Chapter Text
“Ha, take that!” Stan shouted with a laugh as hit the finishing move in the game, swiftly killing his best friend’s character. He glanced over just in time to see Kyle roll his eyes.
“Weak, I suck at this,” Kyle said.
“And you always have, dude, ever since we were kids,” Stan chuckled. Kyle turned to him, a knowing smile creeping up on his face.
“Is that why you wanted to play? Missing the good ole days?” Kyle said. Now it was Stan’s turn to roll his eyes, scoffing as he tossed the controller towards the unoccupied end of the couch.
“I’d hardly file elementary school under ‘good ole days’. Like, they were shit. It was just…I dunno, simpler? Maybe?” He shrugged.
They were currently sitting on the couch in the Broflovski home. Kyle was in the corner seat and Stan had sat beside him, their knees barely touching as they sat cross legged. Neither teen could recall how many rounds of this game they had played. It didn’t particularly matter either. After all, how often had they hung out like this, just the two of them, for years? And yet, there did seem to be something different, palpably so. A tension, a lingering, a falling action. A gradual slowing of a moving object. Something was coming to an end, and this filled Stan with a suspense he had never felt before; a feeling that coiled slowly around his insides, but hadn’t yet begun to squeeze.
Kyle set his controller on the end table before ruffling his ginger curls. He didn’t wear his green hat as much any more; it was more commonly seen on Ike when the wind was especially biting. Probably something to do with growing more confident in his hair as they got older, and learning how to take care of it. But Stan missed seeing him wear it sometimes.
“I mean, yeah. Being a kid was simpler,” Kyle agreed, returning his best friend’s shrug. “But that wasn’t gonna last forever. Times change, you grow up, you finish school. Then it’s off to do something else.”
“Easy for you to say,” Stan said. “You got into that fancy college; you get to leave in a couple months. I’m stuck in this stupid fucking town.” Kyle threw his hands up in defense.
“Hey, man, I have no idea why you wanted to help with your dad’s farm! You don’t even like weed!”
“You know how my dad is, dude. And after my sister moved out, he only got more neurotic! My mom’s already not doing well with her ‘precious baby boy’ graduating highschool! It's just– ” Stan pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. Just thinking about his current situation gave him a headache. “I just feel like things will go smoother if I just work the farm for a year. If nothing else, it’ll make my mom happy.”
Kyle reached over and put a freckled arm around Stan, bringing them a few inches closer on the couch. He was warm, reassuring, and the migraine that Stan could feel forming vanished in an instant.
“Yeah, okay Stan,” he smiled, squeezing his friend’s shoulder. “It's just a gap year. You can even take classes at the community college and transfer credits, just to get you off that damn farm every once in a while. And Kenny’s sticking around South Park, I think. Probably a couple other people from school too.”
Stan nodded, looking at his best friend and managing a smile. Kyle always had that charm about him; everything seemed okay when he was there. “Plus, you can come visit me anytime you want!” Kyle continued before pausing. His grasp around Stan’s shoulders didn’t falter, but his smile did, vanishing from his green eyes. “If you know…you’re not too busy visiting Wendy…”
South Park had changed significantly over the past 8 years, but the relationships between its younger residents had remained fairly consistent. At least that was the case with Stan and Wendy. The childhood sweethearts, each other’s first and only love. Throughout school, they would occasionally take a break or try to see other people, but they always drifted back. Last time this happened was halfway through sophomore year; since then, things had been going steady. Recently, his mom told Stan that she was convinced eventual marriage was inevitable, though he waved this notion aside. No point thinking about that, regardless of how much he loved Wendy. Especially since she was moving to a nice college…the same one Kyle was going to. It was a shock to nobody when they both got scholarships, Wendy for academics and Kyle for basketball. But despite the lack of surprise, Kyle didn’t seem thrilled about the news.
Stan’s turn to comfort. His smile widened and he wiggled out from under the other teen’s arm, playfully hitting him in the side. “Dude, you’re fucking crazy if you think I’m going to choose my girlfriend over you! Not to mention, you both are living on the same campus. A walk between dorm buildings won’t kill me. And who’s to say you won’t have to choose? Maybe you’ll meet some chick in one of your nerd classes.”
Kyle chuckled, immediately hitting him back. “You think so?”
“Yeah! You don’t?”
Kyle shrugged. “I dunno, dude. I’ve never been as lucky as you.” He uncrossed his legs, pulling one knee up to his chest and resting his arm on it. The glow from the television – the only light on in the room – flickered and shifted as the game went to the loading screen for inactivity. “With girls, I mean. Crushes…fucking whatever...” He mumbled that last part, his gaze suddenly distant. Stan paused, furrowing his brows. He could tell Kyle was embarrassed. He opened his mouth to say something. But before he could, Kyle glanced at his phone, which had been sitting on the table. “Holy shit, dude, it's past midnight. When did that happen?”
“What? Really?” A thought dawned on him. “But your parents aren’t back yet. Didn’t they go to one of your brother’s ice hockey games?”
“Yeah, they were supposed to be back hours ago.” Kyle quickly got to his feet. “Sorry, dude, I should probably make sure they’re alright. You good to drive home?”
Stan nodded, getting up as well. “Yeah.”
Kyle eyed him, momentarily suspicious and stern. “You sure?”
Stan frowned, hating when Kyle said shit like that. Shit that basically accused him of not being sober. It always made him sound like his mom. But given that Kyle’s finger was hovering over his screen – worried and waiting to call his overdue parents – Stan decided it was best to let this one go. He couldn’t hide his pointed tone when he replied, “Yeah. I’m not my dad,” though. Kyle gave him a nod, also deciding not to push it any further, and brought the phone up to his ear to call his parents. Stan let himself out of the Broflovski home, getting into the Tegridy truck, and driving off into the cool summer night.
~
As he drove Stan couldn’t help but notice that the town of South Park was very quiet. All he could hear was the usual rumble of the old family car. This shouldn’t have been noteworthy. It was after midnight, this was a small mountain town, and Stan’s route drove through the peaceful suburbs before passing city limits. Yet this quiet struck him anyway. Perhaps it wasn’t because it was simply quiet, but more so because everything was still. There were no people, no animals, no lights on in any of the homes he drove past. There was no wind, not even a flickering street lamp. Even the stars seemed too dull. It was too liminal, and it put Stan on edge, making the hair at the back of his neck stand up. Something felt wrong. Still, logically, he felt like an idiot for feeling so anxious. A town being empty in the middle of the night wasn’t strange in the slightest. He was probably just tired, maybe even thrown off by his conversation with Kyle. But as he crossed city limits, he steeled his jaw and gripped the wheel tighter. This feeling wasn’t going away.
~
It was another thirty minutes before Stan would roll past the sign marking his family’s farm, driving onto the dirt drive and putting the car in park. The pit in his stomach had only gotten worse. He felt almost nauseous now. Feeling more focused than usual, he glanced around as he stepped out of the vehicle, not bothering to lock it. It was just as silent out here as it was in town, but it felt more oppressive, bearing down on him. The door to the red barn was left ajar and Stan could see the glow from the grow lamps for his dad’s more experimental plants inside. Across the way, the farmhouse where he spent his adolescence was dark. Except for the kitchen light, which was on. He couldn’t see any shadows in the window, nor hear any sounds. Breathing in slowly, he tried to mentally reassure himself that he was being far too paranoid. Was this residual, some excess worry that rubbed off on him when Kyle realized how late his parents were? Did he just need to verify his own mom and dad were fine, and this would go away? Perhaps that was it. The teenager shook his head and began walking up to the farmhouse.
Stan unlocked the door and went inside, shutting it quietly behind him. From here, he could see the yellow light from the kitchen spilling out into the living room. Moving a few paces forward, something far more concerning came into view. A pair of slipper-clad feet were lying limp in the open doorway of the kitchen, likely belonging to someone splayed out on the kitchen floor, off to the side and out of sight. Stan recognized those slippers as belonging to his mom. An icy chill came over him. He didn’t have time to register his alarm, believing that his mom must’ve fallen or had some sort of other medical emergency. She wasn’t that old, but shit happens. Stan rushed over, gripping the wooden door frame as he leaned into the kitchen.
“Mom, are you–!”
He didn’t finish his exclamation. Between his sudden worry for his mom and the nausea of his anxious, weak stomach, he hadn’t heard the sounds before, the sounds that had been emitting from the kitchen. Now he did – loud and clear – and their source was more than his mind could consciously comprehend.
A woman was lying on the floor. She wore his mom’s slippers, she wore her satin mauve pajamas, had the same skin and body type. But she couldn’t possibly be his mother. After all, Sharon Marsh had a face. A face with a kind smile and eyes that always shined with such pride whenever she looked at Stan, even when he wasn’t acting like any son she should be proud of. The woman before him was dead, a cavity of red gore where her face should’ve been. Her skull had been caved in – crudely hallowed out – leaving smooth white bone smeared with blood behind like a shell. Her shirt was stained and blood spilled slowly and weakly from a ruined mass of throat.
Kneeling beside her, hunching over her, Stan could see a man digging at her flesh. He would tear at her before bringing his hands up to his mouth, slurping and gnawing at whatever was there. The movements were almost casual, as if taking something from a cheese platter, but there was something carnal about it. The man himself was covered in viscera and gore, mostly belonging to the woman as far as Stan could tell. It dripped down the sleeves of his brown work jacket, forming little streams, and it wet the ends of his dark hair. Unfortunately, this hungry man had a face, so Stan could immediately recognize him. His father.
Now frozen in the door frame, Stan forgot how to breathe. He could only stare, watching his father continue to devour the inside of his mother’s skull. He had no idea how long he stood there. But eventually his mind seemed to reconnect with his body long enough to come back to reality, to see the horror his father was committing as a problem to solve.
“Dad…what are you doing?” Stan managed to force out, his voice strained and barely above a whisper. It was all he could say.
Randy didn’t stop his feast at Stan’s initial cry for his mom. But he did now. His hands stopped in bloody claws in front of him and his head slowly shifted upwards to meet his son’s wide-eyed gaze. He was slack-jawed, mouth still crammed full with gore. His eyes were blank. No emotion, no sign that he recognized who Stan was. And yet, he began to slowly rise to his feet.
Something primal awakened in Stan. Something that didn’t have emotions, that simply needed to survive. His nausea sharpened into a single point of adrenaline that ran through each of his muscles. He let go of the doorframe and took off, back out of the front door of the farmhouse. He jumped off the porch, sprinting towards the barn. There were no thoughts, only the sounds of his ‘father’s’ heavy work boots hitting the ground behind him. The chase was on, both cat and mouse giving their all. But luckily, this mouse was younger and far more in shape than the cat. Stan burst into the barn, only pausing a moment to locate the gun cabinet in the back corner, before darting towards it. He knocked over a table of seedlings and a grow lamp. The least of his concerns, since he could hear his father let out a gurgled shout howl as he entered the barn. Stan yanked open the gun cabinet. Thank god they didn’t give a shit about locking up firearms. The shotgun and the rifles were no use; he was never any good at shooting, as his uncle always pointed out. So he grabbed the lone pistol. Safety off, cock it. No thinking. Barely breathing, the footsteps advancing behind him.
He spun around towards his father, took aim, and fired. As the shot echoed off the walls of the barn, Randy fell to the ground, just a car-length away from his son. He was facedown and Stan could clearly see the exit wound. He could see the blood splatters on the wood floors behind his dad’s body, the spots on the seedling containers as the teenager stood in the purple glow of the grow lamps. His hand – now trembling – dropped the pistol and he fell to his knees. His heart hammered in his chest, reverberating through his veins, and every muscle burned. He felt like he was forcing every labored, gasping breath, trying to get enough air to steady his body, to steady his brain. At some point, his body had broken out in a sweat, and now he felt so, so cold.
His dad had murdered his mom.
And Stan Marsh just murdered his dad.