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During his senior year of high school, Craig Tucker had two hobbies that were very important to him: video art and the mandolin. Token and Clyde made fun of him for this, saying that this made him a try hard hipster, especially in combination with his tendency to wear tight sweaters and black jeans. As a joke, they bought Craig a carton of American Spirit cigarettes and a six pack of PBR for his eighteenth birthday.
“How did you get beer?” Craig asked, scowling at it.
“Token paid a bum,” Clyde said.
Craig left school early that day, annoyed. He wasn’t trying to be anything, and he’d never cared about being cool. Fuck his alleged “friends” for thinking that someone couldn’t sincerely enjoy mandolin lessons and experimental film. He went to the cemetery and sat down in front of Tweek’s grave, setting the beer and cigarettes down in the snow.
“Hi,” he said, to Tweek, and when he couldn’t think of what else to say, as usual, he looked up at the sky and flicked God off.
Tweek had died after suffering a stroke in fourth grade. Possibly because he was dead, Craig had long considered Tweek a lost opportunity at love, and he resented the few blonds who remained: Butters, Kenny, and Bebe, who didn’t really count, because she’d dyed her hair blue in eighth grade and had featured a variety of other colors since then, but never blond. Craig admired this about her, because clearly the blonds in their grade were cursed. Tweek and Pip had died before middle school, Sally had a kid and left school sophomore year, and by Craig’s count Kenny had been in about fifty-five horrific accidents, miraculously recovering from each. He didn’t even have scars, and Craig was beginning to suspect he was a witch. Then there was Butters, who sucked. Kenny and Butters, perhaps as an act of solidarity in defiance of the curse, had actually dated for two years, but now they were broken up. Craig only knew about this because Kenny was in AV club with him and Butters was taking ukelele lessons from Craig’s mandolin teacher.
“Here’s to you,” Craig said to Tweek, and he cracked open one of the PBRs. Tweek probably would have been better off drinking beer instead of coffee. Craig sat there until the sun went down and the cold started to seep in past the barrier of his coat. He stood on wobbly legs, having consumed four beers. He left the other two and the cigarettes at Tweek’s grave, as an offering.
At home, drunk, he watched some footage that he’d shot the day before. He was making an avant garde film about tupperware containers that were technically clean but bore the stains of past leftovers no matter how many times they went through the dishwasher. He’d been going around town asking people to volunteer to have their tupperware filmed for his movie, and most accused him of being high and slammed their doors in his face. Kenny thought this was hilarious, and suggested that Craig get back to his roots and just film some cute animals. Kenny’s movie was the unauthorized biography of Kyle Broflovski, which he was making as a graduation present for Stan. Kyle was not only refusing to authorize Kenny’s vision, he was also an unwilling participant, so Kenny was having troubles of his own in terms of capturing his subject on film, which Craig enjoyed.
The following morning, Craig’s head hurt. He went downstairs, where his mother was decorating for his birthday party, though Craig had told her he didn’t want one. His mother had said tough shit, this was more for Craig’s dying grandmother than it was for Craig himself. Craig didn’t like seeing his grandma anymore, because she barely remembered him and repeated herself a lot. He felt a little cruel, disliking this, but he felt her current persona diminished his past, better memories of her, such as the time she gave him $100, possibly by accident.
“This is stupid,” Craig said, because his mother was putting up streamers.
“Excuse me?” his mother said. “Making your grandma happy is stupid?”
“Well. Yeah, a little. I mean, she won’t remember it tomorrow.”
“Craig, get over yourself. Do you have your guitar lesson?” she asked, because he was carrying his mandolin case.
“Woman,” Craig said. “You know it’s not a guitar.”
“I don’t see why you can’t just learn guitar. Your father could teach you. For free.”
“I pay for these lessons myself,” Craig said. He had a part time job as Token’s landscaper. It was only one yard, but still a lot of work for one person. “I’m leaving,” Craig announced.
“Don’t forget to come back for the party,” his mother said.
“I might,” Craig said, honestly, and he ducked out of the house before she could reply.
He did not have a car, so he walked to his lesson, which was only two miles away. It was cold out, and by the time he got there he was not in the mood for Butters, who was hanging around after his ukelele lesson as usual, having tea with their music teacher, who was, in fact, Tweek’s mother. She had given up the coffee business and divorced Tweek’s father after the death of their son. She was now an overweight hippie who owned five cats, but she seemed pretty happy most days, and she was very good at the mandolin, having recorded on three different albums with two different bluegrass bands. Possibly she was also good at the ukelele, but Craig wouldn’t know, because he hated that instrument wholly.
“Please join us!” Mrs. Tweak said. She’d actually returned to using her maiden name after the divorce, and asked Craig to call her Gretchen, but Craig still thought of her as Mrs. Tweak.
“I don’t need a tea bag,” Craig said when she offered him some hot water. “Just a slice of lemon.”
“Craig’s always dieting,” Butters said, chirpily. Craig snarled at him. Butters was chunky, and he wore North Face fleece every day. He had seven different colors of North Face fleece, a couple of pairs of jeans, and that was his whole wardrobe. He also had crumbs on his fleece, at the moment.
“You’ve got crumbs,” Craig said, pointing.
“Oh, shoot.” Butters brushed them onto the floor thoughtlessly, and a black cat dashed out from underneath the sofa to lick them up. “Hey, Socrates!” Butters said. He tried to pet the cat, but it recoiled hatefully in a manner that Craig admired, then ran back under the sofa.
“He gets a little skittish around men,” Mrs. Tweak said, and Craig chortled at the idea that Butters was a man, though he had turned eighteen last year, back in September. There were rumors that he wore adult diapers because of some sort of rectal issue, but Craig was pretty sure that Cartman had started those rumors as revenge for Butters hosting a viewing party of a video he’d made of Cartman dancing around with a cardboard Justin Timberlake.
Craig’s lesson went well, as usual. He was good at mandolin. Mrs. Tweak thought so, anyway. She gave Craig a couple of bluegrass CDs as a gift at the end of their lesson, and Craig had to leave quickly before he could get emotional. Mrs. Tweak got him in a way that his own mother didn’t. He would much rather have new music to listen to alone than deal with streamers and cake. He wished Tweek was here, though if he was Mrs. Tweak never would have taken up the mandolin and Craig wouldn’t have a teacher, so in fact there would be no “here” if Tweek was here. He wished, also, that his last words to Tweek hadn’t been, did you just throw up in your mouth and swallow it?
Butters was outside, sitting on Mrs. Tweak’s front stoop. He appeared to have been waiting for Craig, which was unfortunate. Craig wiped his eyes on his sleeve and frowned at him.
“What?” he said.
“Happy Birthday!” Butters said, and he pulled some gift-wrapped thing out from his fleece. It was grossly warm in Craig’s hands.
“How did you even know it was my birthday?” Craig asked.
“Well, I have everybody’s written in my date book!” Butters said. He put down his ukelele case, opened it, and produced a date book with a shiny blue cover. “See?”
“Yeah, I see. Thanks.” Craig tore at the wrapping paper, which had balloons on it. Inside there were two packs of mandolin strings and a box of Pocky. Craig was kind of let down, since Butters had knitted Stan an ugly scarf for his birthday. “Cool,” he said, knowing that he should be glad not to have to pretend to like some ugly knitted thing. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome! Hey, do you want to hang out? Or have you got big birthday plans?”
No and no. Craig sighed. He was feeling kind of — achy. Maybe it wouldn’t be so great to be alone.
“I’m gonna go to McDonalds and get a McRib,” he said. He got one every year on his birthday, as a personal challenge to himself. “If you want to come, I don’t care.”
“Sure, that sounds neat! I’ve never eaten a McRib before.”
When they got up to the counter at McDonalds, Kenny was their cashier. Craig had long ago stopped being surprised to see Kenny working at practically every establishment in South Park. He offered Kenny no personal greeting, just ordered his McRib and a large fountain drink. Butters asked for chicken nuggets.
“Are you guys hanging out?” Kenny asked while Butters dug around for exact change.
“I don’t know,” Craig said. “Sure.”
“It’s Craig’s birthday!” Butters said. “He’s eighteen! He’s legal!”
“I don’t turn eighteen until March,” Kenny said. “Does that mean you’d get arrested if you had anal sex with me?” he asked Craig.
“No,” Craig said. “You would be arrested, because it would be non-consensual.”
“Craig just said he doesn’t want to fuck me,” Kenny said, to Butters. Someone behind them in line coughed meaningfully.
“Well, listen,” Butters said. “Kenny is pretty good in bed. He’s not very good at being emotionally available, though, so I don’t know if I’d recommend him.”
“I wasn’t emotionally available?” Kenny said. “I got a fucking neck tattoo of your name.” He pointed to it. Butters sighed.
“That’s not the same thing,” he said.
“How’d you get that tattoo, anyway?” Craig asked. “Don’t you have to be eighteen?”
“Or have parental consent,” Kenny said. “So I paid a bum to say he was my dad.”
“Why?” Craig asked. “When your actual dad is a bum who would have done that for money?”
“Oh, hamburgers,” Butters said. “That ain’t nice.”
“No, it’s fine,” Kenny said, though he was looking at Craig like he was prey that Kenny had sighted. “Me and Craig have an insult war going. Since I made fun of his tupperware opus.”
“What’s a tupperware opus?” Butters asked. He looked concerned.
“I’m making a film that heavily utilizes tupperware in a symbolic way,” Craig said. “And Kenny is misusing the word ‘opus.’ That only applies to music, you retard.”
“Excuse me?” the guy behind them said. Craig turned to see that he was Randy Marsh. “Can I get some service here, or what the hell?”
“Move aside, citizens,” Kenny said. “I’m off shift in ten minutes. I’ll come join you then.”
“Cool!” Butters said, and Craig sighed.
Kenny appeared when Craig was halfway through his McRib and not sure if he would be able to stomach the whole thing this year. It was the PBR, probably. Kenny unbuttoned his uniform shirt, stripped it off, and in his undershirt and McDonalds pants he was annoyingly attractive.
“Why do you guys have violins?” Kenny asked.
“It’s a mandolin,” Craig said.
“Mine’s a ukelele!” Butters said.
“Okay.” Kenny snorted. “Why do you guys have a mandolin and a ukelele?”
“We have interests,” Craig said. “We do things other than work at McDonalds and stalk Kyle Broflovski.”
“Man, whatever,” Kenny said. “My movie is going to be fucking awesome. Annoyed Kyle is way more entertaining than stained tupperware. Stained tupperware, Jesus Christ! Can you believe this guy?” he asked Butters, jerking his thumb at Craig.
“I’m confused about the tupperware,” Butters said. “What’s it a symbol of?”
“Craig’s pretensions,” Kenny said.
“Fuck you,” Craig said. “It’s a metaphor for suburban decay.”
“Ugh,” Kenny said. “What isn’t?”
“What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know, shit.” Kenny elbowed him in a mock friendly way, or maybe he really was trying to friendly. “Are you going to finish that McRib?”
“Yes,” Craig said, but just looking at it made his stomach lurch. “Clyde and Token are such assholes,” he said, thinking again of the PBR.
“Duh,” Kenny said.
“Oh, well, they’re not so bad,” Butters said. “Did they do something mean?”
“They bought me cigarettes and cheap beer for my birthday,” Craig said. “And they call me a try hard.”
“Can I have the cigarettes?” Kenny asked.
“I left them at Tweek’s grave,” Craig said. “You smoke?”
“No, but I could sell them to my brother. Or give them to my mom for Valentine’s Day.”
“You give your mother Valentine’s Day gifts?” Craig said, horrified.
“Uh, yeah. Doesn’t everyone?”
“What’s a try hard?” Butters asked.
“That’s what you call a guy with three cocks when he gets an erection,” Kenny said. He grinned at Craig. “Get it?”
By the time they left McDonalds, Craig had accepted that he wasn’t getting rid of either of them. They wandered around near Stark’s Pond, Craig with the remains of his McRib in his pocket, wrapped in ten napkins. He was determined to finish it eventually, on principle.
“Oh, perfect,” Kenny said when they came upon Stan and Kyle, who were making out in the woods for some reason. Kenny got his iPhone out. He was filming his entire movie with his iPhone, which was actually Stan’s old one. Stan waved for the camera as Kyle dismounted from his lap, red-faced, pulling his coat down over his crotch to hide the bulge in his pants.
“Why are you guys having sex in the snow?” Craig asked
“We’re not!” Kyle said, shouting. “Get out of here! Kenny, I swear to God, I’m going to fucking kill you!”
“This is great,” Kenny said, backing away from Kyle, still filming. “Keep going, this is really good stuff right here.”
“Kenny,” Stan said, but he was smiling a little. “Hey, dude,” he said, and he got up, going to Kyle to restrain him from trying in vain to reach the iPhone, which Kenny was holding high over Kyle’s head. Kyle was barely five and a half feet tall; Kenny was close to six and a half. “Dude,” Stan said, bear-hugging Kyle from behind. “We’re gonna be so glad we have this movie someday!”
“Stan, you fucking lunatic!” Kyle said, and he threw Stan off like a bucking bronco. Craig had never been much for topping, but he’d always thought Kyle might be fun to fuck. “This is not - we’re actually living our lives here, and he’s invading our privacy! I feel like I’m under surveillance - it’s not funny!” He started hitting Stan, who was trying not to laugh.
“Oh, geez,” Butters said, knocking his fists together. “Don’t hit him, Kyle.”
“Okay, Kenny, seriously,” Stan said, catching Kyle’s hands to get him to stop slapping at his shoulders. “Turn it off for a sec. You got your scene.”
“You’re the boss,” Kenny said, and he put the iPhone away.
“What the hell does that mean?” Kyle asked. “Stan’s the boss of what?”
“Um, the movie, duh. I consider him the producer and the client.”
“Fuck you!” Kyle said. “I don’t give a fuck what Stan is, I’m the star and I quit, I quit!”
“Whoa,” Craig said, because Kyle was screaming. Kyle turned to glare at him.
“And what’s with these two?” he asked, gesturing at Craig and Butters. “You need a live studio audience now?”
“They came to McDonalds,” Kenny said, as if that explained everything. Craig supposed it did, actually. “Your dad was there,” Kenny said to Stan. “He got a Big Mac and large fries. No drink, which I found weird.”
“He probably had a beer in the car,” Stan said. “He’s not supposed to be eating that much sodium. I bet he told my mom he was going to the gym.”
“Well, anyway,” Kenny said. “We’re going to the cemetery, if you want to come.”
“We are?” Craig said.
“Why?” Kyle asked. “So you can get footage of my dead grandmother’s grave?”
“Kyle, please,” Kenny said. “Not everything is about you. There are some cigarettes there that I want. I can have them, right?” he said, turning to Craig.
“Uh,” Craig said. “They’re kind of for Tweek.”
“Tweek is dead,” Kyle said.
“Oh, really?” Craig said. “Wow, thanks for filling me in.”
“I’m just saying,” Kyle mumbled, going red again. “I don’t see how cigarettes are an appropriate tribute to a kid who died when he was ten and never smoked.”
“How do you know he didn’t smoke?” Craig asked. “You didn’t know him. You weren’t his friend.”
“Yeah, I was!”
“Guys,” Stan said. “What the hell? I don’t even get what’s going on in this conversation.”
“Me either,” Butters said.
“Let’s just go before someone steals them!” Kenny said, and they went, Stan and Kyle trailing behind them, Kyle grumbling about copyright laws and the fact that he was the legal owner of any images of him taken without his permission.
The cigarettes were still there at Tweek’s grave, but the remaining cans of PBR were gone. Stan picked up the plastic rings from the six pack and pulled them all apart like he was OCD or something.
“What the hell are you doing?” Craig asked.
“It’s so ducks won’t get strangled,” Stan said.
“Who’d want to strangle a poor little duck?” Butters asked.
“A piece of wayward plastic, that’s who,” Stan said. He held up the demolished rings. “There. Now it’s harmless.”
“Fuck,” Kenny said, looking up from the carton of cigarettes, which he’d been examining for damage. “I should have gotten that on tape.”
“That was Stan talking, not me,” Kyle said.
“You were gazing at him with adoration while he talked,” Kenny said.
“Fuck you,” Kyle said, but he didn’t really sound offended. He clutched at Stan’s arm and nosed his shoulder. “Well, we got Kenny’s cigarettes. Or, Tweek’s.” He glanced at Craig nervously. “Can we go now? I don’t like cemeteries.”
“Kyle is weird about death,” Kenny said. “There’s a whole section on this in my movie.”
“Um, what?” Kyle said. “I am not, and what the hell does this ‘whole section’ entail?”
“You’ll see.”
“Why do you guys have violins?” Stan asked, possibly to change the subject.
“They’re not violins,” Craig said. “They’re—”
“A mandolin and a ukelele,” Kenny said. “So excuse you.”
“Whoa, cool,” Stan said. “We should go to my house and jam.”
“Ugh,” Kyle said.
“I don’t jam,” Craig said.
“Aw, why not?” Butters asked. “I think it’d be fun!”
“I could film Kyle’s irritated sighs during the jam session,” Kenny said. He was recording again, the carton of cigarettes tucked under his arm. Craig wondered who had taken the beers. Probably some bum. Possibly the same one Token had paid to buy them, or the same one who vouched for Kenny’s neck tattoo. Maybe that had been the same guy. South Park was a small community with only a few bums.
“What is that smell?” Kyle asked.
“Dead people?” Butters said.
“No,” Kenny said. “Craig has half a McRib in his pocket.”
“Ew,” Kyle said. “Why?”
“He’s determined not to let me eat it,” Kenny said.
“Shut up,” Craig said. “That’s not why.”
“Why would anyone eat a McRib?” Kyle asked. “Especially you,” he said, frowning at Craig. “You only eat like, carrots and raisins.”
“You don’t know my life,” Craig said. “I drank four beers yesterday.”
“Why would anyone drink four beers?” Kyle asked.
“I don’t know,” Craig said. “Why would anyone buy a package of Twix from the vending machine at school every morning? You tell me.”
“I have blood sugar issues, you fuck! And it’s not every morning!”
“Guys,” Stan said. “I feel like this is disrespectful.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Kyle said, swiping at Kenny’s iPhone.
“I meant to Tweek,” Stan said. “We should, like. Acknowledge him. If we’re going to stand around his grave.”
They went quiet and turned to Tweek’s tombstone. Kenny filmed it. No one spoke, until Kyle had to start running his mouth again.
“That was so weird how he died,” Kyle said. “In class, too. Ugh. Horrible.”
“Poor Tweek,” Butters said. “He was a real nice guy.”
“He was the best person in South Park,” Craig said, and everyone turned to stare at him, including the iPhone. “And now he’s dead.”
“He was way too young to die,” Stan said after some awkward silence.
“That’s for sure,” Butters said.
“Death is stupid,” Kenny said, and for some reason it felt, to Craig, like the only decent thing any of them had said on the subject. Kenny turned off the iPhone and dropped it back into his pocket. “Let’s go, yeah?” he said.
They walked back to town, and Kyle and Stan split from the group at Stan’s house, presumably to continue whatever they’d been doing in the woods.
“Really, though,” Craig said as he walked away with Kenny and Butters. “Why were they fucking in the snow?”
“They’re weird,” Kenny said. “I think Stan likes being erect while surrounded by the beauty of nature.”
Butters giggled, and Craig smiled. He decided that Kenny would be kind of cute without the neck tattoo.
“Are you going to get that thing removed?” he asked, pointing to his own neck. “Since you guys broke up?”
“That’d be a good idea,” Butters said. “I don’t want potential gentleman suitors thinking I’m taken, on account of they saw my name on some guy’s neck at McDonalds.”
“Wow,” Craig said, impressed. “Burn.”
“Butters is surprisingly good at burning,” Kenny said.
“Shoot, Kenny you cheated on me!” Butters said, and he gave his ukelele case an angry shake. “And gave me that infection, speaking of burning.”
“Uh,” Craig said, disappointed. Just when he’d begun to think about Kenny-without-neck-tattoo. Infections were not sexy. “I don’t need to hear this.”
“I didn’t cheat, anyway,” Kenny said. “I was assaulted by Cartman’s mom, and it was just a kiss.”
“You had lipstick on your shirt and you didn’t even know!” Butters said. “If - if she’d really gone after you like you say, you woulda gone home to change and take a shower!”
“Well, I’m not saying I was repulsed,” Kenny said. “Just that I wasn’t consenting.”
“Oh, whatever, mister!” Butters said. “We’re broken up, anyway! Get that dang thing off your neck! I never liked it! It makes you look like Frankenstein.”
“This ingratitude,” Kenny said. “And believe me, okay, I want it off, too. But tattoo removal costs money. Big time money, okay?”
“I’ll give you the money,” Butters said. “I’ve told you that.”
“Yes, Leopold, and I’ve told you that I don’t want money from someone who thinks I’m a lying cheater with a venereal disease. You got that shit from Cartman, man, and you know it.”
“Eric was a virgin when we made love!” Butters said. Craig groaned in disgust.
“Man, whatever,” Kenny said. “I’m not burning down there, that’s all I’m saying.”
Craig was relieved, though not sure he could trust Kenny on this.
Butters left them when they reached his house, still huffy about Kenny’s neck. Craig turned to Kenny at the end of Butters’ driveway, not sure what was going to happen now. It was starting to get dark out. They’d done a lot of walking, and Craig’s hand hurt from being tightly clenched around the handle of his mandolin case.
“So,” Kenny said. He held up the American Spirit carton. “Do you want a cigarette?”
“No,” Craig said. “That was the whole point. I hate Token and Clyde because they brought me cigarettes as a joke. I don’t smoke.”
“Me either,” Kenny said. “I’m going to my house now, I’m fucking cold. You want to come?”
“Okay,” Craig said. “I have this birthday party that I want to avoid.”
“Alrighty,” Kenny said. He seemed uncomfortable, and Craig wondered if he’d been hoping that Craig would decline his invitation. He didn’t care. He didn’t want go to that party, he just really didn’t.
“Did it hurt when you got that?” Craig asked, eying the neck tattoo. It took up most of the left side of Kenny’s neck, a huge, stylized BUTTERS in a cursive font.
“I do not recall,” Kenny said. “I was pretty wasted. As you can imagine.”
“Is it true that you didn’t cheat on him?” Craig asked.
“Well, here’s the thing. She did fall on me without permission. I may have let her give me a hand job before I remembered to push her off. It all happened so fast.”
“Do you regret it? I mean, do you miss Butters?”
“A little,” Kenny said. “He’s pretty immature.”
“Uh, yeah. No kidding.”
“But I liked that, you know? Just, he doesn’t get it about how much I have to work. He’d take it personally, like. If I didn’t have the time or the cash to take him on dates. He tried not to, but basically I can’t blame him. It’s not that fun to date me.”
“Why don’t you have cash?” Craig asked. “You have like eighty-four jobs.”
“That’s for keeping the lights on at the house,” Kenny said. “So Karen can see her school books and shit. She’s going to take care of us all someday, when she’s a rich scientist, or whatever.” He winked.
“Why are you winking?” Craig asked.
“I don’t know, sorry,” Kenny said. “That was stupid.”
Craig was going to make fun of him for acting so nervous, but he decided not to. It was fully dark by the time they reached the McCormick residence, and the shabby little house was rather foreboding by streetlight. They went inside, and Craig expected to find Kenny’s parents having some rollicking redneck house party, but the front rooms and the kitchen were dark. Kenny went to the fridge and got out a beer without putting on the light. It was a PBR. Craig shook his head when Kenny offered him one.
“I wonder if your dad found that in the cemetery,” Craig said, and then he wanted to punch himself. Kenny paused in mid-drink, his mouth full of beer, and raised his eyebrows before swallowing it. “Sorry,” Craig said.
“You’re weird,” Kenny said. “Will you play that for me?”
“Huh? Oh.” Craig looked down at the mandolin. “I don’t know. I’ve only ever played for my teacher.”
“Who’s your teacher?”
“Uh, Tweek’s mom.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah,” Craig said, and he looked down at the mandolin again. “Fine, whatever. I’ll play. But we have to go in your room and close the door.” He didn’t want to be interrupted by the formation of the house party that might eventually take place.
Kenny’s room was as sad as Craig had expected. Mattress on the floor, gummy carpet covered in stains, an ancient Scarface poster over the bed. Kenny sat Indian-style on the mattress, and Craig sat across from him in the same fashion, worrying about fleas. The only light in the room was a metal desk lamp. Kenny’s desk was covered with library books about film-making and biographical writing.
“Shit,” Craig said, feeling the McRib still in his coat when he took it off. He pulled it from the coat pocket and passed it to Kenny. “Just eat it,” he said. “I’m a failure.”
“Huh?” Kenny said.
“That’s symbolic,” Craig said. “That McRib.”
“Oh, well, you’d better film it, then,” Kenny said. His grin faded when Craig didn’t laugh.
“I’m serious,” Craig said. “I eat one every year on my birthday, but this year I couldn’t stomach it. I blame Butters.”
“Let’s just put this here,” Kenny said, and he set the greasy, napkin-wrapped thing on his fucking pillow, which made Craig’s stomach hurt. “Maybe you’ll be hungry later. Go ahead and play.”
“You’re not going to ask me why I eat a McRib every year on my birthday? What it symbolizes for me?”
“Do you even know?” Kenny asked.
Craig thought about it.
“Not really,” he said. “I guess I did, once. Jesus, what the hell should I play?”
“The happy birthday song?”
“No.”
“Well, I don’t care!” Kenny said. “Just play something.”
Craig played “Graceland,” which was one of the first songs Mrs. Tweak had taught him. It wasn’t that recognizable on mandolin without the lyrics. Mrs. Tweak usually sang along to help him keep time. When Craig looked up from the strings, Kenny had the iPhone out.
“Hey, don’t,” Craig said, and he stopped playing. “Don’t film this.”
“Why not?” Kenny asked.
“Because - why would you?”
“I don’t know, I like this song.”
“Do you recognize it?”
“No,” Kenny said. “But I like it.”
“Well. Fine. But don’t film me. I don’t want to be in your movie about Kyle.”
“I wasn’t going to use this footage for that.” Kenny put the phone away. “Sorry, just. Continue.”
Craig did, feeling rattled, and hot all over, despite the fact that Kenny’s house was drafty as shit. He started over from the beginning. This time he didn’t look up from the strings until he’d finished the song. Kenny didn’t have the iPhone out. He looked sort of dazed, but not disinterested.
“What?” Craig said, and Kenny crawled across the space between them. His bangs were brushing Craig’s forehead before Craig caught on, but his lips opened for Kenny’s kiss automatically. Craig kissed him back, allowing his eyes to close. He supposed he tasted like McRib, but Kenny had voluntarily offered to eat his leftovers, so maybe he liked the taste.
“You always look so sad,” Kenny said when he pulled back, still on all fours, still so close that his bangs were on Craig’s forehead.
“No, I don’t,” Craig said. “I mean, I’m not.”
“C’mere,” Kenny said, and he sat back, pulling Craig to him until Craig’s legs were looped around Kenny’s waist. It was weird to be in someone’s lap, and to place a hand gently over someone’s awful neck tattoo, to cover it, but mostly Craig was thrumming like strings under Kenny’s fingers. Kenny had gone from kind of cute if some improvements were made to stunningly beautiful, suddenly.
“You look like an angel,” Craig said, and Kenny laughed. Craig laughed, too, and kissed him again. After this had been going on for some minutes, Kenny’s hands coming down to cup Craig’s ass, Kenny pulled back to breathe.
“Do you want to do stuff with dicks or just kiss?” Kenny asked.
“Um, just kiss,” Craig said. He was hard, but he’d never done stuff with dicks, other than the one that belonged to him. Maybe later.
“Okay,” Kenny said, and he only got halfway to Craig’s lips before pulling back again. “I really don’t have VD, though. Butters is in denial about getting that shit from Cartman.”
“Who even calls it VD?” Craig asked, and they kissed again, with sloppy tongues, until Craig was doing some involuntary grinding against Kenny’s erection, then coming in his pants.
“Jesus, you’re cute,” Kenny said when Craig was shuddering in his arms, sort of stunned, not quite embarrassed.
“Fuck - you,” Craig said.
“Well,” Kenny said, and then he withheld that joke, wisely. “Um, I need to come, you don’t have to watch.”
“God,” Craig said. “Show me.”
Kenny unzipped and tugged his underwear out of the way. Craig started sweating at the sight of such a big cock, live and in person. When Kenny came in his hand, Craig leaned up onto his knees, grabbed Kenny’s shoulders, and kissed his panting mouth.
“This is so weird,” Kenny said, and he grinned. “I mean, in a good way.”
“Yeah,” Craig said, thinking about how he’d have to walk into his birthday party late, with underwear full of come. “Does Butters really wear adult diapers?” he asked.
“Uh,” Kenny said. “Sometimes. He’s got this condition. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Didn’t you find that disgusting?”
“Nah. He didn’t wear them on our dates. Wait, why are we talking about this?” Kenny squeezed Craig’s waist with both hands. It was weirdly arousing, maybe because he had big hands. “I like you,” Kenny said.
“Why?” Craig asked, and Kenny laughed.
“You’re fucked up in this cool way,” he said.
“Ugh.” Craig sat back and adjusted his shirt. “Clyde and Token would say that it’s on purpose. Like, that I want to come off that way.”
“Well, fuck them,” Kenny said. “That was pretty real, at the cemetery. That whole thing. And the way you play that mandolin. It’s not like the tupperware.”
“The tupperware is going to be good,” Craig said.
“No, it’s not,” Kenny said, sadly, and Craig pushed him down onto the bed. He wasn’t much of a wrestler, and Kenny pinned him easily.
“It’ll be better than your movie,” Craig said. He was kind of worried that Kenny was secretly in love with Kyle. Or Stan?
“Maybe,” Kenny said. “I mean, I know it’s pathetic. They just ignore me now, you know? Now that they’re together. It’s this way to, like. Make them not do that.”
“Oh,” Craig said. He kissed Kenny’s cheek. “Want to come to my birthday party?” he asked.
The party was pretty depressing, even with Kenny there, but Craig held Kenny’s hand under the table during the happy birthday song, which Craig hated. Kenny gave his fingers a squeeze, and Craig blew out his candles; there were only ten.
“Wait, shit,” Craig said when the party was over and he was out in front of the house with Kenny, kissing him near the garage and freezing his ass off. “That McRib.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Kenny said.
“How?” Craig asked.
“You’ll see.”
Two hours later, Craig got an email from Kenny. It was from the iPhone: a video of Kenny lovingly placing the McRib into an old tupperware container and then into the fridge in the McCormick family kitchen, set to bluegrass music. It was a particularly pathetic tupperware, with orange pasta sauce stains ringing the inside. At the end of the video there was a brief credit sequence, and Kenny listed himself as director, cinematographer, music supervisor, and writer, featuring Symbolic McRib, Special Thanks and Happy Birthday to Craig Tucker.