the asmodai ↣ style

Chapter Eleven

Chapter 11: Jews Always Win at Monopoly

The doorbell was ringing.

Kyle actually hated his house's doorbell. It was shrill, sort of like his mom's voice when she was ordering him around. It was particularly grating when he was trying to dust the top of a bookcase. He'd been cursing ancient literature for the particular way dust clung to it when the bell rang suddenly, startling him so that he fell backwards off the chair he'd been standing on.

Kyle cursed louder.

"Kyle!" he heard his mother call from the other room. "Could you get that!"

"Dust, Kyle. Answer the door, Kyle," he mimicked irritably. "Make up your fucking mind."

He hauled himself back onto his feet, put down his rag and Windex, and started toward the door as the bell rang again.

"I heard you the first time! Christ..." he yanked the door open, and his irritable expression immediately brightened. "Stan!"

Stan was standing on his front porch, his neck tilted up so that he was staring at the storm drain. When he heard Kyle his head snapped back down, and he winced and rubbed the back of his neck. "Hey."

"Hey yourself. What're you doing here?"

"Um, well..." Stan said, burying his hands into his pockets. "I got done with... what I had to do. Are you busy?"

"Hell no. Come in," he said, holding the door open. Kyle closed the door behind him, and Mrs. Broflovski shouted from the other room, "Who was it, Kyle!"

"It's Stan!" Kyle hollered back. They could hear her grumbling.

"She doesn't sound pleased to see me," Stan observed.

"She's just pissed because she lost her slave labor," he said cheerfully. "Hungry?"

"Not really," Stan said, who'd just watched Kenny gorge himself, after all.

"Suit yourself," Kyle said, shrugging, and made his way to the kitchen. Stan trailed after him and sat down at the table while Kyle dug into the refrigerator.

Stan really hadn't been hungry, but there was nothing like smelling food and suddenly wanting it. And he was a teenaged boy. He always had room for something. "Hey, Kyle?" he said, twisting around in his seat. "Leave out the stuff, okay? I'm going to make a sandwich too-"

Kyle set down the one he'd been making in front of him. Stan looked at it blankly.

"... I can make my own."

Kyle shrugged and turned back to the counter. "I was already up." Stan stared at his back for a while.

"... Thanks."

"Sure."

Stan picked up his sandwich and took a bite, then lifted his eyebrows. "This has mayonnaise on it."

"So?"

"So you hate mayonnaise."

"But you like it, right?" Kyle said, pulling up a chair. He'd grabbed a carton of milk in addition to his sandwich, which he was drinking directly from. Stan was sure Kyle's mom would have a fit if she saw. "So what were you doing this morning, anyway?" He asked conversationally.

"Er..." Stan said, momentarily panicked, and then he took a large bite out of his sandwich so that his reply was muffled.

Kyle lifted an eyebrow. "Stan-"

"Kyle!" Mrs. Broflovski shouted. "Where are you!"

"In the kitchen, Mom!" he shouted back, keeping his eyes on Stan. Until she appeared in the doorway, that is, wearing a 'God Hates Fatty Foods' shirt and carrying a picket sign with a similar message. Then he couldn't help but stare.