Welcome to my next fanfic, everyone.
I want to begin with a disclaimer; this story is in no way connected with (and isn't even in the same continuity as) my previous South Park story, My Name is Kenny. In fact, there may even be a completely different explanation of Kenny's deaths to fit with this story. Simply put, this is a Cartman story in the same way that the other one is a Kenny story; it is the story of Eric Cartman, told through his eyes. And let me tell you, writing from Cartman's POV is way harder than Kenny's, so I apologize for any drop in quality.
Finally, I have to officially say that South Park is the property of Matt Stone and Trey Parker, and it does not belong to me at all. I make no profit from these stories, except for satisfaction from my fans :D
There I was…standing on the threshold of a great future. A young man, with his whole life ahead of him. And what a life it promised to be…
I am Eric Theodore Cartman. Perhaps you've heard of me? Nonsense, of course you know who I am. As for who you are…chances are, the only people who will ever read this are either myself or someone who wishes to follow in my footsteps. An apprentice, if you will. I may choose to publish this someday, in which case my true story will be known to all, but until then, I will assume that anyone reading this wants to learn from what I have done, and to perhaps achieve their own greatness.
This is the story of how it all began. The day I started on the road to power.
My alarm clock rang at 6:30, interrupting my sleep and the long string of gruesome images that always accompanied it. I sat up in bed, still groggy, and then I remembered what day it was. The excitement was all I needed to get me moving.
I rushed downstairs. Mom, of course, had breakfast waiting for me.
"Oh, good morning, my little angel," she smiled sweetly. "Did you sleep well?"
"Fine, Mom," I managed, while gulping down my chocolate pancakes. "Do you have my lunch packed? I'm not going to eat the shitty cafeteria food this year."
"Of course, honey," she replied. "You sure seem excited for school to start."
The first day of senior year. "I am, Mom. Big plans."
Ordinarily, I wouldn't be thrilled at the idea of going back to school. I'm pretty sure everyone at school still hates me. Most of them have hated me ever since fourth grade, but even my so-called "close friends" had barely spoken to me in years. In short, I'd just finished probably the absolute worst summer I've ever had. No fun at all.
But all that was about to change. This year was going to be different. This year was the year I would set everything into motion. I knew for a fact that no one had any big plans for after graduation, except for Wendy and the Jew, Kyle Broflovski. And me. But my plans, though elaborate in design, were quite simple in intention: I was going to prove everyone wrong. They thought that I was going to grow up to be a miserable, lonely person, and I was going to show them that the world was my footstool.
She went back into the kitchen and came back with my Terrence and Phillip lunchbox. Stuffed with my favorite food, no doubt.
Or was it?
I made a quick check. "Mom, there are regular Oreos in here! Don't we have Double Stuff?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, poopsiekins," she said, "but you ate the last of the Double Stuffs yesterday."
I was not pleased with this, but at the moment, I was in such a good mood that I didn't even feel like pitching a fit. "Alright, I guess the crappy Oreos can stay, but make sure to buy some more Double Stuffs this afternoon."
"Whatever you say," Mom said. Then she went back to make her own breakfast.
I wolfed down the last of my pancakes. "See you later, Mom."
I hopped into my pickup truck, and drove to Kenny McCormick's shack—I mean, house. He walked up. Out of my once so-called "close friends," Kenny was the only one who still hung out with me at all.
"Hey, Cartman," he said, his voiced muffled by his thick orange parka. "Did you get your summer reading done? Word is that we're going to get tested on The Sound and the Fury today."
"Yeah, I'm totally going to ace that shit," I said. Okay, so I hadn't done the reading (have you ever read that book? It's confusing as hell), but I had read the spark notes. Close enough. "Still, having a test on the first day of school is such bullcrap."
"You said it," Kenny chuckled.
"I'll bet that Stan and Kyle were both good boys and actually read the book," I said. "They're so lame!"
Kenny cocked an eye at me from under his hood. "I read the book too, fatass."
"Yeah, I did."
"When did you have time to read that piece of shit? I thought you had to spend all your time begging to support your family."
Kenny's eyes narrowed. "I would punch you in the face, only you're driving right now, and I don't really feel like dying this morning."
God, when did Kenny become such a puss? He used to not care about getting in trouble. He used to live life to the fullest. I remember when the two of us almost took over the U.S. with just a bunch of drunk Civil War reenacters. But now? He's just another cog in the machine. I guess not hanging out with me has taken its toll on him. He needs my help.
We pulled up in front of Stan Marsh's house. Usually I only picked up Kenny, but Mom had told me last week that Stan's car had just been wrecked on a joyride (when I found out the joyrider had been his dad, I laughed my ass off for nearly an hour straight). So, I had to drive Stan to school. And since the Jew usually rode with him, I had to bring him, too. Oh, well: filthier people had ridden in this car (meaning Kenny).
Stan and the Jew came out the front door. Stan looked a little annoyed at the idea of riding with me, but the Jew? He took one look at me, and considered walking to school. He definitely thought about it; I could see it on his twisted face. Go on, Kyle. I dare you to walk to school. That would just make my day. Finally, he capitulated, and walked up to the car with Stan. Even better. Forcing the Jew to do what I want, especially if it's what he doesn't want, gives me a high. I love it.
"Okay, Kenny," I said, "you're gonna have to hop in the back."
"What?" Kenny frowned. "Why?"
"Because there's not room in the front for all four of us, you asshole!" I explained. "Now, hurry up!"
Kenny got out and climbed into the bed of the truck, but not before pausing to punch me in the nose.
Motherfucker. I guess he did warn me, though. I managed to keep my irritation contained; damn, I must be in a really good mood today.
Kenny sat down in the bed, pouting. It's alright; he's poor. Which means he has almost as much experience riding in the back of a truck as a Mexican, so he would be the most likely to survive in case of an accident. And even if he didn't, poor people are expendable. No offense to Kenny.
Stan and the Jew needed to sit in the front, since they didn't have this experience. And I needed them alive, especially Kyle. Furthermore, I needed Kyle where I could keep an eye on him.
"Hey, Cartman," Stan said, awkwardly trying to make conversation. "What happened to your face?"
Ha ha. "The asshole in orange," I said, pointing back at Kenny.
The Jew didn't even bother. He looked determined to ignore me. Well, we couldn't have that. "So, Kyle, how was your summer?"
No response. Not even a rude comment about my weight. "You know, Kyle, we're all gonna be riding together until Stan's car gets fixed, so we might as well at least talk to each other," I said. "You know, reconnect?"
"And wouldn't you just enjoy that?" Kyle said at last.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you're just loving having us around, since we all know you don't have any real friends."
Ouch. That was a low, even for him.
"In fact, I bet you even found a way to cause the wreck, so we would all have to ride together, because that's just the way your evil little brain works."
I didn't, of course. Not that it wouldn't have been a good idea, but the wreck simply happened at the right place and at the right time. It was an omen of success.
"Can't you accept a little friendship? You're so distrustful, Kyle," I pointed out.
Kyle finally looked right at me with his beady little eyes. "I have to be: I know you," he said. Then he turned away, with obviously no intention of saying another word to me.
Well, you don't know me well enough, you Jewish rat. Not nearly well enough.