at least was kind of jealous, since he was with Wendy at the time and their sex life was awkward and frustrating. Kyle must have been jealous, too, since he turned out to be gayer than Kenny and Butters put together. He lives with some guy up in Boston now, a fellow lawyer. Butters is still in the closet, afraid of his parents, and he was living in Denver with his wife for awhile, but they moved out of state a few years ago. Kenny used to disappear for days at a time, and Stan knew he was with Butters, in motel rooms or the backseat of Kenny's car, but Stan never said anything. As far as he can tell they don't see each other anymore, and he's pretty sure Kenny is the main reason Butters moved away.
“Fucking Christmas,” Stan says when another toy commercial comes on.
“You used to love Christmas, man,” Kenny says, smacking him.
“Yeah,” Stan says, though he can't really remember what that felt like.
*
They're halfway to their third job of the day when the song comes on the radio. Kenny is the one who makes Stan listen to country music when they're in the truck together, but Kenny isn't paying attention to the radio, just staring out the window and smoking his third cigarette of the day. He gets one per job, one after work, one after dinner, and one first thing in the morning, according to their agreement. It usually amounts to about half a pack a day, but Kenny has his own room in the apartment they share, so for all Stan knows he cheats and sneaks cigarettes all night long while surfing for porn on his computer.
“This fucking song,” Stan says, and he reaches to change the station, then just turns it down a little. Kenny takes a long drag on his cigarette and turns to squint at him.
“What are we doing next?” he asks, letting the smoke out in a long stream through his nostrils. Stan hates the smell of it, but Kenny is a lot easier to deal with when he's not trying to quit, so Stan doesn't pester him about it that much anymore.
“Termites,” Stan says, trying not to listen to the stupid lyrics. He hates country music. It's corny and obnoxious and sentimental, total crap.
“So I told you that I was happy for you,” Tim McGraw sings with his stupid twang. “And given the chance, I'd lie again.”
It's almost Hanukkah, which means Kyle will be in town soon, followed by Cartman and Wendy and Butters, home for Christmas along with all of the other kids who escaped South Park and only come back for the big holidays. Wendy and Bebe will arrange some kind of get together, and Stan will have to show up to babysit Kenny, who got so drunk at last year's reunion party that he ended up in the emergency room. Kyle helped Stan drag him there. Stan doesn't want to think about it, so he changes the radio station. That Tim McGraw song had played in the waiting room while Kenny had his stomach pumped, and Stan and Kyle had muttered together about how godawful it was, trying not to listen to the lyrics.
“We should skip town for the holidays,” Stan says. “I don't want to do the same old shit this year. My sister and her bratty fucking kids, her dick husband. And, you know. All the people who come back to town.”
“Kyle,” Kenny says with a smirk. “Specifically.”
“No, not just him,” Stan says, flushing, that song still stuck in his head. “Everybody. Fucking Wendy going on about her life in D.C., and Cartman with all of his bullshit, and - Butters.” Stan glances at Kenny, but he's looking out the window again.
They get to the Johnson house around three o'clock and start spraying for termites, Kenny doing the perimeter and Stan working on the inside of the house. Mrs. Johnson is in her bathrobe, following Stan around like she thinks he's going to steal something, and the house reeks of cats. Stan tries to tell himself he should be proud that he's the owner of his own successful pest control business, that he shouldn't feel like a failure just because he's not on the fast track to becoming a congressperson like Wendy or the district attorney of Boston like Kyle, or even a rich, sleazy defense attorney like Cartman, who works out of Boston largely so he can continue to harass Kyle. Stan has a decent life, getting stoned with Kenny in the evenings and rousing him for work in the mornings. He's his own boss. He's doing okay.
“You're Sharon and Randy's kid, aren't you?” Mrs. Johnson says when Stan climbs down from the attic.
“Yep,” he says, trying to be cheerful despite the suspicious look she's giving him. Out in the foyer, Kenny bangs inside, coughing and cursing about the cold. He needs to work on his customer service skills, but he's been needing to do that for the past five years, and Stan is almost ready to give up on it ever actually happening.
“You're about the only one of those kids who stuck around, aren't you?” Mrs. Johnson says. “Little Clyde Donovan used to live next door, but he's in Florida now, in real estate. Even that crippled kid Jimmy who used to live across the street moved away. I've heard he's out in Hollywood.”
“Yeah, that's right,” Stan says, trying to keep his boiling blood from showing on his face. “We're friends, me and Jimmy.”
“Oh, really?” Mrs. Johnson looks like she doesn't believe this. Kenny is standing in the doorway now, looking back and forth between the two of them.
“I'm not the only one who stayed,” Stan says, gesturing to Kenny. “There's Kenny here.”
“And Timmy,” Kenny says. Mrs. Johnson raises her eyebrows.
“The retarded boy?” she says.
Stan is in such a bad mood after the Johnson house job that he calls their next customer and tells him that he'll have to come tomorrow morning, that he's running behind. Kenny says nothing about this, but he's watching Stan like he's waiting for him to explode as he drives them back to their apartment.
“Hey,” Kenny says, jabbing Stan in the shoulder and pointing to the clock radio in the truck. It's twenty minutes past four o'clock. Kenny grins.
“Great,” Stan says, muttering. He never thought he'd end up a pothead, stuck in South Park, rooming with Kenny, who might be his best friend these days but doesn't even know how to do simple things like clean the lint out of the dryer or which kind of soap to use in the dishwasher. Kyle has accused Stan of only sticking around so that he can take care of Kenny, but Kyle is just jealous that Stan has a new best friend, even if Kyle is the one who left in the first place. When they were seniors in high school, Kyle got accepted to Yale and Stan barely got into Colorado State, where he put two years toward a psychology degree before flunking out and moving home with his parents. His heart was never really in it, especially after he had to start hearing stories about Kyle's ivy league success.
As soon as they get back to the apartment, Kenny fires up the bong and they fall onto the couch, still in their pest control jumpsuits. Stan puts the television on, and the Christmas commercials depress him. His parents still live across town in his childhood home, just a few streets down from the Broflovskis. He'll have to go over there on Christmas Eve and listen to his sister brag about how she has a vacation home in cape-something and that her children are certified geniuses, according to her. She married a know-it-all dweeb named Richard who programs computers or something. Kenny will be there, too, because his family doesn't do anything for Christmas, and he'll get drunk and embarrassing and Stan will have to carry him to the car. He glances over at Kenny, who grins and passes him the bong.
“What am I doing with my life?” Stan asks.
“Making the most of it,” Kenny says. He lets his head loll back onto the couch cushions. “I mean, you get to make your own schedule, you don't have some stupid wife nagging you or kids driving you crazy - and, hey, man.” Kenny whacks his arm. “You got me.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Stan mutters. He's almost thirty years old and this is what he's got: Kenny, the bong, and the freedom to cut out of work early and come home to watch the end of Oprah.
“This is the best fucking show,” Kenny says, and after a few more hits on the bong Stan agrees.
They make mac and cheese for dinner and eat it at the counter, out of the pan. Stan likes seeing Kenny well fed, after growing up listening to his stomach growling all the time. Kenny is a pretty good employee, despite the customer service issues. He's not averse to working hard when they need to. This is the slow time of year for them, when most bugs are dead or hibernating.
“This is the best thing we've ever cooked,” Kenny says as he scrapes crusted cheese from the sides of the pan.
“Totally,” Stan says, in a much better mood now.
An hour later they're both asleep on the couch in front of a Monday night football game. It's snowing outside when Stan wakes up, and he drags himself into the kitchen to do the dishes, stopping for a beer on the way. He drinks it while he watches the snow fall, feeling cozy, wondering if it's snowing up in Boston. Maybe it won't be so bad to see Kyle and the gang, and to have their successes rubbed in his face. Stan is happy for them, Cartman with his investment advice and Wendy with her brand new fiancé. He's glad they're all able to keep in touch, even if they only talk a couple of times a year.
When he's finished with the dishes he gets another beer and pads back to the couch, where Kenny is half-awake, his eyes slitted as he stares at the game. He puts his hand out, and Stan passes him the beer.
“Livin' the dream,” Kenny says when he passes it back.
Stan knows Kenny isn't happy like this, that he's being sarcastic, but he smiles over at him anyway. It's easier to just pretend. Kenny has his own issues to deal with when it comes to the return of South Park's prodigal sons. He used to sneak into Butters Stotch's bedroom at night when they were in high school, and he was so glazed over with authentic happiness back then that he actually quit getting fucked up for awhile. It was a secret, and Butters would blush and smile whenever Kenny stood close to him, his hands twitching at his sides. Kenny would brag about what an amazing lay Butters was, and Stan and Kyle would moan and put their hands over their ears, though Stan at least was kind of jealous, since he was with Wendy at the time and their sex life was awkward and frustrating. Kyle must have been jealous, too, since he turned out to be gayer than Kenny and Butters put together. He lives with some guy up in Boston now, a fellow lawyer. Butters is still in the closet, afraid of his parents, and he was living in Denver with his wife for awhile, but they moved out of state a few years ago. Kenny used to disappear for days at a time, and Stan knew he was with Butters, in motel rooms or the backseat of Kenny's car, but Stan never said anything. As far as he can tell they don't see each other anymore, and he's pretty sure Kenny is the main reason Butters moved away.
“Fucking Christmas,” Stan says when another toy commercial comes on.
“You used to love Christmas, man,” Kenny says, smacking him.
“Yeah,” Stan says, though he can't really remember what that felt like.
*