Work Text:
The wind blows a wave of warm air through Utah’s rocky mountain ranges, stirring up red dust that glows against the late-afternoon sun. The sun gradually begins to set behind the imposing mountains, a natural giant that seems to dominate the horizon. The warm summer breeze gently sways the local brush, accompanied by the movement of the makeshift tents that the small group of cowboys has set up. They’ve found a good spot to shelter from the bitter cold of the night, yet close enough to the clear waters of La Verkin Creek.
The horses, tied near the trees, enjoy the cool shade they’ve longed for all day. Their hooves clatter against the reddish earth as they whinny impatiently, begging for a respite from the journey’s hardships. And one of the young men, after a quick walk to the cove, returns with a bucket of ice-cold water and some fresh fruit to feed the animals after their strenuous effort. The men, now stripped of their leather vests and soaked hats, collapse around the circle of stones that will soon shelter the fire. Two have already succumbed to sleep, their stiff bodies surrendered to the earth in search of rest, while uncertain dreams of the fate that awaits them hover over their closed eyelids.
The third, however, sets off at a slow pace, announcing in a weary voice his intention to wash in the sacred waters of La Verkin. No one stops him, nor does anyone even look up — except one.
As his figure fades into the shadows of the grove, one of the men still awake sighs — not with relief, but with restrained exasperation, his fingers involuntarily clenching near his holster. Kenny remains motionless, his bandana still covering his face like a second skin, his hat pressed firmly against his head. From beneath the worn brim, strands of blond hair — dusty and damp with sweat — escape, contrasting with his covered face. His eyes, however, cannot be hidden: deep indigo eyes that burn with intensity, contrasting with the orange outfit that blends him into the desert. They are eyes that have seen too much, and now see more than they should.
The palm of his hand itches — not because of sweat or sand, but because of a restlessness gnawing at his insides, a familiar warning echoing through every nerve. For weeks he’s been stifling that instinct, ever since the strange bartender joined his group of cowboys in California with his easy smile and stories of the ranch. A gentle man, they say. Harmless. But Kenny knows the smell of a lie. Something about that young man makes his hair stand on end with recognition. He has a shady aura, like finding a predator’s footprint on unfamiliar ground. And yet… Butters (or whoever he was) had won over the group with his theatrical naivety, his dog-like loyalty. Even Kenny, for a brief moment, had let himself be fooled.
But then the bandits came.
The ambush had been brutal, a whirlwind of gunfire and dust, and Butters… Butters had transformed. It wasn’t his courage that shocked Kenny, but his coldness. The bartender had moved like a viper amid the gunfire, snatching a man’s Colt with lightning speed, shooting not like an amateur, but like a butcher who knows every angle of death. Three shots. Three bodies. Not a single wasted bullet. The mask of the naive country bumpkin had crumbled, revealing something beneath — something that smiled with bloodstained teeth and eyes gleaming with pleasure. There was initial surprise among everyone in the group, glad for the extra hands that helped them escape. However, after a few days, the others seem to have forgotten the whole incident as just an unusual occurrence, but Kenny can’t let it slide — not like his companions.
Because he’s seen those eyes before. Many years ago, in a life that no longer belongs to him.
Mysterion knows a killer when he sees one. Butters isn’t self-taught. He’s a liar. And liars, out West, have only one reason to hide who they really are.
— Looks like we still have enough meat for another two days. — Kyle remarks, breaking the silence on the other side of the still-unlit campfire, his eyes fixed on Kenny as if searching for some sign of life beyond that physical presence (a presence that feels distant).
Kenny responds with a muffled grunt, without even lifting his head. His mind is far away, fixated on the footprints that fade off toward the east, where Butters had disappeared. Every minute of silence is a thread of suspicion that wraps itself around his neck, tightening.
He’d already made up his mind. If Butters was a lie, he’d shoot the mask right off him.
In the weeks following the shootout on the highway, in every tiny village where they stopped — even if only to fill their canteens — Kenny sniffed out information like a hunting dog. He asked gunmen, corrupt sheriffs, drunken drunks, and hardworking civilians about outlaws who’d vanished without a trace. Some names were familiar: dead, missing, or still with a bounty on their heads. But one echoed like a gunshot through the canyons of his memory: Professor Chaos.
At one of his stops, as he passed the local police station, Kenny spotted Chaos’s wanted poster still hanging on the bulletin board. The paper was weathered, its edges wrinkled and yellowed, but the name still stood out, black and defiant. A drop of sweat had trickled down the back of McCormick’s neck, cold as the touch of a ghost, while a chill crept down his spine. The poster didn’t show a full face (the Professor had always hidden behind scarves and shadows), but one eye peered out from the fabric, fixed on the world with the intensity of a predator.
That eye.
Sky-blue. Unhealthy. Burning with a troubled flame — he knows it. He’d seen that color in nightmares, illuminated by the flash of gunfire, fixed on him after every execution. Intensifying before fallen bodies, amid piercing laughter that echoed like death knells. The poster didn’t capture the essence of it: the madness in that gaze, the way it shone amid the chaos, as if every death were a favor to that arid land, their blood watering the barren soil.
And a week ago, in that desert, Kenny had seen it again.
That same unmistakable gleam — that celestial blue that burned like gunpowder — Kenny had recognized it during the shootout, when Butters had transformed right before everyone’s eyes. His right eye pulsed with that supernatural light, vibrating with every gallop of the horses, with every whistle of a bullet cutting through the air, with the red dust rising like a bloody veil between them. But the left one… that left eye remained dead, a shard of glass that had once held a functioning eyeball, as still as a tombstone. It was that eye Kenny always looked at first, curious about its story.
As he reflects once more on the origin of the eye’s loss, the memory of the saloon floods his mind. He sees every detail with the cruel clarity of a traumatic memory: the shattered bottles, the customers hiding under the tables, the acrid smell of gunpowder and bourbon.
The battle had degenerated into savagery when the ammunition ran out. Mysterion, stronger and heavier, dominated with punches and grappling, but Chaos was as slippery as wet soap — every blow that seemed certain to land, he deflected with almost precognitive movements. When they finally managed to separate, Mysterion saw in his enemy’s eyes that he was about to flee once again, slipping through the law’s porous grasp to continue his reign of terror in another nameless city.
It was then that a knife caught his eye — a rusty blade abandoned on the counter, as ordinary as it was fateful. As he reached for it, his fingers closed around the handle before his conscious mind could weigh the consequences. And the throw was perfect, a movement his body had executed hundreds of times.
But Chaos, damn him, turned around at that very moment.
What followed was a moment frozen in time: the blade spinning through the air, the light reflecting off its dull metal, and those damned eyes — both alive and pulsing, burning with a mixture of hatred and ecstasy, defying the vigilante. As the knife sank in. It was a wet sound that Kenny would never forget. The left eye simply melted away like jelly under the blade, while the right… the right remained ablaze, even more intense, horror taking over its dilated pupils and extinguishing the voracious glow it carried, replacing it with panic.
The scream that tore through the air was deafening. It was a sound unlike any other Mysterion had ever heard, making his eardrums tremble with its intensity. The vigilante felt his own body betray him — his muscles froze, his blood seeming to solidify in his veins. In that instant, he was no longer “Mysterion, The Bullet of Justice”; he was just Kenny McCormick, a frightened boy facing the monster he had just wounded.
When Chaos finally staggered away, leaving a red trail that glowed in the evening sun, Kenny stood frozen, unable to chase after him, unable even to think.
There was no satisfaction. No triumph. Only the icy emptiness of someone who knew he had crossed a line that should never have existed.
Just months after the incident, the criminal resurfaced. His left eye was completely covered by strips of blue and green fabric, hiding the ugliness of a limb that was no longer functional. He was blind in one eye — and the culprit was none other than the Old West’s only immortal vigilante, glaring proof that he had left his mark not only on the legend of Chaos, but on his very flesh.
Kenny doesn’t want to become like those lunatics he reads about in the newspapers — obsessed men who concoct delusional theories about outlaws supposedly dead — and who, in secret, are said to have faked their deaths to live as civilians or influential figures. But the pieces are beginning to fall into place with an unbelievable coincidence, and the picture that’s taking shape is hard to ignore.
His actions. The precision with which the bartender handles bottles, knives, and guns — fingers too nimble for a man pretending to be clumsy. The way he walks. With light steps, like a coyote sneaking among the rocks, always seeming to prepare to vanish into the rocky terrain and undergrowth. The shootout. The way his hand finds the holster even before the threat materializes, as if his reflexes were fueled by something deeper than mere instinct.
Everything points to the one explanation he refuses to accept: Butters is the fearless Professor Chaos.
Victor Chaos, to those closest to him — if anyone was ever close to him at all.
Kenny mutters under his breath, restless, his eyes fixed on the trail where the supposed bartender disappeared. He knows he can’t rely solely on assumptions or paranoia — but his instincts suffocate him whenever he tries to think otherwise. It’s as if every memory of Butters’ face, superimposed on that of old Chaos, clouds his clarity. Not to mention the small slip-ups that reinforce his theories: a verbal quirk, a strained tone of voice, a recognizable tic.
Treacherous snake, Kenny thinks, clenching his teeth tightly.
— Dude, what’s gotten into you? — Kyle interrupts his thoughts, tossing a dry twig into the already crackling fire. — You’ve been acting weird for days… especially around Butters. — He raises an eyebrow, clearly curious. — Did something happen?
Kenny stares at him from under the brim of his hat for a few seconds, his facial muscles tense and the palm of his hand itching with increasing intensity. For a moment, he thinks about telling Kyle about his suspicions, telling him everything, laying his paranoia bare. But he knows how that would end. Laughter, mockery, maybe even pity. He’d already tried it with Stan, and had been dismissed as a raving lunatic. And if Kyle knows that (and he definitely does), the tone of feigned casual conversation he uses when mentioning the bartender’s nickname makes more sense.
Kenny sighs, rolling his eyes before lowering his head, letting the hat hide his troubled expression. It’s better to keep that to himself.
— Stan mentioned his suspicions… — Kyle said, and Kenny could hear the smile in his voice. — You don’t really believe that, do you? — Kyle let out a short laugh, tossing another stick into the flames. — Butters, the dreaded Professor Chaos? That’s one of the craziest ideas you’ve ever had, Kenny. And let’s face it, you only ever have crazy ideas.
— It’s not an idea, Kyle. It’s a hunch. — He retorted, his voice low and angry, muffled by the handkerchief pressed against his face. — And my hunches are never wrong. If he isn’t Chaos, he must be someone just as dangerous as him.
— Is that because of that time with the thugs? Oh, come on, Kenny! — Kyle laughs scornfully, his eyes sparkling with amusement. — Butters just… I don’t know, got lucky! You can’t take that seriously. It was just a one-time thing! He probably read something in a comic book, imitated what he saw, and that was it! A little luck here, a good memory there… and voilà, magic.
He laughs again, finding the theory amusing as if it were just another one of his old friend Jimmy’s jokes. But Kenny doesn’t find it funny at all. And, more and more, he’s certain that what he feels… isn’t madness. He isn’t crazy; they are, for not suspecting anything, for not seeing what he sees.
His patience is hanging by a thread. Every mocking laugh from Kyle is like another shove, a cruel taunt that pushes him closer to the edge. His leg begins to tremble slightly, involuntarily, trying to ease the nervousness that’s poisoning him. Anxiety seeps through his skin as cold sweat, eroding his calm.
And maybe… maybe… that’s exactly what Butters wants. For them to doubt his ability. For him to doubt his own sanity. It seems like something Chaos would do — test his mind and self-control.
Kenny clenches his fists.
— That wasn’t luck. He knew exactly what he was doing. — He retorts, his tone sharp, his eyes fixed on the path the bartender took. — And he was laughing the whole time. Laughing, Kyle. Like he was having fun. He’s a lunatic!
— Ever heard of people who laugh when they’re nervous? That could be it. Relax, man. — Kyle looks at him with that annoyingly casual expression, half skeptical, half amused. — Why do you believe that so strongly? It can’t be just because of the shooting, right?
His eyebrows furrow even more, annoyed by Kyle’s question. The conversation is starting to take a turn Kenny would rather avoid.
No one knows about his former identity as Mysterion; as far as everyone else is concerned, the noble vigilante had been killed by Professor Chaos himself years ago. There’s no concrete evidence of his death, only persistent rumors. They say the two met on a deserted plain for their final duel — bloody and fierce, like all the encounters that marked their rivalry.
The stories vary: some believe that only Mysterion or Chaos survived; others wager that both perished in the scorching heat of the desert. There is still a small group that imagines a different, more controversial fate: the two enemies are said to have fled together, abandoned their pasts, and reintegrated into society as ordinary civilians.
Regardless of what everyone thinks they know about Mysterion, Kenny doesn’t want to put himself in a complicated position where he has to explain himself. Kyle may be his longtime friend, but he has no right to know about his former life as a vigilante. Mysterion will remain a legend, a symbol he will not tarnish, leaving his friends free to imagine who the shadowy, hooded figure who dedicated his existence to justice really was.
But now, how can he get out of this without arousing suspicion?
— Why do you want to know so badly? — He asks, irritated, trying to mask the tension in his voice.
— Come on, there must be a plausible reason for you to believe that. I just want to understand. — Kyle insists, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward as if he were facing an irresistible piece of gossip. — Did you find something in his bag? A diary? A notebook? Maybe it says, "Goal: how many lies I told today". — He laughs mockingly. — Or "List of possible disguises: priest, old lady, California cowboy". Maybe he’s heading to Colorado just to try out some super-fun zip lines he heard about. They say there are some great ones near the mountains.
Kyle’s voice is dripping with sarcasm, and Kenny feels his jaw tighten. It’s as if every word is scraping inside him, scratching at a truth he’s trying too hard to keep buried.
He closes his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath — but his friend’s mocking laughter pushes him over the edge.
— Since you think all this is such a big joke, why do you keep fucking bothering me?! — Kenny explodes, jumping to his feet, his voice laced with aggression.
Kyle jumps slightly in place at the sudden movement, his eyes widening at the abrupt change in tone.
Great. That wasn’t suspicious at all, he thinks, cursing himself the very same instant. His heart is racing, and he hates the feeling of being cornered.
— Damn it, all right, all right… — The redhead mutters, raising his hands as if trying to calm a skittish animal. — I just thought it was curious, man. I’ve never seen you like this because of anyone. Never.
Kenny doesn’t answer. He goes straight to his things, crouching down with jerky movements. He grabs clean clothes, something to dry off with, and an extra pistol, making no effort to hide it. He’s too angry, too tired, under too much pressure. And he knows that Kyle (more than anyone) can smell that tension like a hungry coyote.
— I don’t know… — The redhead continues after a moment of silence. — It just seems like this whole thing is getting to you… in a different way. Like it’s something more than just suspicion.
That catches Kenny’s attention.
Why would Kyle say something like that when there’s no plausible reason for such a question? Why does he think this — this whole situation with the bartender — is bothering him? Yes, Kenny knows he’s more tense than usual, skittish about certain topics when he’s around Butters, more protective and on guard than is acceptable; but could these slight changes in his behavior have been enough to spark suspicion?
What if Butters had planted the seed of doubt in his friends’ minds — managing to manipulate them into suspecting that Kenny, somehow, was Mysterion? Chaos can be cunning when he puts his mind to it, and this seems like a calculated move designed to get his comrades to start asking questions, doubt Kenny, and eventually seek justice for his past mistakes as a vigilante.
However, Butters would have to know that Kenny is Mysterion… does he? What might have indicated that it was Kenny? Did he recognize the same weapon movements, mannerisms in his walk, and intensity in his gaze from when he was Mysterion — just as Kenny did? What if Butters is just bluffing to get him to reveal himself, so he can get everything he needs to turn Stan, Kyle, and Cartman against him? Just one small slip-up could ruin everything. But why would Chaos do that? What would he gain by revealing his old identity?
He feels his stomach clench and drop, freezing his insides.
— You’re seeing things that aren’t there. — He mutters.
— Maybe I am. — Kyle replies, and this time his voice sounds gentle. — But I know how to spot when someone’s trying to hide behind aggressive emotions. And failing miserably.
Kenny slowly straightens up, his eyes now fixed menacingly on his friend. One last warning for Kyle to stop right now.
— That’s none of your business.
If it weren’t for the late-afternoon silence, the calm whistle of the breeze, and the quiet crackling of the fire, Kyle wouldn’t be able to hear Kenny — his voice muffled by the dirty scarf and barely audible. The redhead lets out a little chuckle, but it carries no humor at all.
— Look… if you want to talk, like… for real, I’m here. You know there’s no judgment between us. — He shrugs, oblivious to the hypocrisy. — Sometimes, some secrets can suffocate us even more when… they threaten our lives. And maybe, just maybe, you’re not as alone as you think.
A few seconds of silence, and Kenny quickly turns on his heel.
— I’m going to take a shower. — He announces curtly, hurrying off down the same path Butters had taken moments earlier, avoiding eye contact with Kyle.
— Wait, Kenny. — the redhead calls out, leaning forward as if to stand up.
Kenny turns abruptly, his gaze cold and determined — enough to make Kyle flinch and sit back down.
— For someone who says he hates Cartman, you act a lot like him.
Before leaving, Kenny glances briefly at Kyle’s reaction. The redhead’s face contorts into an expression of offense; his mouth opens, forming a sound that doesn’t come out, while his eyebrows furrow in sheer disgust. As if seeking to refute the comparison, Broflovski shoots a quick, disgusted glance at Cartman, who is sleeping peacefully two meters away, completely oblivious to the tension around him.
Satisfied, Kenny heads deeper into the woods, stepping firmly on the makeshift trail formed by Stan’s comings and goings to the stream to fetch water for the horses, and by Butters, who had gone in the same direction to bathe in its waters.
It takes Kenny just two minutes to reach his destination — and, along with it, the figure that has been haunting his thoughts. He makes up his mind: he’s going to put his assumptions to the test.
. . .
The landscape burns in silence. The dry leaves crackle beneath his boots with a harsh sound, the earth itself protesting with every step he takes. Stones are kicked away, ricocheting between exposed roots and twisted trunks. In certain spots, low-hanging branches force him to bend down or push them aside impatiently, as if nature, too, were testing his patience. Trees stubbornly survive thanks to the moisture from the stream — resilient and twisted — reflecting the same kind of obstinacy that pulses restlessly beneath his skin.
The revolver in its holster seems to grow heavier with every meter he covers, dragging invisible chains behind it. Still, Kenny keeps a firm hand on it, that cold metal the only thing capable of anchoring him to the moment, the only certainty amid the growing doubt. His other hand clutches the clothes he’s carrying — a clean shirt and pants, a towel — but his grip is too tight to be merely holding them. It feels more like a way to contain something that threatens to escape.
The handkerchief tied over his face suffocates him. The heat of his breath builds up behind the damp, irritating cloth. Air enters with difficulty, and what comes out is too hot. His lungs work harder, and anxiety squeezes his chest with invisible hands. The hat, firmly on his head, weighs like a blazing furnace, cooking his scalp; sweat trickles down the back of his neck and slides between his shoulder blades, the white shirt clinging to his skin in a stifling, claustrophobic sensation. Kenny feels as if he’s being wrapped in a hot, wet shroud, and yet he doesn’t stop. His determination is stronger than the discomfort.
— Okay… I can start with, "Nice afternoon, huh?” — He mutters to himself, the sound muffled by the fabric covering his mouth. — No. That sounds stupid… Maybe something like… "What do you think of the trip?”.
He lets out a frustrated snort, laughing at his own nervousness. His eyebrows furrow even more, and his voice takes on a sarcastic, impatient tone.
— Yeah. Go ahead and ask him if he wants a beer and a foot massage. Damn it, Kenny…
When he finally reaches the bank of the stream, he hides behind a row of trees that still stand tall, blessed by the constant moisture of the place. The sound of water hitting the rocks gently envelops him; the constant murmur of running water brings calm to restless minds, inviting a moment of pause. But Kenny remains alert.
His steps slow down. He moves carefully through the bushes, not wanting to be seen by his target. And there he is: Butters.
With his back turned, the bartender seems to have left his armor behind. He’s without his vest, shirt, boots, hat, and glass eye. Only his pants remain — loose at the waist, as if they might fall off at any moment. He whistles something soft, an unpretentious tune that gets lost among the leaves and the wind. He calmly cleans a razor, his body relaxed in the evening light, his shoulders finally slumped, free from the constant tension that has marked the days of the journey. The sun shines directly on his back, and his muscles stand out in golden hues. Long, prominent scars mark his skin, gleaming rawly, like trails of old wounds whose origin Kenny can deduce. Flogging. Maybe he really is a criminal?
There’s something unreal about the scene. Something calm. Too unguarded. Butters is vulnerable. If the razor weren’t in his hand, he’d be a defenseless target. And yet, even with the blade, his carefree attitude is so extreme that it gets on his nerves.
Kenny takes it all in — clothes drying on a high rock, his gaze resting on a small pile of fabric, the revolver beside it, a bar of soap still damp, and a small mirror leaning against it; the boots lie further down, carelessly tossed aside. Kenny takes in every detail, and his eyes settle once more on the body in front of him. The lines of the shoulder blades, the curve of the spine, the defined muscles of his slender waist, the arms tensing and relaxing beneath the tanned skin. Every centimeter reveals a vital point.
Kenny grips the revolver.
He assesses…
He measures…
He ponders…
The decision weighs heavier than any bullet. If he’s wrong — if Butters is just an unlucky bartender who found himself in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong people — then Kenny would become exactly what he’s always fought against. He’d become the very thing that forced him to give up everything he’d built: a blind vigilante, driven by his own pain and mistrust. A murderer. Just like the monsters he’s already killed — just like the innocent people who suffered because of his poor judgment.
Just like Victor.
And he can’t allow himself to be that.
With a sigh that almost makes his shoulders slump… he lets go of the gun’s grip.
With a dry throat and a sour taste on his tongue, he decides to make his presence known. It wouldn’t make sense to appear out of nowhere, not after watching Butters for long, silent minutes, pondering whether he deserved to live or die (as if he had any power to choose who lives and who dies). Kenny deliberately steps on dry twigs, making the sound echo through the woods. When he reaches the orange rocks along the shore, he clears his throat loudly.
He feigns the nonchalance of someone who’s just arrived, as if he hadn’t spent the last few minutes spying and judging with the eyes of a hunter.
— Is the water nice? — He asks, his voice muffled not only by the cloth but by the lump that still weighs on his throat. He holds the holster lightly, pretending merely to lean on it (as if putting his hands in his pockets).
Butters gives a slight jump from where he stands, his shoulders rising until they almost touch his ears as he twists his body in an abrupt movement, as if the startle itself were pulling at his muscles. His eyes widen, alert, and an expression of surprise spreads across every wrinkle on his face. His mustache, freshly trimmed after shaving, seems to take on a life of its own as it follows the comical contortions of his face, taking center stage amid his smooth, newly exposed skin.
Butters holds his breath in a sharp reflex, his lungs freezing for an instant until, upon recognizing Kenny, he finally lets out a trembling sigh. His free hand goes to his chest, as if to slow his racing heart — or perhaps just to contain the embarrassment of having been caught off guard. He laughs with a lightness that seems to spring from genuine relief, bending slightly as he exhales, while a sincere smile spreads to his bluish eyes, narrowing them with a childlike sparkle.
— Oh! Hamburgers! — He exclaims between laughs. — You nearly scared me to death, Mr. McCormick.
Kenny tries to smile back, adjusting the hat that makes his head feel like a personal furnace. His attempt to appear relaxed is tenuous — his paranoia mounting as he scrutinizes the bartender’s reaction. So… natural. Maybe even too much so. Did he rehearse that?
No. Focus. Keep an open mind.
— My bad, I didn’t mean to scare you. You seemed so distracted you probably didn’t even notice me coming up.
— Yeah. I really didn’t notice. — Butters replies, still laughing, as he stands up with a lazy, almost deliberate movement and walks over to his things. — I was so engrossed in the water that a herd of cattle could have passed right by me and I wouldn’t have even noticed.
Kenny watches the body stretch as it stands up — muscles moving beneath the skin like taut strings, scars that tell silent stories. Butters is taller, broader, more alive than the cowboy would like to admit. That presence fills the space with disconcerting ease (so different from when he’s with the group, where he makes himself small) and yet… something there remains discordant, a note out of tune.
He knows Butters has the ability. Enough ability to hurt. To attack. To put himself in a position of dominance. And he does none of those things.
But what unsettles him isn’t the width of his shoulders or his height. It’s the contrast between the scarred body and the cheerful face, between the clear sparkle of the sky-blue eye and the scar that tears across his left side like a deadly bolt of lightning. It’s the silly mustache, which softens any shadow. It’s the easy laugh, the voice too light for the deep scars that mark his body.
And that’s exactly what makes Kenny even more suspicious.
He watches with almost painful attention as the other guy carefully dries the razor blade. The metal reflects Butters’ own face and landscape — distorted, reversed. There’s still some forgotten lather on his chin, staining his chest and stomach as well. His hair, now shorter, reveals the freshly cut nape of his neck. Kenny follows the strands carried by the wind with his eyes, silently tracing the path they take until they disappear.
— I didn’t know you were a barber. — He remarks, trying to sound casual. His palms are sweaty, and he still hasn’t taken his hand off the holster, leaning on it.
— Well, I haven’t been a bartender my whole life. — Butters replies simply, closing the razor and setting it down next to the gun with a natural air. Simple, careless, and casual.
Kenny notices the gesture. The blond man’s brief, distracted touch on the gun’s grip sets off even louder alarm bells in his mind, his nervousness causing one of his eyelids to twitch slightly. His fingers grip the holster tighter, instinctively. A support. An excuse. He pretends he’s just resting his hand there, but his full attention is on the movement. On the calm. On the all-too-typical carelessness.
— And what else have you worked at?
Butters leans against the rock with the ease of someone chatting about the weather, his body relaxed against the warm surface. His eyes turn to the sky, fingers rising, ready to list memories that might not even be true.
— Oh… man. So many things I can’t even remember. — Butters smiles as he begins to list his old jobs, his voice drawn out like someone telling a road story. — I helped my dad with the cattle when I was younger, I’ve worked on farms in Missouri, I helped build a few railroads, I hauled supplies from one state to another, I worked in the mines for a while, I even ran my own brothel, I delivered newspapers, I sold medicine… and I probably did a whole bunch of other things that don’t come to mind right now.
Kenny tries to keep a straight face, but his eyes widen reflexively, betraying the effort. A slight frown of confusion appears on his forehead, as if his mind had stumbled over a specific phrase. A brothel? He tilts his head, blinking a few times, bewildered.
Of all the professions he could have guessed Butters worked in — the main one being a maniacal serial killer — this one definitely catches him off guard.
— Wow… that’s really a lot. — He murmurs, trying to sound more curious than alarmed. His raised eyebrow gives away his effort. — And you… you started a brothel? Seriously? You? — He tilts his head slightly, in a gesture that mixes astonishment and caution. — When was that?
— Oh, well… it’s been quite a while. I was a lot younger, like… — He scratches his chin, his eyes narrowing in concentration. — About twelve years.
— Twelve years?! — Kenny repeats, his voice slightly louder than he intended. Butters just shrugs, smiling with ease.
— Yeah. It was around the time I had my first kiss, and I had to pay for it. — He speaks in a calm and nostalgic tone, gazing at the horizon as if he could see the past on that distant line. — My dad used to say that when that happened, I’d become a man. That it would be time to start earning my own money, make a name for myself. Be somebody. — His eyes return to Kenny with a faint, amused gleam. — So I struck a deal with the girl I paid to kiss. And we started a kissing company.
— And… did that work?
— It was the best in the area! — Butters replies, puffing out his chest slightly, his voice brimming with genuine pride. — It became all the rage among the kids and teens in town. People were paying twenty dollars for hugs, kisses on the cheek, peck on the lips. — He lets out a muffled chuckle. — The girls were such sweethearts. And just as I helped them, they helped me. We built that thing together. We were really successful.
Kenny lets out a short laugh, a surprised sigh. He remembers when he was about the same age — he’d also paid to kiss a girl from town, Sally. It’s a shared memory, in a strange way.
— Ha, I imagine so. I’ve done that a lot. — He remarks, trying to ease the tension he still feels in his stomach.
— Did you have a thing like that, too? — Butters asks, in a light tone, without irony, just out of curiosity.
— What? No, of course not. — Kenny shakes his head, adjusting his hat. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck, and he feels the fabric stick to his skin as if he were trapped in a sauna. — Even if I wanted to, that would be a crime.
Butters laughs softly, a sincere sound that vibrates in the air, easing some of the tension in the conversation. He shakes his head slowly, his gaze rising again to Kenny, a playful twinkle in his eye.
— Well… it’s only a crime if someone finds out — He says, as if sharing a simple secret.
Kenny feels his throat go dry. The story, the way it’s told — so calmly and without a trace of malice — leaves him momentarily speechless. He looks away for an instant, needing a second to process it. The hat suddenly feels tighter, as if the sun’s heat had decided to weigh down on him alone. The fabric sticks to his forehead and temples, and sweat trickles slowly, tracing the outline of his jawline.
With a short, forced laugh, Kenny shifts his weight to his right leg, trying to compose himself. His hand tightens around the old holster strapped to his waist as he adjusts it, as if that could also organize his anxious thoughts.
— He. That’s what my dad always used to say. Until he was turned in to the police by a family friend. — He glances in Butters’ direction, who is now watching him with silent attention. — He spent two years in jail for whiskey smuggling. My brother and I, who helped with the sales, were in there for a few months. I was in for six. He was in for eight.
Butters doesn’t respond right away. His eyes drift down to the floor, fixing on some invisible point in the fine dust on the hot stone. An almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, gently lifting his mustache. It’s a discreet gesture, somewhat shy, yet meaningful — as if he understood that confession on a personal level. A soft snort escapes through his nose before he turns his eyes back to Kenny, still with that calm air that seems to float around him like the lingering warm afternoon breeze.
— And that’s why you don’t tell your secrets to anyone. — He says with a lazy shrug, speaking in the tone of advice repeated a thousand times. — You never know who to trust.
Kenny narrows his eyes, furrowing his brow. One of his eyebrows rises, conveying a mix of doubt and irony.
— And here you are, telling me about your prostitution business. At twelve years old.
— Yeah. You’re something else. — Butters replies matter-of-factly, as if stating that the sky is blue.
He pushes himself away from the rock he’d been leaning against with a slight shove. The gesture is simple, but Kenny’s eyes follow him with a hawk’s precision. Butters leans to the side, reaching out his fingers toward the bar of soap resting next to the towel — so close to the gun that Kenny feels his shoulders tense.
But there’s no haste in the gesture. No hesitation, no furtive glance. Just his hand sliding toward the soap and picking it up with familiarity, as if it were part of a calm routine. Still, Kenny doesn’t relax. His fingers remain firm on the holster, close to the gun’s grip, his jaw clenched, his eyes tracking every slightest movement.
— I’ve never told anyone that. — Butters says, with the same lightness as before, as if he were mentioning the weather.
— Really, huh? — Kenny murmurs, his voice low, drawn-out, laced with cautious skepticism. He watches him approach the edge of the stream. — And why? Do you trust me that much?
Butters doesn’t turn around; he simply replies with disarming simplicity:
— Yeah. Something like that.
The silence that follows isn’t heavy, it settles. Like dust in a forgotten shed, it spreads slowly. Butters remains with his back turned, his silhouette outlined in a reddish-gold light that illuminates him. The soap spins between his wet fingers with a dexterity that betrays practice; it slips, returns, and nestles in his palm without ever falling. It’s a meditative gesture. Kenny watches, silent, feeling the soft sound of the current fill the space between them.
There’s something about that scene — the carefree gestures, the way Butters watches the water as if he had all the time in the world — that makes Kenny uneasy. As if that man were always two steps ahead, even with his bare feet planted on the hot stone and a small bar of soap spinning in his hand.
Meanwhile, Kenny stands still, his eyes sweeping over the bartender’s relaxed shoulders and unguarded posture. Butters doesn’t seem in the least bothered by his presence. With Kenny armed, his hand clenched near the revolver (loaded and ready) he stands with his back turned — open to any attack, offering no protection, showing no sign of tension or fear.
It’s as if he truly trusts Kenny. As if he’s lowered all his defenses of his own free will. But what if all of this is an act? A well-rehearsed role, a calculated ploy to make him let his guard down? Kenny has seen this trick before. Mysterion already knows this move — the feigned comfort, the confidence used as a trap, the vulnerability as a disguise. Everything seems to be following a familiar script.
He shakes his head, trying to shake off the paranoid thought — but he’s already too entangled to escape. The doubt has been throbbing in the back of his mind ever since California, ever since the moment they ran into that bartender with the easy smile and well-chosen words.
But maybe…
Maybe Butters is just trying to be nice, to fit in, like any traveler would. It makes sense, doesn’t it? That traveling companions trust one another, share stories, and share the burden of the journey. That they become confidants, friends.
And Butters has been trying. Almost too hard. Because, at the end of the day, he’s the outsider of the group. The only one who didn’t grow up in the Colorado mountains, who didn’t share a childhood with the others — no inside jokes, no school stories. Four weeks into the trip, and he still seems like a shadow in the landscape, a presence trying, in vain, to be noticed. He offers to help, tells stories, forces smiles. But everything slips through his fingers like sand.
Kenny has seen masks before. He’s seen good actors. People who lied with their whole bodies, who manipulated even their own breathing. But Butters isn’t like that. He’s too clumsy and talks way too much. He laughs in a strange way. And sometimes, he seems to apologize just with his eyes — as if he knows he’s in the middle of a group that hasn’t accepted him yet.
What if… that’s all there is to it?
What if he just wants to fit in?
No.
The word cuts through his thoughts. It isn’t his. It comes from another corner of his mind — a familiar, deep, familiar voice. The same one that guided him for years, that pointed out danger even when everyone else was distracted. Mysterion. The shadow that always whispered at just the right moment, that saved him more than once. That knew how to see beyond the surface.
And now, it returns, firm and relentless:
Don’t trust him.
— So you’ve been arrested before. — Says Butters, breaking the silence with a light tone as he looks at him over his shoulder, his eyes roaming over the cowboy’s body. — Who would’ve thought? I never imagined you’d be an outlaw.
His voice has a calm, slightly playful quality, devoid of judgment. Kenny forces a smile from behind the bandana covering his face, even if the gesture is more a reflex than a conscious choice.
— Yeah. But that was many years ago. I was still just a kid when it happened.
Butters raises his eyebrows, making a comical smug face. He shakes his head slowly, as if accepting the explanation.
— Fair enough. — He mutters, bringing his hand to his neck and scratching it casually, the conversation not weighing on his mind.
— You don’t seem like the type to commit crimes either. — Kenny lies, and the phrase sounds ironic even to his own ears. — Especially that prostitution thing. I won’t lie, it caught me by surprise.
— It didn’t seem wrong at the time. Until I found out it was. — Butters smiles wryly, with a touch of melancholy. — The girls and I almost got arrested” I’d have served a longer sentence, if it had come to that, since I was the ringleader. But I wasn’t afraid of the police, or jail, or juvenile detention.
— Oh, really? — Kenny raises an eyebrow. — So what were you afraid of?
— My dad. — He replies with a faint smile and a dull gaze. — I was afraid he’d find out. If that had happened, I’d be grounded… and probably whipped with a horsewhip. I’d have to sleep in the barn for at least a month before I could go back home.
Kenny blinks a few times. He’d been beaten by his own father before. It was part of his routine — a willow switch, a belt buckle, whatever was at hand. But a horsewhip… that was too much, even by the standards of the town where he lived. He knows what that instrument is. He knows it’s used on enslaved people, that the pain it causes goes far beyond the physical — it’s humiliating and inhumane. Whipping a child with that is a brutality that goes beyond any sense of discipline or morality.
Instinctively, his eyes dart back over the bartender’s back. Over the scars he’d seen before (now understood). Deep, grayish, thick like whitish valleys cutting across the skin. They run between the shoulder blades, plunge into the lower back, and descend nearly to the tailbone. They’re ugly. Conspicuous. Marked by pain and persistence. Butters must have bled for a long time in that barn, all alone. Without treatment. With no one around.
They aren’t scars from punishment for crimes, but from having completely lunatic parents.
Well. At least that’s the story.
Butters turns a little more toward Kenny, now standing somewhat sideways, hiding his back. He glances briefly at the crumpled clothes in the cowboy’s lap and lifts his chin in a slight, casual gesture, pointing them out with a small movement.
— Did you come to take a shower, too?
Kenny follows the direction of his gaze and stares at the clothes on his lap. He hadn’t even remembered them anymore. Of course — that had been the improvised excuse, the pretext he’d used to escape Kyle’s pointed questions. If he’d stopped to think, he would have taken the canteen. But no, he’d fled in a hurry, driven by that corrosive anxiety that had been consuming him ever since he’d laid eyes on that damn bartender — and the teasing and meddling of his redheaded friend, who wasn’t helping his already compromised mental state in the least.
He looks away, frustrated, his face contorting into an angry grimace.
Kyle is going to pay for making him make rash decisions.
— Oh, sure.— He replies, his voice heavy with annoyance. — I’ve been stinking like a sweaty old woman’s crotch on a summer day the whole trip.
For a moment, only the rustling of the leaves and the tranquil sound of the water fill the riverbank. And then, Butters’s laughter explodes into the air — a full, vibrant, unabashedly authentic laugh. He throws his head back, his eyes half-closed against the light of the sky, while one hand rests against his belly, as if it had struck him right in the gut. His shoulders shake, and the laughter reverberates through the trees, alive and childlike. It’s an unrestrained laugh, as clear as the sky above them, and completely unmasked.
Kenny freezes for a moment. It catches him off guard. He’d heard Butters laugh before, of course — mild, polite laughs, forced out after some joke from Cartman or a silly story from Stan. But this… this was different. It was real.
It was rare. It was his.
Maybe he’s just trying, after all. Trying to be part of something. Of a group.
And suddenly, Kenny finds himself smiling, too. A small, discreet smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth even against his will. A soft snort escapes him, a shy chuckle, and his hand relaxes around the holster and the cloth. He made Butters laugh like that. All on his own. Effortlessly. With a corny joke (and a menacing stance). And, for some strange reason, it warms him in a way he didn’t expect. As if, for a moment, he were part of something good. Something lighthearted.
— Oh, Mr. McCormick. You’re quite a character. — Butters says as he catches his breath. He laughs softly, his eyes sparkling, a wide smile spreading across his entire face as he stares at the horizon and shakes his head in amusement. — That was a good one. Stinking like a sweaty old woman’s crotch… — He laughs again, leaning slightly forward, still standing on the rock, a little over a meter from the shore. — Oh, for God’s sake!
Kenny isn’t quite sure how to respond. He suddenly feels shy at the other man’s reaction. There’s a strange kind of satisfaction growing inside him — a small, secret victory he didn’t know he needed. It makes him feel light. And, for a moment, his anxiety — always on alert, always on edge — begins to ease. It’s a dangerous distraction, he knows. But he tries to hold onto that lightness for just one more second.
He feels the urge to do it again. To elicit that laugh one more time. And again. And again.
— It’s true. Didn’t you feel it? — An amused snort escapes his lips, his simple smile hidden beneath the orange scarf pulled up over his eyes. His hand on his holster loosens even more. — Maybe it’s because I’m facing the wind. It hasn’t reached you yet.
— That’s a good theory. — Butters replies, still smiling, turning his gaze back to the cowboy, his voice carrying that same sunny tone as before. — But I was starting to think there was something that smelled like rotten meat back at camp.
— Oh, no. That’s just Cartman. For sure. He has this awful habit of smelling like carrion. — Kenny shakes his head with conviction, his eyes half-closed in feigned seriousness. — There was this one time a flock of vultures started following us. But after Cartman washed his filthy underwear, the birds disappeared.
— Oh, no. Seriously? — Butters’ eyes widen in amusement, a childlike sparkle glinting in them. — Was Eric so stinky that the vultures mistook him for carrion?
— They must have thought they’d found a whale’s carcass wandering through the desert. But when they saw it was just Cartman, they gave up on the idea. — Kenny chuckles softly, finally taking his hand out of the holster to adjust his hat. — If Cartman died, the vultures would have food for the next ten years. Or they’d die of food poisoning.
Butters laughs again. A carefree, uninhibited laugh — and seemingly more sincere than anything else he’s shown since the start of the trip. He’s having fun — more than during the shootout a few weeks ago, for sure. Much more.
Familiar.
Mysterion’s voice rises again from the depths of Kenny’s mind, hoarse and drawling like a dangerous warning.
All too familiar.
There’s something about the laughter that breaks into spasms — so free and out of place that it caused a strange unease. But… Victor was different. Victor laughed to himself, inwardly, as if feeding an insatiable monster trapped inside the body of a broken, aimless human. But Butters…
He laughs without restraint. He laughs at the world. Open-hearted and carefree, without seeming bound by any discomfort that might hold anyone back. His laughter carried by the wind, racing for kilometers on end without ever tiring. It’s uninhibited. It’s free. Lawless.
Kenny blinks briefly, his smile fading as he watches him.
The memory of that shootout returns like a creeping shadow. The bullets, the precision. Butters galloping with enviable freedom, shooting amid restrained taunts, his eye watchful, his hand steady. So self-assured. So defiant in the face of death. So unbound amid the chaos.
His laughter carried by the wind… echoing like an old memory, pulled from a forgotten trunk, being wiped clean of stubborn dust. Finally uninhibited. Finally free. Finally lawless.
Kenny stares at him, now more calmly, the ecstasy that had relaxed him gone. The gesture of reaching for his holster returns, automatic (though more relaxed). He tries to stay calm, tries to convince his body that there’s no threat there. Yet doubt gnaws at him beneath the surface.
He can’t let himself be swayed by easy laughter or sparkling eyes. Kenny needs answers. And although he’s almost convinced that Butters is just a weird guy with a terrible sense of humor, Mysterion continues to whisper. His instinct, sharp and constant, still hasn’t let its guard down.
— Come on, Mr. McCormick. The wind’s starting to shift. — Butters says with a light laugh, taking another step toward the water’s edge, now just a step away from the flowing water. — You can leave your things with mine. That way we can be even more sure we won’t forget anything.
Kenny pauses for a few seconds, watching the bartender turn his back on him again, facing the water. Reluctantly, he begins to approach. His strides are long and slow, each one requiring a conscious effort. He doesn’t like the idea of standing naked and unarmed in front of him. The vulnerability bothers him — him in the water, Butters out there, next to the clothes. And, more importantly, the weapons. Two of them (five, technically). All within easy reach, ready for quick use.
Kenny scans the scars crisscrossing the other man’s back once more, examining his shoulders and arms as if they might offer some clue. Then he checks the pockets of his pants, watching for any suspicious bulges — a pocket knife, a Remington Model 95, a concealed pistol. But nothing seems to stand out. Still, as he approaches the rock, his eyes never leave the man. He waits. He waits for the bartender to decide to act at any moment.
He’d been caught off guard many times before — both as a civilian and as a vigilante. And he knows from experience that even the most harmless and vulnerable figures, at first glance, can be capable of unpredictable actions. At the first opening, at the slightest lapse in attention, they strike.
— Wow, the water’s perfect for a dip. — Butters says under his breath, apparently to himself, dipping the tip of his toe slightly into the stream’s current.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kenny watches him. Butters seems distracted enough not to notice how long it’s taking the cowboy to take off his clothes. He’s engrossed in the water, poking at it like a curious child. Taking advantage of the distraction, Kenny moves more freely. He approaches the bartender’s belongings, examining them with meticulous attention.
The damp flannel shirt lies spread out on the rock, its sleeves flared toward the sun, drying in the cool breeze and the scorching heat. A grimy cloth, also damp, rests above the collar. Beside it, a small, chipped mirror glints in the light — old, covered in fine scratches. Near it lie the razor and the revolver. The razor has a wooden handle adorned with the face of a woman with closed eyes, surrounded by long, spiraling hair, like waves of a stormy sea. The glass eye (under the dry cloth) reflects the world more clearly, having evidently been washed just a few minutes ago.
But it is the gun that catches his eye. Simple, marked by use. It is the same one Butters stole from the bandits a week ago — and kept for himself as protection, or perhaps a sort of trophy. It is scratched, dirty at the muzzle, worn from excessive use. Kenny, however, is not interested in the gun’s condition or its adornments. His focus is on the cylinder, on the details of the chamber. He bends down slightly, disguising his movements with deliberate gestures as he smooths out his own clothes, his fingers running over the fabric as if he were merely tidying up.
Then, from the angle he’s at, he can see it.
Empty.
No silver or gold glint reflects in the dim afternoon light. The visible chamber is completely empty. But that doesn’t tell the whole story.
Kenny knows. He’s seen too many tricks to trust an empty cylinder. The other chambers could very well be loaded — if Butters follows the old rule of five bullets — or there could be a cartridge positioned under the hammer, ready to fire at the first touch. A quick, clean, precise shot. That kind of trick has killed him before. Many times. More than he can count.
Victor used this trick as naturally as breathing. And the truth is, any outlaw with even a drop of malice in their blood would know how to use it too. It would be strange if they didn’t.
He pretends to adjust his clothes once more, his fingers sliding slowly across the fabric, as if that were enough to justify his fixed gaze. His eyes remain on the revolver, just for one more second, straining to spot any sign: a mark on the cylinder, traces of gunpowder, perhaps a second loaded chamber. But then…
A pair of pants flies toward him.
They hit the rock just a few centimeters from his boot with a dull thud of dry, dirty fabric. It’s a simple gesture, but one that makes him react as if he’d heard the snap of a trap. The cowboy leaps backward, the shock running down his spine like an electric jolt. His hand already darts along his side — agile, instinctive — pulling the gun from his belt in a single motion. The cold grip is already in his hands, the trigger half-pressed, ready to fire if necessary. His arm at his side trembles with tension.
But only a jumping blur is seen.
And then…
CHAPLAK!
The tense, heavy silence is shattered immediately afterward as water shatters into waves and splashes. Warm droplets strike the scorching rock like tiny liquid needles, splashing onto the fabric of Kenny’s pants, staining his leather boot, and splashing onto his shin. The shock still pulses in his chest, but his eyes are already scanning, searching for the movement. Butters is gone — submerged in the stream, his body hidden beneath the dark, churning surface.
Then he emerges.
As if reborn from the bowels of the earth, the bartender breaks the surface with a violent heave, his head thrown back in a desperate gasp for air. The water covers his hips, and he’s cooled by the light breeze from the current. His blond hair clings to his face for a moment before he shakes it off like a dog — droplets fly in all directions, mingling with the fine foam of the water and the scent of homemade soap. He runs his hands over his face in slow, pleasurable motions, washing away three full days of dust, sweat, and horsehair. He sighs. He lets out a low groan of relief. He laughs to himself, as if he were alone there.
Kenny stares at him, the gun still in his hand, his whole body tense like the trigger of his gun. Blood pounds in his temples, and air rushes in and out of his lungs too quickly, as if he’d run for leagues. His fingers tremble on the gun’s grip — adrenaline building up, from the anger of the scare, from anger at himself.
And, seeing the scene before him — Butters smiling, lathering his hair, his eyes closed as if there were no one else on earth but him — Kenny feels like an idiot.
With a sharp click, he puts the gun back in its holster. The movement is abrupt, impatient. He still feels the muscles in his legs waver slightly, his body only now realizing it doesn’t need to fight. He moves slowly, with short, heavy steps, his balance precarious under the relentless heat that trickles from his forehead to the base of his spine. The handkerchief over his face is soaked with sweat, stifling his breath in a warm, uncomfortable mist. He feels trapped within himself, as if he were the rock, the heat, and the sun (all at once).
— Come on, Mr. McCormick. The water’s divine. — He invites, his hair white from all the soaping.
Kenny stares at him for a moment, his expression tight. He doesn’t answer right away. He just raises one eyebrow, his face covered in sweat, feeling his forehead throb in the heat.
— Are you going to take another shower? — Asks dryly, his voice lower than usual, testing himself as he speaks.
— I hadn’t yet. I was just shaving and washing my shirt and underwear. — He replies, shrugging and rubbing the lather into his scalp. — Aren’t you going in?
Kenny scratches the back of his neck (an automatic gesture) feeling the dirt built up in his hair. The damp towel around his neck seems to weigh twice as much. He needs that shower. He needs it, but… not there. Not now.
— Um… yeah, I will… — He mutters, the words slipping out before he can think them through. He looks at Butters suspiciously, as if the boy were still just waiting for an opportunity to pounce.
— What’s the matter? Are you embarrassed?— Asks with genuine curiosity. He’s about to turn his back. — It’s okay, I won’t look.
— No. It’s not that. — Kenny replies quickly, sharply.
Butters blinks, but isn’t offended. He seems to understand the situation.
— Oh. I thought there was something. — He said casually, going back to washing his hair. — Sometimes we go through things and… don’t want to show more than we’re comfortable with. — He seems to swallow hard, and Kenny doesn’t miss that brief moment of nervousness. — I get it. Some people just don’t like it. But you don’t have to force yourself, you know.
The silence between them lingers, broken only by the sound of Butters’ hands rubbing through his hair. Kenny stays where he is, his fingers still brushing the gun’s grip in its holster, as if it were an extension of his body. He breathes through his mouth, the handkerchief muffling the damp heat of his own breath. For a moment, he feels like he’s suffocating right there where he stands.
— It’s not shame, nor is it being fussy. — He murmurs, more to himself than to the other. His eyes sweep over the rocky slope and the line of trees, avoiding eye contact. — It’s just that… I prefer to keep my things close by.
Butters doesn’t answer right away. He just nods subtly in agreement, his eyes still closed as he washes his hair.
— I get it. — He says simply. — Being without them makes us feel… kind of naked, even though we’re already naked.
That doesn’t even make sense.
Kenny snorts through his nose. It’s a short, restrained sound that gets lost in the muffled sound of his own handkerchief.
He leans against the rock, pulling his hat tighter over his head as if that would better protect him from the sun’s intensity. He keeps his distance, just watching Butters swim peacefully in the water. The bartender smooths his shoulders with his own hands while scratching the back of his neck with his fingers, scraping away the dark grime from his neck. Even under the merciless sun, he doesn’t seem to suffer from the heat — the water provides all the refreshment he needs.
He’s at ease. Completely at ease. Unarmed, completely naked, lost in the way the water laps around his fingers. He doesn’t seem stressed, nor does he seem suspicious of Kenny. He is fully absorbed in the silent delight of the place, filled only by the subtle sound of the water and the occasional rustling of leaves.
Kenny, on the other hand, stares at the scene with suspicion and envy (no one in the West should trust a stranger that much). His back burns against the scorching rock he’s leaning against; his boots seem to be cooking his feet, giving him the distinct sensation that he’s standing over a blazing fire. His jeans don’t help — on the contrary, they intensify the feeling of being slowly cooked; and his shirt, completely soaked, clings to his skin with increasing heat. Sweat drips from his chin, beneath the filthy bandana. It’s scorching. And it’s only getting worse.
His mood sours as the minutes tick by, standing there, in the open sun, just watching Butters — the man he’s supposed to be investigating — plunge into the cool waters of the stream as if it were the most innocent thing in the world. Meanwhile, he — the paranoid cowboy searching for answers — is roasting under the merciless summer sun, his head boiling like a pot, his body burning like pork rinds.
With a resigned sigh, Kenny decides he can’t wait any longer. It’s time to start the interrogation — trying to sound as casual as possible.
— So… Butters… — He begins, but stops short, rethinking the question with genuine curiosity. — Is that really your name? Butters?
The other guy turns slightly, as if waking from a daydream. The smile that appears isn’t mocking, but there’s something to it — perhaps finding his unusual question amusing, perhaps just the pleasure of being brought back into the conversation.
— What? No.— He laughs briefly, with an almost surprised expression. — Geez. My name isn’t Butters. It’s just a nickname.
— So what’s your real name, then?
— Leopold. Leopold Stotch.
— Leopold… — Kenny murmurs the name to himself, rolling it around on his tongue. — Stotch? There was a family with that name back in my town.
— Well, it’s not exactly the rarest last name in the world. — Butters remarks, shrugging as he lazily rubs his armpits. — I must have a bunch of long-lost cousins out there. Maybe I’ve even run into one or two already, but didn’t even know it.
Kenny doesn’t smile, but his eyes sparkle at the direction the conversation is taking. He continues, too interested to let the thread drop.
— And this “Butters”? Where did that come from? It’s kind of unusual, isn’t it?
— Look, I don’t really know myself. — The bartender replies, now wiping his palm with his other hand, his gaze lost on the surface of the water. — People have always called me that. Even my parents. Maybe because of my hair, which was more yellow when I was a kid. Like butter. Or because of my voice… or I don’t know, because of my personality. I’ve heard it all.
— A buttery personality? — Kenny raises an eyebrow, his head tilted slightly, somewhere between analytical and intrigued.
— Yeah. — Butters lets out a low chuckle, the sound mingling with a sigh. — I’ve always been… malleable. A soft heart. The kind that melts easily. Ever since I was a baby, according to my mom.
Kenny just lets out a thoughtful “Hm.” He’s not entirely convinced. But he doesn’t want to push it (yet, anyway). He knows how to spot when someone’s throwing up smoke to hide the fire — and Butters, by all accounts, does that more skillfully than he lets on.
— So you were a sweet kid. — Says, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes as sharp as an eagle’s. — You weren’t the fighting type, were you? Or were you one of those who pretended to be angels in front of their parents but turned into demons behind their backs?
There’s a silence that lasts a little longer than usual. Butters stares at an undefined point between the rocks and the current. When he answers, his voice still sounds light, but with something veiled beneath it.
— Oh… I always tried to be a good son, yeah. — Says, as if reciting a memorized line. — I never caused any trouble at school. I helped out at home. I always did what my parents asked. Always.
Kenny notices the detail: the way he repeats the word. Always. It seems as if he’s trying to reassure himself more than the other person. Kenny tilts his head slightly, his voice now in a lower, gentler tone.
— And even so… did you get beaten?
This time, Butters doesn’t answer right away. He presses his lips together, his eyes still fixed on the water, as if he were waiting to see an answer there that he could use. When he finally speaks, the sentence comes out with a calmness that seems carefully polished.
— My parents… were very demanding.
There’s no anger in the answer. No accusation. No hidden tears. But there’s no comfort, either. It’s a sentence meant to close the subject, not to open it. A door that closes politely, locked from the inside. Butters sits in the water, floating, as he stretches his legs and wiggles his toes on the surface of the stream, then runs a hand over his face — perhaps because of the heat, perhaps to mask any involuntary expression.
Kenny watches it all in silence. He recognizes that kind of response. It’s the kind of thing a man learns to say when he’s grown tired of trying to explain. When he’s realized that no one is going to understand. And that’s exactly why he doesn’t back down. Because there, between the phrase and the gesture, there’s a crack.
And if there’s a crack, he can slip in.
— I can imagine. — Kenny agrees with a slow nod, trying to sound casual, as if the path he’d chosen to take with his words were merely a detour, not a well-thought-out route.
But there was something about the way Butters backed away that made him uneasy — and, more than that, stirred him. A subtle sense of control, of power over the conversation, begins to creep into him like embers threatening to burst into flames.
— But… using a horsewhip or making you sleep in the barn? That doesn’t sound like punishment for silly mistakes. You must have done some really bad things, right?
Butters pauses for a second before answering. He doesn’t seem surprised by the question — just… disappointed. His eyes remain fixed on the sky for a moment, and his whole body now floats in the stream, arms outstretched as if surrendering to the current. When his eyes return to Kenny’s, there is no defiance, no resignation. Just a cold, neutral blankness.
— Yes, I did. — Says simply. — But who hasn’t, right?
It’s a phrase tossed into the air, deliberately vague, meant to wrap things up rather than delve deeper. But Kenny seizes on it anyway, swirling the words as one might swirl a glass to bring out the flavor of a drink. The answer, however, comes before he can press the issue.
— You yourself must have done many things. — Butters continues, without changing his tone, as if merely noting the passage of time. — You helped your father smuggle whiskey when you were a kid. I can only imagine what else you’ve done.
Kenny clenches his teeth for a moment. He hadn’t expected the other man to throw something at him so soon. But his defense comes automatically, shaped by arrogance and a lopsided smile:
— Nothing much. That was my first and last time breaking the law. — He lies, his voice slightly exaggerated, too rehearsed to sound nonchalant. — I learned my lesson.
Butters doesn’t disagree. Nor does he seem to believe it. His smile (small and strange) carries a shadow where there was once light.
— Yeah. Sometimes that’s the only way we learn. — Remarks, his eye half-closed against the sun. — The hard way.
The words have a bitter taste. Still, Butters smiles. A brief, automatic gesture, playing a role that seems to have been polished relentlessly over the years — something he does on reflex, not by choice. When he closes his eyes, it’s as if he’s putting the matter to rest, or perhaps erasing everything he’d said. The sun envelops him, the water lulls him, and his expression (previously visibly uncomfortable) softens as if it had all been a brief emotional stumble, something he’d already left behind. Kenny watches the scene with a strange unease in his stomach.
Too blunt.
That’s what his instinct whispers to him, with disdain. Like an owner tugging warningly on the leash of his sniffer dog. He pushed too hard. He went too eagerly to the source. And now, the current pulls away, taking with it what might have been revealed.
But it wasn’t a complete failure. Kenny knows how to recognize when he’s touched a raw nerve — and there’s one there, alive and throbbing, beneath layers of soft speech and practiced smiles. Now he knows where to aim. He just needs to be more tactful. More patient.
Because Butters, this man of soft flesh and gentle gaze, is cut from the same cloth as a desert viper: fast, treacherous, and easy to lose track of.
Kenny clears his throat with a dry cough, adjusting the brim of his hat to shade his eyes even further. The shadow makes them dark, opaque — but the orange light reflecting off the stream makes the indigo of his irises shimmer intensely (taking on a purplish hue in this light and at this angle). He watches the bartender still floating calmly in the water, his body relaxed, his movements serene. His pupil, constricted by the brightness, scan every feature of that body in search of something out of place — a twitch, a hesitation, any microexpression that reveals more than the words say.
The cowboy tries a new strategy.
False confidence.
— You know, when I was a kid, my dream was to be an adventurer. — Says Kenny, casting his eyes toward the sky as if allowing himself to reminisce. — I wanted to go out and see the world. Go beyond the mountains of my town… see what the coast was like.
— And is it what you expected? — Asks, without opening his eye.
— It’s better. The coast, I mean. — Replies, with an almost honest lightness. He looks at the horizon as if the sea were still there, waiting for him. — I’ve seen the sunrise and the sunset. It’s one of the greatest wonders I’ve ever witnessed.
Butters lets out a brief laugh, carried away by the late-afternoon heat. His eyes remain closed, but a smile rests on his lips, soft and distant.
— I had the same feeling when I saw it for the first time. — Says, unhurriedly. — As if the sky touched the earth for a moment. Or as if it were a mirror of paradise. No matter the time… it always seems to be alive.
— It really does.
The silence that follows is deliberate, placed there on purpose. — A feigned, reflective pause. Kenny keeps his face turned toward the horizon, but casts sidelong glances, studying every slight shift in the other’s expression.
— Was it your dream, too? To see the ocean?
— Hm… no. — Butters murmurs, as if answering himself. His voice is calm; his body still floats, surrendered to the current. — I never dreamed of that, to tell you the truth. I just wanted to get out. To go beyond the fences of my parents’ farm. Seeing the ocean was just… a consequence of that.
— I see. And then you decided to become a bartender and go to California.
— Oh, no. I never wanted to be a bartender or anything else I’ve ever done, even though it seemed cool at the time. — Says, letting out a short, nostalgic laugh. He slowly opens his eyes, turning them back to the clear sky above. — I just wanted to be on a horse, galloping with the wind, spreading my arms like an eagle… ready to fly to the realms of the sky. But then I realized none of that could be real.
His gaze remains gentle, a smile slowly forming on his damp face.
— And California… was never my destiny. It was just another place I ended up.
— Just another consequence.
— Just another consequence. — Repeats, his voice fading into the soft sound of running water.
A moment of reflection settles in, delicate as a floating leaf. Each loses himself in his own shade of blue — Butters immersed in the infinite azure of the sky, Kenny focused on the other’s eye. The cowboy lets out a sigh, shifting his gaze to the treetops.
— Hm. Interesting. — Murmurs, shrugging with a practiced nonchalance. — When I was younger, there was only one thing I was certain of: that I would be free.— His voice swells with pride, tinged with the arrogance of a grand ambition. — That nothing in this world would hold me back. That the entire West would come to know the greatest cowboy of the century: Kenny McCormick, a living legend, his name on everyone’s lips. Relentless. Carefree. Unbound, without responsibilities. Lawless.
— But?
The word hangs in the air, light but precise. Kenny blinks and stares at him. Butters is already watching him. His big, light-colored eye gaze at him with a curiosity that doesn’t seem judgmental — but isn’t entirely innocent either. A stray strand of hair sticks to his damp forehead, and he makes no effort to brush it away. It just floats there, as if nothing else mattered besides that question.
Kenny snorts, looking away. The tips of his boots suddenly seem immensely interesting to him.
— But then Karen was born. And after that, I wasn’t free anymore. — Confesses, his voice lower. He kicks a small pebble nearby, trying not to give himself away. — All that dream of freedom… the promise of no responsibilities… all of that evaporated the moment we found out my mom was pregnant. And I tried to stop it. I really did. I did everything. I even mixed some miner’s whiskey with some Colomelano pills my dad sold to treat the French disease, hoping to… I don’t know. To avoid the inevitable. But my dad, that stupid old fool, drank the whole thing. He threw up and took a shit for days.
Butters lets out a soft chuckle, his eyes sparkling in the orange glow of the sun.
— But…? — Asks again, with the same calm sweetness.
The cowboy furrows his brow, clenching his jaw slightly. Frustration pulses beneath his skin. Kenny is bothered by the fact that, even covered by a hat and bandana, standing still as a statue, Butters still manages to find some kind of “but” in the middle of a story that should be shallow. He’s good at that — too good at reading people. Even without seeing his face, even without hearing the inflections in his voice. There’s something unsettling about the way he sees what lies beneath.
Anxiety begins to bubble up, silently, in the pit of his stomach.
— As soon as she was born… the dream changed. — Admits, after a pause. A small leaf falls into the stream, and his eyes follow it, seeking refuge in its movement. — Even though I didn’t accept it in the first few months, things simply changed. An overwhelming sense of responsibility took hold of me, and all I could think about was how to protect her from the evils of the world. How to give her everything I didn’t have when I was her age. The dream of freedom? It went up in smoke. Replaced by something greater and nobler than simply being a free cowboy.
Silence settles between them, heavier this time. Kenny keeps staring at the water, as if the images parading through his mind were there — baby Karen, crying too loudly. Little Karen, holding a doll with her hands dirty with mud. Teenage Karen behind a counter, stubborn and hardworking. Then, a grown woman in a light-colored dress, marrying an honest miner. Now, a wife, a mother, a distant sister, living with dignity on some farm or another.
He sighs, and the sound, muffled by the handkerchief, still carries melancholy. Longing.
— For a while, I fended for myself. I worked double shifts at the town’s restaurants, toiled in the mines, herded cattle for months… I even smuggled whiskey with my father and brother, if that’s what it took.
Kenny lets out a muffled laugh, a dry chuckle that almost hides his pride. He looks up at Butters — the man is still watching him intently, his eye large and silent.
— And anyone who laid a hand on her… — Adds, with a slight shrug. — Would feel the fist of justice right up their ass.
Butters laughs softly, standing back up in the stream’s waters. He runs his fingers through his hair, combing it back as he watches the gentle ripples with a distracted gaze.
— Heh. It was almost like I was her personal bodyguard. — Remarks, reaching for the soap once more and beginning to wash his private parts. — How noble of you. And how lucky for her, to have someone who protected her so fiercely.
Kenny lowers his eyes to the tips of his own shoes, giving the man the privacy he deserves. His sister had never been one to cause trouble — and everyone knew full well what happened to anyone who messed with the McCormick girl. A nocturnal angel would appear at the doors of the wretched and teach them — through threats or blows — the lesson never again to harass, stalk, or bother those who were blameless in this world. Savage, yes. But well-intentioned. And, above all, effective.
It was out of this impulse to protect Karen that Mysterion was born. A vigilante who, over time, ceased to serve only Kenny’s sister. He became something greater: a shadow that watched over the defenseless, stopped criminals, and enforced justice (even if that meant breaking a few laws). He was never caught. And thanks to that, he prevented deaths in saloon brawls, curbed trafficking and theft, foiled escape attempts, thwarted fraud, and even stopped murders. All of this with eyes full of determination and the fists of justice.
It was because of Karen that Mysterion became the hero he is today. And Kenny can only thank her for that.
— I just did what was right. — Says, with a hint of longing. — I protected my sister as much as I could from the scumbags who tried to get close to her. From delinquents who wanted to lead her astray. From anything that might hurt her.
He snorts, his eyes still lost in memory. A wave of nostalgia washes over him.
— I did what anyone who loves someone would do: take care of her. I’ve taken care of Karen her whole life. And it’ll always be that way. I’ll always protect her.
— Like a guardian angel. — Butters adds, his voice soft.
Kenny lets out a low, sincere laugh. The bartender’s words bring to mind the way Karen used to call him: guardian angel. Even after the vigilante disappeared, she continues to pray for Mysterion, believing that even angels need protection.
— Yeah, something like that.
A comfortable silence settles in, but only for a moment. Butters then breaks it with something even quieter, almost as if he’s accidentally giving himself away:
— I wish I’d had a guardian angel. It would have prevented a lot of things.
The cowboy looks up, his gaze once again falling on the bartender’s back and its deep scars. His eyebrows arch, his attention completely captured by Butters’ comment — but nothing more is said. Apparently, it was something that shouldn’t have slipped from the man’s thoughts, but which, due to a slight slip of the tongue, revealed more than he would have liked. And Kenny knows he can’t let this opportunity pass him by.
But more calmly this time.
— Do you have any siblings, Butters? — Asks casually, steering the conversation as naturally as he can.
— No. Only child.
— It must be easier, right? — The cowboy shifts his weight from one leg to the other, his gaze fixed and steady on the man in front of him. There’s a silent determination in his posture, as if every word were being measured to hit a target that hasn’t yet revealed itself. — Without having to share anything. Everything just for you. Toys, clothes, your parents’ attention. You had an entire ranch all to yourself, didn’t you? You got all the food and played in the pasture. You were really lucky.
— Yeah. Really lucky. — Butters replies in a flat, overly neutral voice. He doesn’t turn around. He just stands there, with his back to the cowboy, his shoulders relaxed as if the conversation were of no importance at all.
But something doesn’t add up. The answer was quick, clean — like a rug being thrown over a crack in the floor. And now it’s Kenny who has to keep the conversation going. Butters seems determined not to say anything else, focusing on lathering his chest with calm movements, absorbed in the spirals he’s drawing. It’s obvious he’s avoiding the subject — a sensitive topic that, by accident or carelessness, slipped out before he could stop it. And now, it’s Kenny’s job to keep the conversation going, but with more subtlety. He can’t be too direct like before. He needs tact; he needs to go with the flow. He doesn’t want this moment to slip through his fingers again.
— What? You didn’t like it? — Asks lightly, as if he’s just commenting out of curiosity. — Maybe because you didn’t have anyone to share the chores with? Or to go bother some cows, I don’t know?
He lets out a half-laugh, turning his eyes toward the horizon as if he weren’t paying that much attention, giving Butters space to open up.
— I remember when my brother and I used to go bother some horses, or throw rocks at the roofs of houses… — Says with a nostalgic, slightly crooked smile. — Silly, but funny.
— It was kind of lonely… having the whole farm to myself. — Butters finally moves, walking to the bank of the stream to set the soap down on a warm rock. Then he returns to the water, but this time turns to face Kenny, meeting his gaze. — I’ve always been really creative with my pranks. I was everything I wanted to be. Sheriff Butters, cowboy Butters, outlaw Butters, banker Butters, and so on. But there came a point when it got… tiring. Repetitive. Too stagnant. I never had anyone I could arrest when I was the sheriff, or get arrested by when I was the outlaw.
He pauses, and his voice, though calm, takes on a different weight — as if the words were being drawn from deep within his chest, where they’d been stored for far too long.
— It was… distressing. As if I were the only one who existed in the world. With no one to talk to about the day’s events. No one to share the chores with. Or to keep me company. Completely isolated.
His intonation remains steady, with gentle inflections that lend an intimate tone to the confession. There is no exaggeration, no visible emotion on his face — Butters maintains a serene, unassuming expression. However, Kenny watches closely and recognizes what lies behind the mask: the eye. Butters’ eye is large and expressive, too sincere to completely hide what it holds. There is melancholy there. A wet, distant gleam that reveals more than any words could.
He can try to keep up the facade, he can continue with that casual, lighthearted manner, but now, face to face, he is exposed. And Kenny knows how to recognize this. He knows how to read between the lines.
Vulnerable again.
Be careful.
Kenny blinks, feeling the tension of this silent reading grow beneath his skin. What if Butters is making himself vulnerable on purpose to throw him off? Maybe he knows Kenny’s line of reasoning — that he’s managed to read him, found a weakness — and is taking advantage of his naivety? He straightens up slightly, his right shoulder brushing against the hot rock behind him as he keeps his gaze fixed on Butters.
— Hm. So you’ve been on your own your whole life? — Asks, his curious tone serving as a veil for his true intentions. — No friends at school or anything like that?
— Part of my education was at home, taught by my parents. My mom taught me everything I needed to know to carry on the family business. — Butters look away toward the current. — At one point, a teacher came to teach geography, but he only stayed for a few weeks. — Scratches the back of his neck, his wet hair dripping through his fingers. — But then… out of the blue, my dad decided to send me to school. That’s where I made my first real friend. Not the imaginary ones.
A brief, crooked smile appears on his lips. He lets out a short, muffled laugh as he watches the water flow by — as if the past were there, hidden in the reflection of the waves.
— It was strange at first. Dougie was always a very quiet guy, but incredibly smart. I had some trouble getting close to him. — Remarks, tracing lazy circles with his fingertips, creating eddies in the water around him. His voice is calm, contemplative. — But we were both very lonely. And eventually, we got closer. I think it was because of a time when he was getting beaten up by some bullies and I… I stepped in.
— How noble of you to protect him. — Kenny remarks, his tone shifting between acknowledgment and analysis. His eyes narrow with mild interest. — How many did you take down?
— None. — Replies matter-of-factly, flashing a brief, crooked smile. — I got beaten up too.
— Oh. — That’s all he says for a moment; the answer catches him off guard. There’s a second of silence before he continues: — And then you guys became friends?
— Yeah, basically. — Shrugs, his gaze drifting back up to the treetops. The golden sunlight on his face creates a serene contrast. — We teamed up because we had the same plan: to get revenge on the bullies. And we did it. We put so much monkey dust on their clothes that they spent almost a week scratching themselves to the bone. After that... we unleashed chaos at school.
Kenny raises an eyebrow. The choice of words sets off a subtle warning bell in his mind.
— So you guys became the new school bullies? — Asks, his voice carrying a hint of veiled provocation, though his curiosity is genuine.
— Yes and no… — Replies with a low chuckle, shaking his head. — We didn’t mess with little kids or anything like that. It was just the real jerks: assholes, unfair teachers. Silly pranks, but well executed. The kind of thing that doesn’t hurt, but really gets in the way. No big deal.
— So you became a sort of vigilante group, then. — Kenny remarks, his eyes half-closed, growing increasingly interested in the direction the conversation is taking.
— Oh, no. Nothing like that. — Butters lets out a dry laugh, flinching as if the term bothered him. — We didn’t want justice. We wanted revenge. Pure and simple. For everything they made us swallow with a smile on our faces. When I said we wreaked havoc, I mean we caused pandemonium. No mercy. No rules.
Kenny watches him in silence for a few seconds. There’s something in his tone of voice — maybe the nostalgic smile, maybe the specific choice of the word “chaos” — that sends a shiver down the back of his neck. He tries to picture that younger Butters, his golden hair perhaps a bit more tousled, his eyes shining just the same as he pulled off elaborate pranks with his friend Dougie. The image that pops into his mind… blends all too well with the figure of Professor Chaos and his partner, General Disorder.
General Desordem had always been a tough opponent. He rarely took part in direct combat — he was more brains than brawn, the strategist of the duo, leaving the dirty work to Chaos. Mysterion had faced him a few times, and each time he’d given him a memorable beating. But Disorder always managed to escape. Victor’s mere presence was enough to turn the tide: he’d appear mounted on a sturdy chestnut horse (surely stolen from some wealthy rancher) striking a pose as if he ruled the Wild West itself. And before Mysterion could land the final blow, the villain was already long gone, carried away on the back of his partner’s horse.
It was frustrating as hell to see them escape his judgment yet again. But Kenny never gave up on hunting them down and trying to destroy their reign of terror and chaos.
— With all that terror, how come they weren’t driven out? — He asks, the memory of Disorder being saved by Chaos tormenting him like sand in his eyes.
Butters smiles with a certain childlike pride, as if recalling a long-ago victory.
— No one ever caught us. — Says, and the gleam in his eyes borders on awe. — I mean, just once. But after that, never again. We did everything we could to cover our tracks: unpredictable schedules, double traps, blaming classmates, making up gossip, snitching to teachers, to parents… we even wrote fake notes. It was like… building a story within a story, where every clue led to a different culprit.
Kenny keeps his gaze fixed on Butters, his face impassive. Inside, however, he feels the pieces beginning to overlap, like in a two-picture jigsaw puzzle. Chaos. Dougie. Terror. Strategy. Lies tinged with revenge.
It can’t be that simple.
Butters takes a few steps back into the water, returning to play with the whirlpool he creates with his hands.
— But we were just kids, you know? — He adds, without looking at the cowboy. — Lonely kids trying to have some control over the world.
Kenny bites the inside of his cheek, his next words stuck in his throat.
— I keep wondering… if you’d grown up with siblings, do you think it would have been different?
The question floats on a heavy breath, testing the waters. There’s no immediate answer. Butters keeps his fingers dipped in the water, forming calm whirlpools that spin between his palms, his gaze fixed on the ripples as if he hadn’t even heard the question. Kenny watches him in silence, a patient hunter.
— I… think about that sometimes. About what it would have been like if I hadn’t been so alone. Maybe I’d be a completely different person. More confident, maybe. More authoritative. Or… more like myself. — His voice is serene, tinged with a contemplative tone that’s confusing. There’s no coldness, nor bitterness, just a gentle acceptance. — But I had Dougie, who was like a brother to me. So… I think it would have turned out the same. The good old Butters you know.
— It’s our experiences that shape who we are. — Kenny remarks, his voice firm but low, as he leans a little further over the rock, his eyes still fixed on the other man. — If Dougie had shown up sooner… would you still be this same version of yourself?
The silence that follows is thicker. Brief, but heavy. Something shifts inside Butters.
— Honestly? No. — He lets slip, his eyes still fixed on the water, now still. — I think… I’d be much…
The final word dies on the tip of his tongue. He swallows it, and in its place, lets out a whisper:
— …more fulfilled. Much more fulfilled.
Butters’ shoulders hunch for a second. It’s subtle, like a restrained shudder. But Kenny sees it. And feels it. A hot anger rises in his throat — not the kind that makes you scream, but the kind that tightens inside, like a knot. That interrupted reply was all he needed. The crack. The stumble. The flaw in the armor.
Much what? he asks himself. Much more whole? Much less broken? Much more dangerous?
But the answer doesn’t come. And Kenny clenches his teeth behind the handkerchief, mulling over his own frustration.
He counts to three. And then he returns to the conversation, more carefully this time.
— He did you some good, didn’t he? — He says, his voice tinged with feigned casualness, adjusting his hat on his head with his fingertips. — I’d like to meet this Dougie guy. He seems like a good person.
— I don’t know… Dougie isn’t the type to make a lot of friends. — Butters replies, without looking at him, as if he already knew where the conversation was headed.
— But maybe I’ll get lucky.
— Maybe. — That’s all Butters says. And then he adds, with a lightness that borders on disinterest: — Maybe someday.
And the conversation dies. It dies like a plant left out in the scorching Utah sun — no shade, no water, no chance. Not a single word creeps in to fill the silence. Just the sound of running water and the oppressive heat pressing down on Kenny’s shoulders. He sighs, frustrated. Once again, he feels the thread slipping through his fingers. The same feeling as trying to hold back the current of a rushing stream.
Why is Butters so reluctant to talk about this Dougie guy?
The question swirls in his mind, scraping like sandpaper against raw thoughts. Butters says he sees him as a brother… but what if that’s not true? What if this whole friendship thing is just a cover for something more intimate? Something that, in a place like that (in a time like that) simply cannot be said out loud?
Kenny furrows his brow. It’s not impossible. Not in the Old West.
There, where outcasts seek new beginnings in forgotten towns amid rocks and dust, it wouldn’t be surprising if two men had shared something beyond platonic camaraderie. He knows stories like that. He knows people. Craig and Tweek, for example — two men who, despite prejudice, have lived together for years and helped Kenny more than once with political deals, protected shipments, and matters the law would rather not see. Men of their word. Good people. But he also knows the weight that truth carries in this country. A secret that could ruin an entire life.
It makes sense, then, that Butters avoids the subject so carefully. As much as he says he trusts him, Kenny knows that the trust between them is still new, fragile as glass. The cowboy doesn’t care who Butters sleeps with, loves, or stops loving. That’s his problem. But what really troubles him is the lie (however justified it may have been). The fog is too thick on the face of someone so expressive. There’s something behind this “Dougie,” something that goes beyond childhood memories or stories of pranks and schoolyard laughter. Perhaps a betrayal? An unrequited feeling? A failed attempt?
Kenny feels it in his bones — and that hunch has never let him down.
He takes a deep breath; the heat from the stone is starting to irritate him, burning his back like a branding iron. He straightens up, clears his throat, and then asks the question as gently as possible. He can’t get the tone wrong. Not now.
— What about Cartman? How did you two meet? — Asks, lifting his chin as he adjusts the gun in its holster. — Did you go to protect him from bullies too, or did he just use you as another pawn in his crazy schemes?
— Oh, Eric? — Butters looks up, his wide eyes resting on the cowboy leaning against the rock. — I met him when Dougie and I went to Denver to try a new life. He said he was in the gold-buying business, and we ended up working for him. After a while, Dougie decided to head to Arizona to try his hand at raising cattle, and I stayed with Cartman in Denver for a few more years. We opened our own jewelry business, which was pretty well-known among the rich.
— That counterfeit jewelry scheme he came up with? — Kenny raises an eyebrow, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
— That’s the one! — Says enthusiastically. — We were good at it, you know? We sold those stones as if they were the rarest thing in the world. Water in the desert.
— So why did Dougie leave? Didn’t he like Cartman’s shady deals?
— Yeah… and also because he wanted a change of scenery. He said he was tired of the same old routine; he wanted different adventures. — Butters shrugs, his eyes turning upward, where the branches sway in the warm breeze. — In the end, I stayed with Eric for three more years before going after Dougie. That’s where we started our cattle ranch. It was going well, until we got robbed.
— By whom?
— Billy the Kid. — Says with a grimace of disgust. — That bastard took our entire herd right under our noses. To this day, I don’t know how he pulled it off. He left us with nothing but our boots and a pile of debt. Bastard.
Kenny snorts, his eyes fixed on Butters in the distance.
— So did you guys go after him?
— What? Of course not. We weren’t that crazy. — Butters shakes his head, turning to the cowboy with a faint smile. — We barely knew how to shoot straight, let alone ride a horse without feeling like we were going to fall off at the second gallop. We decided to let it go and start from scratch.
There it is, Kenny thinks, a subtle smile forming behind the dusty veil covering his face. A mistake. A tiny slip-up that brings down the entire web of lies Butters has been weaving since California. Damn liar. You’re busted now, you loose-tongued viper.
He claims he doesn’t know how to shoot or ride, but just a week ago he was galloping like a desert spirit on a nimble chestnut, shooting like a true gunslinger. Three men fell under his aim with a precision that’s hard to explain — even more so for someone who was on the move, panting, and pumped full of adrenaline. That wasn’t luck, as Kyle likes to insist; it was practice. Technique. Trained instinct. Kenny is certain: there’s a lie here, and he won’t let it slide.
— You didn’t know how to shoot well or ride a horse? Seriously?— He blurts out, with feigned surprise as convincing as that of a seasoned actor. — I could’ve sworn you were a pro at that. Last week you taught those outlaws how it’s done. Three well-aimed shots, without wasting a single bullet. And all while riding. It was a sight to behold, I won’t deny it.
Butters blinks (for a fraction of a second, maybe less) before looking away with a small, awkward smile. He shyly taps his knuckles together, and Kenny knows — knows — that this act has been used before.
— Gee, really, Mr. McCormick? Is that what you think of me? — He says in a light, uncertain tone, his eyes fixed on the small ripples in the stream. — It’s been so long since I’ve held a gun… After Billy stole our herd and our plans for a better life fell apart, Dougie married a girl from the Apache tribe. We were sort of adopted by them. They taught us everything: how to ride, shoot, and survive. I think, when it comes down to it, it was pure instinct. Even after all these years, I think I still know how to aim.
Kenny narrows his eyes, his nose wrinkling in a grimace of disbelief. There’s more to it than that. There’s always more.
— Yes, but you said you’d never even touched a gun in your whole life. And that you didn’t even know how to hold the reins properly. — He retorts, his voice firm, lacking the same friendly tone as before. — Why would you lie about something like that, Butters?
The cowboy watches as his mouth tightens into a straight line, his eye rising toward him with the golden glow of the afternoon — large, clear, innocent like those of a newborn calf. His damp hair clings to his forehead, giving him the appearance of a stray dog, soaked by the rain and begging for a piece of bread. The eye shines with sincerity, but Kenny remains firm, impassive, simply waiting.
Then, in a soft voice, Butters says:
— Well… maybe I did hide some things and lie about a few things during the trip. But look, it was for a good reason. — Sighs regretfully, lowering his head like a child being scolded by his father. — You know as well as I do the bad reputation people have who join the tribes. Dougie and I were persecuted for a long time because of that intolerance. They called us traitors, savages, guinea pigs. Horrible things. It took years of hardship before we were able to reintegrate and live normally among white people. We had to move to another state to do that.
Kenny tightens his lips, his eyebrows furrowing, doubt simmering beneath his skin. It’s true that some white people manage to join tribes and live according to their customs — he’d heard stories about that himself. Once he’d heard of a man who was publicly flogged for continuing indigenous practices, and who ended up dead weeks later, accused of witchcraft or sorcery. There’s truth in those words. There’s pain in them. But still… he lied. And he lied about something serious.
— And as you well know, I’m the newcomer to the group. — Butters continues, looking up. — The four of you grew up together; you trust one another. And I’m just the outsider who, by chance, knows one of you and is headed for the same destination. You can probably imagine how Eric would react if he knew I lived with an indigenous tribe for almost seven years. And since I didn’t know any of you, I couldn’t tell the truth… simply to protect myself. I didn’t know how you’d react. Whether you’d call me a savage. Whether you’d kick me out. I didn’t tell the truth so I could continue the journey in peace. To stay alive.
Kenny’s gaze softens — he doesn’t give in, but the tension eases. A heavy silence falls between them like a stone thrown into a well. A tense moment of mistrust and silent resentment. Kenny remains skeptical, with that dull burning sensation in his stomach. But there’s too much truth in that story to be ignored. And, on the other hand, Butters seems affected — not because he’s been caught, but because he’s being doubted.
After a long blink, Butters lifts his face, his voice still low and calm:
— Haven’t you ever had to hide a part of yourself just to live in peace? Without being judged and excluded?
Kenny stares at him for a few seconds longer than necessary, as if he could read in his eye some trace of falsehood, some involuntary slip. However, the question caught him off guard, disarming him for a moment. Empathy (damn empathy) and a hint of recognition open a crack in his distrust. Damn it, he himself has been walking this tightrope for years, hiding his former identity as Mysterion even from the people he loves most, protecting them from the consequences that might come with the truth.
He nods in confirmation, as if it costs him more than he wants to admit, averting his gaze toward the stream. He bites the inside of his cheek, thinking, and finally lets go of the holster, crossing his arms as he leans back even further against the warm rock.
— Yes… I’ve needed it before. — Replies at last, in a low voice, pulling the brim of his hat down to cover his eyes.
Silence returns, now thicker, filled with something left unsaid. A faint sound of moving water catches his attention, and, peering discreetly, Kenny sees Butters turning his back to him, resting his arms on the rock by the bank, also gazing at the horizon. His posture is calm, meditative.
Kenny lets out a low, thoughtful sigh, turning his eyes to the tips of his dust-covered boots. The sun bakes him from the inside out, each ray piercing his thick clothing like hot iron. As he insists on keeping the layers on his body, his breathing grows more labored, the hot, stifling air trapped beneath the cloth covering his nostrils and mouth. The cloth reeks of stale sweat and dust. Short, shallow breaths build up in his chest. The heat is a furnace silently consuming him. A constant, stifling, walking torture, pushing Kenny, little by little, to his limit.
The minutes drag on under the weight of the silence between them, each lost in his own thoughts — Butters, gazing at the orange horizon and the paths that led him there; Kenny, struggling not to pass out under the suffocating heat that is slowly cooking him. The gentle breeze is his only relief, the sweat pooled at the nape of his neck cooling briefly whenever the wind blows. It is the consolation he receives for refusing to enter the cool water that seems to be calling to him every second.
Without realizing it, his breathing becomes more audible and his head begins to droop forward, his vision growing slightly blurry. His balance wavers. Kenny tries to maintain a modicum of dignity, refusing to sit on the scorching ground or even take off his hat.
He can’t let his guard down. He can’t allow himself to be vulnerable.
— Mr. McCormick, are you all right? — He hears Butters’ voice coming from the bank, but he can’t lift his head very high. He feels weak.
— I’m fine… — Murmurs, in a sigh, as if the simple act of speaking demanded too much of his body.
A contemplative silence follows, and a slight ripple in the water indicates that Butters is approaching, still in the stream. Kenny looks up, alert, though more slowly than he’d like. The bartender is still waist-deep in the water, staring at him with discreet concern.
— I think it would be best if you got in the water and cooled off. It’s too hot to stand there in all those clothes.
— I’m fine… just… a little hot.— Insists, even as he feels the world spinning again.
Butters watches him with a doubtful expression, but quickly masks it with feigned disinterest, looking away with a soft sigh.
— All right. If you say so. — Replies, shrugging. — But at least wash your shirt. With all due respect, Mr. McCormick, but your shirt is filthy. And your handkerchief too… and, probably, your underwear.
Kenny furrows his brow, slightly offended by the remark. But Butters doesn’t seem to be teasing — he’s just stating a fact, without any malice.
— You were the one who said you smelled like a sweaty old woman’s crotch. — Adds, turning his back and walking further into the stream.
With heavy eyes and his body even weaker, Kenny lets out a short, hoarse sigh. He loosens his grip on his arms, resigned. His tense muscles react with a brief spasm to the gesture of surrender, and finally, he reaches for his hat.
Leave the piece next to the clean pair, with the flap facing up, where the sweat that has seeped into the corners of the leather can dry. And the effect is almost instantaneous. A wisp of wind brushes his scalp and feels like a miracle: the coolness cuts through his damp, tangled hair, carrying away some of the loose dust that has been accumulating at his roots for days. It’s a light touch, but it sends a shiver down his spine — a burst of relief that makes him close his eyes for a second. The heat is still there, the sun still burns, but now there’s air on his skin. His hair, once blond, shines in a darker shade, stained by sebum, by time, by the lack of water. It’s sticky, heavy, and hasn’t been washed in days. But still… he feels the breeze. He feels something.
He brings his hands to the back of his neck, his stiff fingers undoing the knot of the scarf he wears every day. It’s an automatic gesture, yet far too intimate. The scarf is his barrier, his cloak, and his disguise. It has always covered more than just his face: it has hidden his reactions, his weariness. An ordinary piece of cloth, yet of incalculable value. It has saved him more than once; it has concealed his intentions when he couldn’t let them show. And now, at last, he takes it off. It’s hot and soaked, limp in his hands; the orange color now reduced to a muddy, faded hue, stained with dust, sand, and dried sweat. Kenny stares at it for a second, then holds it, without pushing it too far away — he can’t. It’s still a part of him.
And only then does he breathe.
He breathes as if he hadn’t breathed in days. The air flows in, clean and unimpeded, and the sensation is almost brutal. It’s no longer the warm, stale air from behind the cloth — now it’s real wind, a true breeze, passing through his nostrils and cooling the back of his throat. And it feels good. Incredibly good. His chest expands without resistance, his shoulders slump, his temples relax. He closes his eyes and turns his face toward the sky, as if that were enough to give thanks for something. The sun’s rays still burn him, but now they seem less cruel, less personal. The light hits his exposed skin directly, and even though it’s hot, it doesn’t feel as punishing as the stifling prison of before.
Opening his eyes, he walks carefully to the water’s edge, crouching on the hot rock beneath his feet. He sets the handkerchief aside and cups his hands, scooping up the cool water from the stream. The contrast of the cold against the heat makes his skin prickle, and as soon as he brings his hands close to his face, he splashes the water on himself, closing his eyes and savoring the relief it brings. He rubs his face vigorously, washing away the dust that stains his skin.
He repeats the gesture a few times, then runs his damp hands through his dirty hair, over his sweaty neck, and down the back of his hot neck. He closes his eyes for a moment, sighing in relief. A subtle, sincere smile spreads across his face — a genuine happiness seeping through his bitter mood, clearing his thoughts and making him forget, for a brief moment, why he had resisted touching the clear water of the La Verkin stream for so long. But like a breath of air, he remembers.
You’re not alone.
Finally, he opens his eyes again. His face is wet, his hair damp, a few drops dripping from his eyebrows and short strands of hair. When he looks up, he sees Butters further down the stream, floating effortlessly, watching him with a faint smile — as if he were, somehow, pleased to see him finally give in to the relief. He keeps a respectful distance, simply drifting with the current.
— Feeling better? — Asks without malice, an amused twinkle dancing in his eyes.
Kenny looks away, muttering a brief “hm” in response — feeling his face grow hot, telling himself it’s because of the sun — his torso already drifting away from the bank. His knees burn against the scorching rock, and his boots seem to be cooking his feet. The urge to cool off grows, gradually breaking down his stubborn resistance to staying out of the water — clinging to the hot grip of his gun, leaning against a rock as hot as the floor of hell.
— Come on, Mr. McCormick. Don’t be so hard to convince. — Butters teases lightly, floating effortlessly on the current. — The more you resist, the worse it gets. Speaking from experience.
The cowboy stares at him for a moment, watching the comfortable way the other man moves through the water, so at ease, untouchable. The golden light of late afternoon reflects off the surface and Butters’s body, highlighting his soft features and, in particular, his eye — a sky blue that now seems more vivid; while the other eye has a drooping eyelid, lacking the volume of the glass globe to support it.
— All right. I won’t look. Make yourself at home, Mr. McCormick. — Raises his hands in surrender, turning his back on Kenny. His voice remains light and playful as he adds: — Mi arroyo es su arroyo.
— What? — Asks, his hands resting on his knees, his brow furrowed in complete confusion.
— It’s a way of saying "my stream is your stream", kind of like… "mi casa es su casa", only with water. — Butters shrugs and dives briefly, splashing water on his face before coming back up. — Anyway, just kidding. Sometimes I forget that my sense of humor isn’t for everyone.
Kenny lets out a resigned sigh, rolling his eyes in a restrained gesture. He begins to unbutton his vest, finger by finger undoing the sun-warmed bone buttons, which sting his fingertips slightly.
— Do you speak Spanish, too? — Asks, as he slips out of his orange waistcoat, now heavy with sweat and dust.
— Oh, yeah. A little. Enough to get by just fine. — Butters replies, swimming calmly toward the shore where he’d left the bar of soap resting on a rock. — It helps me a lot when I want to negotiate or not look completely lost.
— Did your parents teach you? Or something like that? — Kenny follows him with his gaze, now much clearer, without the weight of the heat clouding his thoughts.
— Not at all. My parents didn’t think it was necessary. — Butters says with a dry chuckle, picking up the bar of soap. — They can’t stand Mexicans, to be honest. They thought learning Spanish was a waste of time, "something for lazy people", as they used to say. Horrible, I know. — He shrugs. — In the end, I ended up learning from the trips I took to New Mexico with Dougie, after his wife died tragically.
He steps closer and holds out the bar of soap to Kenny, staying at a safe distance but close enough to see him clearly. The cowboy raises one eyebrow, more at the candor than at the offer itself.
— Hm… wow. That’s rough. I’m sorry. — Murmurs, taking the soap from his hands without taking his eyes off his face.
— Yeah. It was really bad. — Butters sighs, looking away for a second. — Dougie’s wife, Wihna, was an incredible woman. Strong, generous, full of life. When she was murdered by a white cowboy… well, Dougie wasn’t the same after that. We barely had time to bury her. We left right after the wake.
He begins to drift away again, floating calmly back to the center of the stream, as if trying to avoid the new topic that’s starting to come up.
— So you guys went to New Mexico. — Kenny adds, starting to unbutton his white flannel shirt, already stiff with dirt and sweat. The cool air finally touches his skin, and he takes a deep breath, feeling relief wash over him little by little.
— That’s right. We tried again, with mines and cattle. It was tough at first. The Mexicans there don’t trust white men… and with good reason. If I were in their shoes, I wouldn’t trust them either. — Butters shrugs. — But over time, things changed.
— And that’s when you learned Spanish. — Says, taking off his shirt completely and keeping only his pants and boots on. His body begins to recover from the heat, cooled by the breeze that now feels gentle.
— Basically. Especially after I saved one of them from an accident in the mine. Some rubble fell, and I managed to pull him out before he got crushed. After that, they started seeing us in a different light. They gave us space, food, advice… and a new language. — Butters smiles slightly, letting himself drift a little further with the current. — They taught us a lot, even though we didn’t understand much.
— I see. — Replies, his voice lower and more pensive, though the tension hasn’t completely faded.
The cowboy reaches for his clothes, wetting his shirt, vest, and handkerchief in the stream’s current, watching the surface dust gradually wash away from the fabric. With the soap still damp in his hands, Kenny begins to rub the clothes against his own body, scrubbing away dark stains left by sweat and the road. They’re too grimy — they’d need much more than some homemade soap to return to their former state, if they ever would. But for now, it’s enough. Enough to stay clean until the next stream they cross.
The sound of the stream and the rustling of the treetops fill the silence, broken only by the damp sound of fabric against fabric. Kenny works on each piece firmly, her heavy breathing escaping between her teeth due to the scorching heat that now burns her bare back, unprotected without the layers of cloth. With every movement, the friction of his hands seems to vent his restlessness as well — his throbbing anxiety. Almost without realizing it, he casts sidelong glances toward Butters, as if expecting a slip-up.
His thoughts won’t settle. The paranoia lingers, permeating every judgment he makes about the bartender full of neatly spun tales. Butters’ explanation for his excellent aim may sound plausible, but it’s not enough for Kenny. Everything seems too perfect. A man marked by deep scars on his back and a blind eye doesn’t just carry mundane stories. There’s something more. Kenny knows it. Mysterion knows it.
Butters, however, remains on the sidelines. He plays with a green leaf that has just fallen from the treetop, folding it until it becomes a small makeshift boat. He mutters random words, chuckles to himself, as if making up a fable about lost sailors or pirates. Kenny doesn’t quite understand, but he keeps his attention fixed on these silly stories — because, sometimes, it’s in these moments of distraction that the truth slips away.
Victor crosses his mind again, like a ghost he can’t shake off. He appears riding a desert-colored chestnut, with a coarse, glossy coat — an animal that seemed to have been free its whole life before becoming the mount of a man who never accepted society’s reins. The vision is clear, almost painfully vivid: Victor’s hat, a white that shimmers silver in the sun, stands out against the bluish-green of his clothes. In the center of the hat, the red dot, always there, like a defiant target begging to be hit. Mysterion had tried countless times, aiming with the cold precision that had always characterized him, but he missed. He missed because of foolish distractions, brief hesitations, or perhaps because Chaos was always one step ahead, mocking his obsession.
Christ, Victor pushed him to the limit. He made Kenny doubt himself every day, stripping away a piece of his certainty with every encounter, as if dragging him to the edge of an invisible precipice and letting the icy wind of the fall consume him. Just hearing that laugh — thunderous, strange, laced with a mockery that burned hotter than fire — was enough to send a sharp chill through his stomach. It was like facing two extremes at the same time: hot as hell and freezing as the peaks of Colorado. Hatred and fascination mingled in an impossible equation. And Kenny wonders, whenever he recalls that sickening smile, what kind of situations a man must go through to plunge so deep into his own insanity and still survive.
Neither Kenny nor Mysterion has an answer. All that remains are memories: the desperate chases, the dust rising from the horses’ hooves, the punches exchanged under the moon, the labored breathing in the moment before the next attack. A strange, macabre, yet precise dance, as if both knew the choreography by heart.
Only they knew the weak spots hidden in the costumes. Only they understood the hesitations, the small gestures when they were nervous, or even when they laughed (yes, laughed) amid the chaos. The connection was grotesque, yet unique, so absurd and so perfect that, at some point, the hatred no longer seemed pure. There was complicity in the violent clashes, a perverse familiarity that bound the two together. Only Victor seemed to decipher Mysterion’s cracks, his fears, his inner demons — even if his way of showing understanding was to fire a well-aimed shot or plunge a blade into his heart.
And who is Kenny trying to fool? He misses Chaos. He misses the enemy who made him watch the stars during sleepless nights, planning which city would be the next to be swallowed up by Victor’s reign of terror and chaos. He misses the weight of the responsibility of being the only one capable of stopping him, the adrenaline that coursed through his veins like poison and, at the same time, like a cure. Now there’s none of that. Mysterion no longer exists. All that remains is Kenny — just another failed cowboy, returning home after yet another failed attempt to find a better life beyond the Colorado mountains. He returns empty-handed, offering everyone who doubted him the confirmation they were waiting for.
No glory.
No purpose.
No one.
He sighs deeply again, scrubbing a stubborn stain on his vest even harder, his frustration growing with every futile movement. The fabric refuses to let go of the stain, holding onto the dirt like a scar. The heat only worsens his mood, more cruel now that he’s stripped down to his skin, and Victor — even reduced to a memory — still manages to get under his skin. Damn Victor Chaos, and the chaos he insists on trapping inside his head.
Setting the vest aside, Kenny stares at the water, his eyebrows furrowed, his gaze heavy, as if searching for answers that won’t come.
— And what about you, Mr. McCormick? Do you know any Spanish? — Butters’ voice breaks the silence as he turns to the cowboy with a faint smile.
— No. I don’t know any Spanish. — Replies curtly, the image of Victor on horseback still fresh in his mind, as if he’d never left. Chaos, he thinks, he’d probably know Spanish.
— Have you ever been to New Mexico? — The bartender presses, trying to keep the conversation and the mood light.
— Once… but it was a long time ago. I don’t even remember exactly why. — His expression turns doubtful. — Or was it Cartman? I’m not sure. All I know is that Kyle had to be rescued after he was kidnapped by some white cowboys. They thought he was Mexican.
— Seriously? — Butters blurts out, incredulous. — They really thought Mr. Broflovski was Mexican?
— Yeah. Those guys were dumber than they looked. — Kenny shrugs, as if he’d rather not waste energy on the subject.
— Dumb, but dangerous. — Butters comments, without irony.
— Better dumb and dangerous than smart and dangerous.
Butters agrees, shrugging his shoulders, his head following the gesture.
— Fair enough. — Says quietly, running one fingernail under the other absentmindedly. — Have you ever met anyone like that?
— Like what? Smart and dangerous? — Kenny asks, sitting down to take off his boots.
— Yeah. You talk like you know what you’re talking about. — Butters laughs softly, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. — I bet you’ve been through some rough times.
Kenny raises an eyebrow, inquisitively, staring at the side of Butters’ face. And, as if the memory had been summoned by name, Victor stands out in his mind again, so vividly that he can almost see him right there, in front of him. Chaos: absurdly intelligent, dangerously unpredictable, always with that sickening aura of someone who controls everything as if it were a game. He remembers his bad jokes and nonsensical flirting, which only make Kenny want to strangle him even more, to squeeze his throat until that raucous laughter turns into broken, pleading, gasping whimpers.
For his own good, Kenny forces himself to return to the conversation, now paying more attention to the boots in his hands than to the violent fantasies that the memory of Victor always drags out of him.
— Some. — Kenny takes off one of the boots, setting it aside. — They’re the most treacherous, manipulative, and cunning. You can never trust them. Never.
— Is that why you’re so distrustful?
He pulls off the other boot and, in silence, stands up without looking at Butters. The question hangs in the air like an uncomfortable weight. The answer is obvious, but it still irritates him to be seen as someone who is aloof and distrustful. It wasn’t like that in the past. But to protect his sister, the towns, and himself, he learned to look ten times in the same place before believing he was safe — and even then, doubts always remained. It was a necessity acquired over the years, refined until it became a habit: observe before speaking, be wary before acting.
The cowboy straightens his posture, feeling the familiar weight of the gun in its holster. His pants and his holster are the last pieces of himself left to take off. His hands rest near the pistol, his head bowed, his eyes fixed on the water calling to him, while the sun burns his back.
— Maybe. — He finally replies, staring at the bartender. — But I’ve always been more of a quiet observer than someone who talks and distracts others.
— I’ve noticed that. — Butters comments in a matter-of-fact tone, as if stating that the sky is blue. — Very quiet, observant, analytical, a good listener. And when you do speak, it’s hard to understand you because of the cloth. Sometimes it’s even scary. — He chuckles softly, his eyes smiling at Kenny.
— It’s a habit. I’ve been like this since I was a kid. — Says, resting his hand on the gun’s grip as he shifts his weight to one leg. — On the other hand, you can’t keep your mouth shut.
Butters shrinks back a little, his shoulders rising, his head dropping to avoid the cowboy’s direct gaze. The smile he gives is crooked and awkward.
— Yeah… I’ve always been like this. — Confesses, scratching the back of his neck in obvious embarrassment. — Dougie used to say I needed to learn to keep my mouth shut. Otherwise, I’d end up spilling the beans… or my tongue would take on a life of its own.
— Spill the beans? — Kenny raises an eyebrow. — Like what?
— Like… that time when- — Butters cuts himself off mid-sentence, quickly replacing his hesitation with a mischievous smile. He raises an accusing finger, his eyes half-closed. — You’re a shrewd man, Mr. McCormick. You almost had me.
— And you almost fell for it. — Smiles sidelong, seizing the opening. — Dougie seems to be right. Suppose you reveal to me that you almost did something… I’d be left wondering what it was.
— And you’ll keep wondering, Mr. McCormick. — Butters replies, letting himself drift along the stream as if he were part of it. — There are some stories that shouldn’t be told.
— Every story deserves to be told. — Kenny narrows his eyes. — Why wouldn’t yours?
— Because sometimes the storyteller doesn’t know how to tell it. — Butters shrugs, calmly washing his face. — Or because it doesn’t have an ending yet… or maybe because it isn’t a good story.
— I wouldn’t mind hearing it, anyway. — Says, his interest growing. — After all, according to you, I’m a good observer… and a great listener.
— But I’d mind telling it. — Butters replies, his eye reflecting the orange glow of late afternoon. — I’d rather let your imagination run wild. I bet you’ll come up with something more epic than the truth.
— More epic than running a brothel at twelve? That’ll be tough.
Butters laughs softly, his voice mingling with the sound of the current. His face glows in the golden reflection as he continues to swim, always at ease, always far from the shore (and from Kenny). He lets himself linger there, naked in the cool water, far enough away not to be reached, but close enough to see every movement the cowboy makes.
— Oh, come on, Mr. McCormick. You’re better than that. — Smiles mischievously, his voice playful, without any explicit malice, just a light tease. — Is that the only thing you can think of? Really? What about everything I’ve already told you? Living with the Indians, saving Mexicans from being buried alive, getting robbed by Billy the Kid, causing complete chaos at school… Of all that, what impressed you the most was a brothel?
Kenny shrugs, a brief smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
— It was an unexpected story, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting that from you.
— And what were you expecting? — The bartender teases, a crooked smile on his face. — Something exciting?
— I don’t know… maybe something more boring than that. — Kenny shrugs, his fingers tapping the gun’s grip. — But for someone who seems to have crisscrossed the entire West, this probably isn’t even the most interesting one.
— Oh, it definitely isn’t, Mr. McCormick. — Smiles slyly, a twinkle of amusement lighting up his eyes. — There are things I’ve been through that you can’t even imagine.
— Maybe I can imagine. But I think it’s best to hear it from the storyteller’s own mouth.
Butters smiles wryly, his mustache giving him a unique charm, while drier strands of blond hair sway in the breeze, reflecting the golden glow of the blazing sun.
— Dougie used to say I was a good storyteller. Always making up characters, exploring new worlds. — Laughs softly, his eyes lost in the treetops, nostalgic. — Never staying in one place, always chasing new thrills and unexpected twists. I think that’s the essence of a good story.
— So why don’t you tell me one of those? — Kenny says, unfastening his belt buckle without looking at Butters. — A really epic one, full of twists and turns. Or something trivial and meaningless. Or…
Letting go of the gun’s grip for a moment, the cowboy looks up. Now his attention is entirely on the bartender — who had already been watching him intently, his eye fixed on Kenny’s gesture as he freed himself from the tight belt around his waist. McCormick doesn’t fail to notice the dry swallow, nor the way Butters’ gaze lingers on his hands, resting on the waistband of his pants. And as soon as he realizes he’s been caught, the blond stares back at Kenny, his eye wide, luminous, and far too intense for a mere moment. His tongue darts quickly across his lips (distracted, yet visible) and a heavy sense of anxiety settles in the cowboy’s stomach.
— Tell me the story of how you lost your eye. — Kenny speaks softly, his voice hoarse from thirst, sounding more like the old tone of his vigilante self than he’d like.
Butters blinks slowly, as if surprised by the question. The silence hangs heavy for a few seconds, until he turns his head slightly, almost like a curious dog.
— About my eye?
— Yeah. It must be quite a story. — Insists, giving a brief nod.
— Oh, well… it’s not really that interesting. — Butters chuckles under his breath, looking away. — It’s silly, actually. A stupid reason. You won’t want to hear it.
— It’s okay, I’ll listen anyway. I’m curious. — Kenny takes off his holster, setting it down next to his clothes, though he keeps the gun close at hand. — What was it? A bar fight? An attempted murder? Some kind of accident?
— Well… it was the time when-
The sentence trails off, swallowed up by a third voice.
— What are you guys doing in there? Group therapy? — Cartman bursts in suddenly, breaking the tension with his stupid comment.
Kenny sighs, his hand releasing the gun he’d grabbed out of reflex.
— Shut up, Cartman.
Further back, they hear footsteps — Kyle and Stan coming down the ravine with a change of clothes in hand. Kenny snorts in dismay, having missed a serious investigation into Butters and the history of his blind eye — a perfect opportunity to ask even more questions.
— Oh, hey, fellas! — Butters calls out from the water, happy to see them. — Did you guys come to swim, too? The water’s great!
— Yeah, that’s what we came to do. — Stan replies, his voice carrying its usual monotone.
— Yeah, after they took a nap, we decided to wash our clothes, take a shower, and refill our water supply. — Kyle adds, stopping next to a scorching rock and readjusting the weight of the clothes in his arms. — Everything okay with you guys?
Kenny wrinkles his nose, suspicious. Kyle’s answer sounds too matter-of-fact, as if rehearsed, and that bothers him. He’s almost certain the redhead must have woken Stan up on purpose, using the old pretext of doing laundry as an excuse, just to drag him down to the stream. Kyle’s insistence on butting in — on “checking” what’s going on — is typical, but still annoying. What really unsettles him, though, is the realization that he hadn’t noticed any of the three approaching. Not even Stan, with his shuffling gait. Not even Kyle, who was always muttering something along the way. Not even Cartman, whose clumsy and far-from-discreet gait usually made the ground creak and branches snap. Yet Eric had appeared out of nowhere, enough to give him a genuine scare.
Kenny’s mind spins with contradictions. How could he not have heard anything? How could he not have noticed the movement amid the noisy woods, full of dry leaves and uneven ground? How could he have been taken by surprise like that, to the point of losing track of his surroundings? The only plausible reason is cruel: he was distracted. Too distracted by Butters — by his glances, his ambiguous words, his subtle movements — to the point where he saw nothing but him. And that lapse (that failure) corrodes his stomach like acid.
That's not good. Mysterion whispers in his head, dry and relentless. Not good at all…
— Yeah, we’re fine. — Butters replies casually. — Just talking, right, Mr. McCormick?
— Talking? — Cartman raises his eyebrows, his voice laced with mockery. — It looks more like a private striptease. Butters naked in the water and Kenny slowly shedding his clothes… what a sexy scene.
— Striptease my ass. — Kenny says, fists clenched. — Go fuck yourself, Cartman!
Kyle cuts through the tension of the argument without bothering to look at Kenny or Eric.
— What were you guys talking about? — He asks Butters, as he sets the folded clothes down on a rock, takes off his hat, and begins to undress calmly.
— Oh, just life stuff. — Butters shrugs, smiling slightly. — Nothing important. Just about traveling… and that time I met Eric.
— In that godforsaken place called Denver. — Cartman interjects, tossing his clothes into a pile and unbuttoning his vest. — At least we made some cash off those jewels.
— And off the smoke-addicted babies. — Butters adds excitedly, as if it were a genuinely happy memory.
— Yeah. And the smoke-addicted babies. — Cartman repeats, nostalgically.
Kyle runs his hand over his face, already regretting having asked.
— I can’t believe I took part in that disgrace. How awful.
— Oh, come on, Kyle. — Cartman rolls his eyes, kicking his boots aside. — At least we had enough money to buy a huge bathtub.
— Full of beer. — Butters adds, laughing heartily.
— That’s right! — Cartman laughs along, proudly. — A bathtub full of beer.
— That was, by far, the dumbest thing you guys have ever done. — Stan grumbles, slowly unbuckling his belt. — Beer that tastes like a body… ew. Disgusting.
Kenny has to agree with Stan — that idea was stupid and disgusting, a waste of precious time and money. Can you imagine drinking from that filthy tub? The thought makes his lips pucker.
The group continues to chat as time goes by. Everyone is naked and getting into the water to cool off, using (and overusing) Butters’ simple homemade soap — which Cartman uses carelessly, wasting it unnecessarily. Kenny finally steps into the stream, washing the rest of his clothes and cooling off after standing there for so long, longing for just that: relaxation. However, it’s not complete rest; he’s still very alert and observant of Butters’ actions and words, which seem to have become more artificial and stiff.
In a way, Kenny feels a selfish satisfaction that the bartender seemed relaxed and honest enough with him alone (even though he often avoided and sidestepped certain topics), putting on the mask of a good companion only in the presence of his friends. He knows he can’t trust Butters’ sincerity — much less this inappropriate feeling — but still, he finds himself proud of what he’s achieved: the exclusive, transformed attention he received just a short while ago. It’s a step forward. A step toward the truth.
Mysterion mutters discontentedly in the back of his mind, not liking at all what Kenny is about to do — though it’s a necessary action.
— But it’s true! — Says Butters, exasperated by the group’s disbelief. — I explained everything to Mr. McCormick! Right, Mr. McCormick?
— Kenny. — Replies the cowboy, his voice gentle but firm. — Call me Kenny.
Butters blinks in surprise, staring at him as if he’d been given a particularly fine, brand-new gun wrapped in a red ribbon. His chest swells with a contented sigh, and a radiant smile spreads across his face, his sky-blue eye seeming to reflect the mother star — enthusiasm, fire, and pure joy. Kenny returns the smile — a smaller, shyer one — feeling satisfied (and the selfish feeling swelling and warming his chest). It’s a little disconcerting, but undeniably radiant.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kenny sees Kyle raise a questioning eyebrow in his direction, looking at once confused and convinced of something (probably some outlandish theory). Stan seems uninterested as always, and Cartman wasn’t even paying attention, too busy using up all the remaining soap.
— Uh… yeah… Kenny… — Says Butters, rolling the name around in his mouth. — Yeah, Kenny can confirm the story, right, Mr. McCor-… Kenny?”
The cowboy continues to smile simply, glad that his plan, somehow, worked out.
— Yeah, he explained everything to me. — Confirms, without even knowing what it’s about.
Dangerous. Very dangerous.
Kenny stares intently, listening as he repeats the story of when he started a brothel, with much more enthusiasm than the first time.
One step closer to the truth. And this time, Victor won’t get away.