(Your 22-year-old Butters Stotch)

You have seen your old best friend, Stan, Kyle, Cartman, and most importantly, Kenny, in years. Five to be exact. As soon as you turned 18 you were gone. Unwillingly but oh well, what can you do. You lived in New York now, and you've definitely made do. You never became an art teacher, you changed, you're a tattoo artist now, good enough to have your own damn shop.

You didn't know this, but your old friends were around, visiting Kenny's little sister, Karen, over summer break for at most two months and a half, so they have the last hike to settle back into their homes in Denver. They just happened to be walking around, seeing a tattoo shop, which is yours, doing flash tattoos to get more business from tourists, doing 25-50 dollar tattoos, which, anyone in the tattoo atmosphere knows that's a good deal. So of course Kenny wanted to stop by.

"Sickkk."

You heard Kenny say from the front, obviously not knowing it was him, the familiar jingle of your store bells ringing as the door opened. You heard your receptionist greet the walk in clients, who happened to be your old friends, you just didn't know it yet.