Cartman 101

Disclaimer: I don't own South Park, and if Trey Parker and Matt Stone are actually reading this: I'm sorry guys, but I gotta write.

In Park County community college it was late August, though you probably wouldn't be able to tell by the way people's breath became visible once it left their mouths. Another freak cold snap had hit, it occurred annually but it was always "freak" to the weathermen, and students cursed the early death of another summer. Students mixed and mingled in the quad as well as they could in their many layers of clothing and looked miserable.

The only one really unaffected by the cold was a junior student who was currently jogging up to the drinking fountain, sweat staining the armpits of his infrequently washed favorite sweater. Sweat poured from his temples and soaked his tousled brown hair, his knit cyan cap with the yellow puffball clenched in his fist. He stopped, gasping, by the drinking fountain, hands on his knees. Running was not a favorite pastime of Eric Cartman's; nor was jogging, Yoga, swimming, Pilates, bowling, or any other of the many physical education classes available to the student. In fact, if he could be said to have a favorite pastime, it would have to be sitting quietly and watching TV. Eating came a close second; while knowing that each snack cake was another step towards an early burial in a piano crate hadn't stopped Eric from making, well, a pig of himself, it had taken much of the fun out of eating.

In fact, to Eric Cartman, it seemed as if the fun had gone out of everything lately. Lighting firecrackers and sticking them up a frog's business end just didn't have the same zing anymore, even shouting racial epithets at passing holiday parades had lost meaning for him. That might've been because, though Eric would never admit it, without someone else around, those activities are really just kind of a one-handed exercise. And he was, now, completely and utterly alone.

Even before college had started, him, Kyle, Stan, and Kenny had drifted apart. He could only guess what lead to the initial breakup of the four friends; perhaps it had never occurred to him that if you spend your every waking moment tormenting people, chances are they will eventually leave you. So he started out his first year of college with no one to talk to at all. Sure, one could always make new friends to replace the old, but Cartman's social graces had grown steadily poorer since he was eight.

To most, he was known as a large, shy boy who was clumsily aware of his bulk and prone to odd outbursts. Like that time the bitch from English 205 had dribbled part of her soda on him during a lecture. He had stood up and let her have it… and she had cried. Sobbed, even. Cartman had been taken aback, he had never genuinely frightened another human being in this manner and it genuinely perplexed him. After growing up with girls who gave better than they got, it was unnerving. Later the professor had taken him aside and told him it was in his best interest to drop the class.

That, and various incidents at the pool, track, greenhouse, and library had made it necessary for his mother to make frequent trips to the dean's office of whatever course he might be taking at the moment. In his younger days his mother's promiscuity had filled him with shame, now it just made him ashamed of himself. Liane Cartman was no longer the gutter beauty she had once been, and arthritis made even the most basic sexual favors painfully laborious, so he had learned to take control of himself. He had learned to bite his tongue whenever the urge to use it arose, and he went many a day without saying a vulgarity to anyone. Sadly, this did not help his isolation one jot.

He saw the rest of the gang around campus occasionally, not just his friends but others; Token, Tweek, even Wendy. They always seemed to be in a group, and always laughing. He made a point to adjust his schedule whenever he had close brushes with them; the last thing he needed were those turncoat assholes swooping down on him, attacking him, mocking him. He dreamed that it happened sometimes, that they descended on him and ripped him to shreds, fingers curled into claws, eyes burning with joyful wrath. They paid him back for all the years of insults, tricks, transgressions, and hostilities, and he could feel everything they did to him, down to the minutest detail. It had become a regular thing, waking up mornings that way; the dream would get steadily worse and worse and just before he reached the point of no return he would be awake suddenly, in his own bed and drenched with cold sweat. He had learned to no longer wake his mother when this happened.

It didn't help.

Right now he should be on his way to a metal shop class, but his mom woke him up late again and the parking lot was on the other side of the campus. So he stopped here to rest, and possibly get his pulse down from the high hundreds. He stooped, hands on his knees, winded. You would think that he would be a success story, someone as driven as him would've become a High School wonder; dropped the weight, applied his brain, become both the darling and bastard of his peers.

But no.

The drift from his friends had gradually effected his self-esteem, and he stopped trying to rile his friends out of their apathy towards him. Now, like most young men his age, Cartman was at college with no idea what he wanted to do with his life. He didn't want to pick a career, couldn't focus on anything more than a semester. Cartman had no motivation anymore; he had always looked to his friends to see what step he should take next, and with them out of the picture he was drawing a complete blank.

He supposed the Jew would become a lawyer, it ran in his family. Stan would probably get a football scholarship, he was that good. Kenny seemed like he too would take on his father's profession; drinking heavily and sitting around all day looking at porn. In between procuring the many controlled substances he practically lived on, of course.

Cartman hit the lever on the fountain, drinking greedily. The water hurt his teeth and burned his throat it was so cold. He made a resolution, one he made every month, to sign up for a PE class next semester. He was better now, the stitch in his side eased by rest, and he felt he could continue on. But he straightened up, and saw something that stopped him in his tracks.

Kyle Broflovski, the Kyle Broflovski, was making his way over to the drinking fountain opposite his with an effortless gait. He chatted idly with a girl over his shoulder, arms that had lengthened greatly since Cartman last talked to him swinging easily at his sides. Kyle wore a basketball jersey. The Jew had really shot up in his formative years and was now a little on the tall and lanky side. His face was clear and nearly unblemished. Eric unconsciously put a hand the crater on his left cheek. Kyle's hair hadn't lost its signature curl, but a Jewfro really suited him, now.

A half a smile crept up Cartman's face.

Kyle's eyes hadn't changed since the time they would narrow in indignance at Cartman's many jibes, still green and sincere-looking. He was probably involved in most if not all of the campus's activist clubs. What he wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall when Kyle took the stage. He was about to bow out carefully, avoiding attracting the Jew's attention and any question of what he had done the past few years, but a funny urge sprang up, like the ones he would get in the old days.

He would go right over to Kyle-no! he would shout at Kyle where he was, surprise him, taunt him, give him a few verbal jabs for old times sake. He hadn't had an occasion to in so long. The group always seemed like an amalgam rather than a group of people , how could you pick out the individual?

No, here was an excellent time. And oh joy! The girl who had been following him came up behind, smiling and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She was slender and brown-haired and probably his girlfriend. His suspicion was confirmed when they made kissy-faces at each other, making his toes curl inside his shoes. All he had to do was wait for the perfect moment, when Kyle's defenses were completely lowered and his attack would do maximum damage. He would get Kyle and his little girlfriend, too.

Kyle and his lady friend stayed for a few long minutes, enveloped in that special fugue that numbs all young lovers to the passage of time. Cartman would've tapped his foot if he though he could get away with it. Come on. He wanted to scream at Kyle.

At last he seemed to finish and turned to leave. At that time, two things happened.

One: Kyle's lady friend happened to drop her compact on the ground and stooped to pick it up, missing what would immediately occur.

Two: Kyle turned, not in the direction Cartman expected he would, and accidentally locked eyes with his old friend.

Time seemed to stop at that point. It was as if Cartman was in a great iron cast, pressure coming at him from all sides. He couldn't take his eyes away, couldn't break this paltry little contact with Kyle. Kyle's eyes displayed blurry confusion for a moment, then puzzlement, and finally recognition. What followed this was something so revolting it made Cartman wish he had gone too soon, intruding on Kyle's private moment with the girl, shouting and screaming every curse in his rather lengthy arsenal.

Pity showed in Kyle's eyes. Sickening, disgusting pity. His face remained stoic, but perhaps there was just the teensiest quirk of an eyebrow, the smallest curve of a lip.

Cartman was furious. All the words, built up inside of him all this time without release rose like hot steam in him, all the comebacks that had no answer, all the phrases and concepts and emotions bottled up inside of him came roaring out, burning the air between the two of them in a verbal d-day.

But only in his mind.

As much as he would dearly love to pretend that things could resume the same as they always had, that someday he and Kyle would once again cross swords, Kyle had ruined that forever for him. It could never be the same now.

His fist clenched involuntarily. He wanted to strangle that Jew, beat him, hurt his former friend and put hate back into his eyes, he didn't want his goddamn pity! He would take a thousand insults, a lifetime of injuries, before he let that bastard feel sorry for him . He stood there, staring at Kyle, his gaze hot and still. He wished several kinds of death on Broflovski, some of them very inventive, involving everyday objects you wouldn't normally consider murder weapons.

Whether or not he would've said something eventually is hard to say, because at that moment Kyle's lady friend straightened up with a cheerful "Got it!", her mirror triumphantly grasped in one hand. That one phrase was like a bucket of cool water on his body, and the murderous hate shooting from his eyes sank once more to the bottom of his cholesterol-encrusted heart.

Without another thought, he turned and quickly began walking in the opposite direction, hands stiffly in his pockets. He was going the wrong way, away from his class, but that didn't matter. He was late anyway, he couldn't get into any more trouble than he already was. He walked resolutely forward, shoulders hunched and stiff against the invasion, the feeling of people's eyes raking his back, like pins pricking his body.

It was as if an apocalyptic battle had taken place. He felt exposed, small. Sweat beaded his brow, though he had since cooled off from his run. His chest felt funny and hurt, like a giant rubber band contracted inside it. He didn't know where he was going, just that he wanted to walk and walk until he was an new person or, failing that, his old self again. Stupid Kyle just had to ruin their chance of speaking after all this time, damn Jew!

Why did he always get in the way, mess everything up? Even back in their elementary days, Kyle had been his main antagonist in every scheme, always showing up at just the right moment with just the right people. He had enjoyed their mental jousting, but it had merely been a minor side effect compare to other more memorable ones, like chronic annoyance. Kyle always had to do the right thing, what he believed was right, no matter what. That was why he so loved to mess with Kyle's head, and that was why he had left. He couldn't stand Kyle "helping" him, not after all this time.

Damnit, bastard had no right…his eyes smarted and his chest hurt harder, and when he went to wipe his eyes he found they were wet. Probably from the chill in the air. Colorado was such a dry cold, it chapped your lips and hurt your eyes. That was why his eyes were watering. He was not crying over the Jew-boy and his preppie friends. Hell, what did any of them do that was worthy of his time? He walked on, no longer seeing or caring where he went.

Kyle blinked. That had looked an awful lot like Cartman. It certainly gave him stink eye like Cartman. If it had been Cartman, he had lost a little weight since High School. But man, he didn't look healthy anyway. Smooth, thin fingers turned his chin, and he stared Dee full in the face.

"Hello, space cadet." She murmured gently. "Anybody home? What are you looking at?"

It took him a bit to process what she was asking him.

"What? Dah-no. Oh, no. I was- I wasn't looking at anything." He stuttered.

She smiled, showing off even, white teeth. "Are you sure?"

Kyle looked off in the direction the other man had gone.

It had been Cartman. Jesus Christ.

"Yeah." He said. "I'm sure."

Author's note: wow, it only took me an hour to write this(and three to proofread). I can't tell if that's a good or a bad thing. Anyway, I've wanted to do a story like this for a long time, Cartman's psychology intrigues me greatly. Like most bullies, he needs people to play off of or there's nothing for him to do. Also, I don't think he really likes himself all that much. He's so attached to Kyle because he 'feeds' him so much, among other reasons. Well, that's my take on it anyway. I've never been to a Colorado community college, so I have no idea what one would be like. So I tried to keep it as non-descriptive as possible, though I think I still got a lot of things wrong. Or not. Oh well. Be seeing you.