Once upon a time—that's how most of these stories start, right? They all start once upon a time—what time, sometime—in some faraway land, some realm of myth and magic, populated with fantastical creatures from oral legend, made up of dreams from children's bedtime stories. And they all start just about the same, with those simple words: once upon a time.

Well, once upon a time, a little family dwelt in a modest hovel, nestled in the corner of a grand kingdom. Their meagre shanty sat quivering in the long shadows cast by the lords' manor houses, trembling beneath the line of poverty, cowering before the towering castle etched into the mountainous horizon. It was in this small home that two parents raised three children, although raised may not be the proper term. While the mother begot two sons and a daughter for her husband, he still spent most of his time—and the family's coin—at the local pub, shirking his role as a father and adopting the drink. Eventually, the mother, too, succumbed, to those treacherous temptations, thorns that barb the lives of the poor and the destitute. She frequented apothecaries, searching for a way to cope, but forfeited her motherly duties in the process. And in that time, once upon, the family's livelihood was stolen, by the pharmacists and the barkeeps, funds funnelled into their vices, while the little ones endured. They endured and they hoped, hoped to have a family, like the others in the village, like the fairy tale dreams.

They hoped, and hoped, and hoped, as the days passed them by. Father left sober, returned in drunken stupor. Mother collected prescriptions, swallowed them all at once. The absences lengthened, for the both them, until one day their mother left the house, and never again crossed their threshold. She almost made it to the main road, used by all the carts and carriages, when her addiction got the best of her. The red in her cheeks drained as the strength left her muscles, fainting in a hole dug by a wild dog. It took four days, for her husband to notice, notice his children sobbing and crying for their missing mother. He only noticed because, that morning, a villager visited the house, told them about the body, how it—what remained of it—resembled his wife. That was when the father faced an ultimatum, to be a parent or a drunkard, to choose his children or the alehouse.

With his decision, he shattered their hope, as the father sold his children off, to be forever servants in the homes of the nobles he so despised. He traded their lives for gold, to spend drowning himself in booze, bemoaning his sorrows in hopes of a pity pint. Soon enough, he joined his wife, and not a soul showed an inkling of sympathy, not even the tapper.

As for the children, well, they wouldn't be a family much longer, each contracted to a different house. The eldest, Kevin, was sent to House Stoley, and the youngest, Karen, became a charge of House Black. And the middle child, Kenny

He went to House Cartman.

Now, House Cartman was a fairly new development. Rumours spread, years ago, of a Lord Tenorman fathering a bastard with a common brothel whore, and for once the winds carried truth. A bastard was born, growing up outside the luxuries of nobility, but only for a while. Soon, tragedy struck House Tenorman, the Lord and Lady cannibalised by their legitimate son, who claimed some kind of conspiracy, saying he was tricked into feasting on his parents' flesh. Tricked by whom, no official ever found out—though putting an ear to the rumours might have given a clue—instead the boy deemed insane and the role of heir transferred. Fortune passed to Eric, along with new title and land, founding a new name he forged all on his own.

Kenny was Eric's first personal servant, coming into the household a young boy. He doubled as a playmate for the young master, and a labourer for all menial chores. Of course, as he quickly found, Eric wasn't good with others, especially those he considered below him. If Kenny deviated from his word, even slightly, he'd form some new mess and order Kenny clean it up. He ensured that his days were filled with long hours of work, with a mop or a broom, a bucket or a brush, in a heap of hay or in a bed of cinders.

Others came, as the Estate grew, as the boys grew. Cartman swindled his tenants, purchasing daughters from the tenants struggling on his gravelly soil. He got Wendy to run his kitchen, and Bebe to care for his wardrobe. When he needed a steward, rather than offer Kenny a promotion, he sought someone unquestioning, taking a son from a lesser known house. Butters knew little of household affairs, but his unwavering obedience made up for the immense lack in experience. For as far as Eric Cartman cared, a house was not for family but fame, and the only useful servant was one who listened to the master, who stayed quiet and hard at work.

Once upon a time, Kenny listened to fairy tales. When he was young, he always listened to the stories people told, about dashing knights and swooning princesses, about villains defeated and heroes getting their happily ever after. He used to repeat those stories to Karen before bed, to help her stave off the nightmares of goblins and ghosts. Once upon a time, a part of him believed—really believed—that some of those stories actually turned out to be true.

At age eight, his life was sold to the Cartman Estate, when he was no older than the master he served. And now, now Kenny's twenty-two, fourteen years in his service, no longer counting years to freedom, only bitterly wondering years to death. So much happened once upon a time, so much he had no control over, so much more cannot undo. Once upon a time may sound sweet, but it's never done him any good, never brought anything but ephemeral sweetness, long-lasting bitterness.

Once upon a time, Kenny used to go to his window, in the attic of the Cartman Manor, and look off into the distance, to the castle on the horizon. Once upon a time, he dreamt that his life would get better, that he'd live just like those people in the tall stone towers. Once upon a time, he thought his story started off with that goddamn stupid phrase.

Come on, who's dumb enough to think there's some Fairy God-Fucker out there watching over him, right?


A/N: I've waited years to Retell my sweet claim to shame. This is going to be a little different from the original, but I'm hoping that's a damn good thing. Hope yous stick around for the ride!