When renowned philanthropist Kenny McCormick died unexpectedly at the age of 50, he left one final message for his three best friends Stan, Kyle, and Cartman. Shoved deep up his asshole on a USB stick was a video message for them.
It was a heartfelt scolding of the three that ended with some extremely colourful insults and a warning to never intervene with the past, because the timeline would always correct itself. The smouldering remains of his laboratory was proof enough of that.
The last message he left was a phone number, or rather, the hint of a phone number, as he explained that the video would not allow him to speak the name or number of this contact he wanted them to call. Scrawled messily everywhere around the lab was a single number, six. They crowded around an old school, vintage landline, shaped like a cheeseburger. It had been Kenny’s prized possession his whole life and had been more reliable to him than his best friends ever had. (He said that in his video message too, taking pride in the fact that it probably hurt their feelings.)
Stan dialled the eleven digit number while Kyle stood to the side and grumbled about how it wouldn’t work, that eleven consecutive sixes would not create a valid phone number, but Stan shushed him as the phone rang. It wouldn’t have rung if it had been an invalid number, so that was a good sign, at least.
It rang, and rang. It rang on much longer than a usual phone number would, and didn’t cut to a voicemail message. As the trio waited impatiently, crowding around the phone, it started to heat up. At first it felt like it was just an old piece of electronic hardware heating up from overuse and malfunction, but then it got hotter and hotter, to the point where Stan’s hand began to burn and blister and Cartman knocked it out of his hand. They stared in horror at the receiver, expecting it to burst into flames, but then everything stopped, and a tired voice answered. The voice was incredibly clear and sounded more like the person was in the room with them rather than on the phone.
“Damien Thorn, Prince of Darkness, how may I help you?”
A tired voice cooed, in a gentle, high pitched British accent. It sounded vaguely familiar to them but they couldn’t put a name to the voice. Cartman muttered something about the French under his breath.
“Damien Thorn?” Stan repeated, thinking back to a kid they’d grown up with in elementary school to highschool. Dark and brooding, with an awkward, puberty laden, squeaky voice. When they’d graduated they heard he’d run off to elope with some blonde chick, and Cartman had spread that rumour he’d become a cultist.
“Well, I’m not, obviously.” The voice drawled out sarcastically. “Do you require the Dark Lord’s unholy services today?”
Stan had never been particularly religious, and Kyle and Cartman’s religion saw Satan as less of an actual being and more of a catch-all name for general adversaries, but nevertheless the implications of Damien Thorn being Satan made them all sweat. They supposed it was obvious, he was literally the Anti-Christ.
“Our friend… he died, and he left this message telling us to call this number.”
There’s rustling in the background of the call, maybe paper, or bedsheets, as the chipper Englishman (Stan was fairly sure it was a man, at least.) began muttering, then called outloud.
“Damien, Stan Marsh, Kyle Broflovski, and Eric Cartman from South Park are on the phone, looking for their dead friend.”
The trio paled immediately as they stared in shock, sure there was a chance he’d recognised Stan and Cartman’s voices from their limited dialogues, but Kyle hadn’t said a damn word.
“Who the fuck are you?” Kyle asked.
“I’m the Queen of Hell, darling.” The voice purred, and finally the phone was passed over. The lilting, soft English accent was replaced by a very deep, brash voice.
Damien Thorn’s voice used to be funny, something they all teased him about as it cracked constantly, but now it was like a roaring fire as it rumbled and mumbled, he was seemingly tired as he yawned and slurred his words.
“You want Kenny.” He wasn’t asking, he was making a statement.
“Yes! Is he there? Did he go to Hell?”
“Of course he did. You’re all going to Hell.” Damien confirmed, sounding oddly cheerful for such a harsh threat, or truth, Stan supposed. “Sooner than you might think. But for now, he’s only here for a short while.”
In the background they hear the drawl of Kenny’s slight Southern accent, Redneckisms that he’d retained his whole life, as he yelled out a loud “Woo-hoo!”. They could almost see the dopey look on his face.
“Take those undies off, demon! I want your dick in my ass and Pip’s dick in my mouth!”
The look of abject horror on the trio’s face was almost palpable. Able to be palped. Damien didn’t hang up the phone as the rustling of sheets and the creaking of the bed began, and before Kyle slammed down the receiver Cartman managed to yell out a quick:
“Don’t get demon AIDS, Kinneh!”
I... didn't have any ideas for this week, I'm so sorry. It's just a sex joke with the bare minimum of Dip themselves. Will write something better for those fat, sexy, hairy old men eventually. ❤️🩹
