Happiness is
Dead Lard
By: K. J. Pitre
Prologue: Corpses Can't Talk
Life is supposed to be enjoyable. And it should be. And sometimes, hell, it is. To some people, life is the very reason they get up in the morning. It makes them know that there's an amazing day waiting for them outside of their front door. So they hop out of bed, put on their socks, pants, and a shirt, lace up their shoes, and jet out of the door with a smile that could stop traffic. Yes, indeed, for these people, life is all but too great.
Even for the people who have it shit, they make the most out of it. Takes for instance, little 10-year-old Kenny McCormick.
Kenny lives in a small house; one story, small property. He used to get up every morning with the sense that his inevitable death would soon come, but since he stopped dying as of a few seasons ago, he has more of a bounce in his step and a twinkle in his baby blue eyes. He doesn't even mind that every now and then, few strands of dirty blonde hair would dance in front of his eyes, normally to which he would brush them back into the hood that consumed a majority of his head. He simply smiles and lets them bounce. He thinks it makes him looks a bit cuter anyhow.
After school, he would go home and do his homework and ignore the constant bickering of his parents and the arguing of his brother and sister, and then hang out with the guys after school. He would go to bed on time in his smelly sheets, but always with a smile that he had a bed. He felt as if he were very fortunate.
Of course, he knew, he wasn't as fortunate as his good friends Stan and Kyle were. They had the life. Nice house, loving parents, clean laundry. The list could go on, but Kenny doesn't like it think about it that way. Not when it could ruin his mood.
Yeah, Kenny was one happy boy. He made other people happy. His loud and cute little laugh, his slightly perverted mind, and the infamous muffled "Woo-Hoo!" for when he felt really happy.
All three boys, Kyle, Stan, and Kenny were happy for living and that every day was a new adventure. But as you now, all bright lights cast shadows. And this 'shadow' was roughly 4'5", and weighed approximately 178 pounds and 5 ounces. I don't even need to go into detail for you already know the bothersome boy I speak of. None other than Eric T. Cartman.
The only reason why Eric Cartman would get up in the morning would be knowing that there was a warm breakfast on the table afterwhich he needn't say thank you, use napkins, let alone utensils, or brush his teeth. His clothes would be set out for him whenever he woke up, and there would be an extra dollar or two in his backpack for another snack at the cafeteria. All of which, he never was thankful for; he takes almost everything for granted, even friends.
He never stopped to think why he ever remained he friend of Stan, Kyle or Kenny. Almost constantly, he rips of Kyle for being Jewish and Kenny for being poor. Only sometimes will Cartman make fun of Stan if he thinks his friendship with Kyle is 'funny.'
But after the course of his adventure this time, Cartman will be sorry, and he will not get the chance to be thankful for anything.
Corpses can't talk.
Chapter 1: It Started with Mucus
"For the last time, Fatass, I am notgonna be a banker!" an angered Kyle shouted at Cartman.
"Fine, Kyle," Cartman countered. "If you're not gonna be a banker for being Jewish, you'll definitely get a job at 'Bluenote's'!"
"For what?"
"For being a fag."
"Goddammit, Cartman, shut your fucking mouth!"
"Don't call him a fag, Cartman," Stan defended. "That's not cool."
"Oh, the lover defends his butt buddy," Cartman laughed.
"Come on, dude," Kenny muffed. "You know him and Wendy are still going out."
"I say it's just a cover."
"Shut up, fat boy!" Stan snapped.
Finally the bus pulled up. They got onto the bus one by one, taking their regular seating arrangements. Stan and Kyle sat in one seat while Cartman and Kenny sat in the one behind them. It's been this way for as long as either of them could remember.
Cartman decided to take the simple pleasure of removing Kyle's hat, exposing his small afro.
"Gimme back my hat, Cartman!" Kyle barked.
"Fine, fine," Cartman answered. He put his hat on himself.
Kyle patted it to make sure it stayed on. Kyle was uneasy. He could hear his small little sound that bugged him. At first it sounded like gas seeping through a hole in a pipe, but the sound became more distinguished. It was the sound of Cartman's maniacal laughter. Kyle spun his head and stood on his knees to face the blob.
"What's so funny?" Kyle asked, getting annoyed.
"N-nothing, it-its' nothing," Cartman replied with a waving his hand to illustrate that it truely was nothing.
But it was something. Kyle had the feeling it had something to do with his hat, so he patted it again to make sure it was secure around his head. Cartman's laughter only got louder. Kyle had no idea what the hell it was. He had this weirdest feeling that the problem wasn't whatever was onhis hat. Kyle slowly removed his ushanka and slowly being dragged from the roof of the inside of the hat to his hair was a thin stream of whiteish-yellowy thickness: mucus.
"Goddammit, Cartman!!" Kyle cussed.
Cartman only laughed ever the harder, this time falling on the floor. So what is Kyle immediate instinct? You guessed it: beat the living shit out of him. With a cry of rage, Kyle jumped off of the thin leather seating and onto Cartman's torso, and began to wail into his face in a blind fury. Kyle's beaten up Cartman before for making fun of his religion, and for making fun of his hair. Doing both at the same time just saves time.
Not caring about it, knowing this is simply how they can get out their anger, Stan stood on his knees to talk to Kenny.
"Did you watch the Apprentice last night?"
When they got to school, Cartman had to be sent to the nurse's office immediately while Kyle sat outside the counsellor's office with his arms crossed and a pout smacked on his face.
It was English time in the class and, to the boys' luck, Mr. Garrison was assigned the 5th grade immediately after the boys moved up one. Isn't that a fantastic coincidence?
They were taking up poems. Clyde was just wrapping up.
"Because without you, there is no soul," Clyde recited. "And without the soul, there is no life. No you, no life. No breath."
Clyde removed the paper from his face as the class politely clapped.
"Thank you very much, Clyde," Mr. Garrison said marking his papers. "Maybe next time we take up poetry, you can do something a little less gay." He looked up from his papers and sighed. "Okay, who's next?"
Stan raised his hand.
"Yes, Stan? You have something?"
"No, sir," Stan answered. "I need a hall pass. I have to use the wash room."
"Okay, the pass is on the handle."
Stan walked to the handle and removed the pass walking out of the door. Butters shot his arm into the air and began to wave it like mad.
"Alright, fine, Butters," Mr. Garrison said. "You can go up."
Butters ran up with a smile on his face and began to recite someting about sun shines and apples. Mr. Garrison simply let his head slam onto the desk.
"Oh, God, fuck me."
Stan immediately walked past the wash room, he was aware, to see his friend outside the counsellor's office.
"Dude, you've been here for over an hour," Stan observed. "What's taking you so long?"
"Craig's in there," Kyle answered as his head rested in his folded arms on his knees.
"Oh, okay."
Stan sat next to his friend.
"So what's the difference between any other day you make Cartman cry? Why are you so bummed?"
"I... I don't know," Kyle admitted, finally raising his head and resting his back on the chair. "I would normally feel a bit angry, if not pleased. But... It's just. Somehow, through all of the shit he does, this crosses the line."
Stan stared at his friend. "You're shitting me right? Did you forget the time he gave you AIDS?"
"I know!" Kyle exclaimed to the ceiling, standing up and taking a few steps forward. "I can't explain it either, it's just how I feel."
"So what are you gonna do?" Stan asked. "Kill him?"
Stan laughed at this. He expected to hear a second laugh to chime in with him, but when he opened his eyes, he saw Kyle looking at Stan almost as if he had given him an amazing idea.
Stan's smile slowly melted away as fear struck his face. "Get the fuck out."
After Kyle had gotten off the bus, he, without haste, ran straight to his house without even a goodbye to any of his friends.
"Kyle!" Stan called after him after getting off the bus. "Don't do anything stupid! I mean it Kyle!!"
Kyle ran through his door, dropping his bag and coat, and kicking off his shoes and ran upstairs without a hello to Ike, Sheila or Gerald. He ran to his desk and opened the drawer removing an untouched pad of paper and a led pencil. He opened the book to the first page while clicking the eraser twice. He began to write at the top of the page in big letters:
How to kill Eric Cartman
Once he began writing down possible plans, there was no stopping him. He let beads of sweat cascade off of his tendrils of blood-coloured hair and onto the wood of the desk. Each small idea that came to mind, he chuckled to himself and jotted it down with an evil smile. He was finally gonna get Cartman back this time. For good.
Hours past by and Sheila walked up the stairs and knocked on Kyle's door.
"Kyle, come out, please," she said. "I made dinner. It's your favorite. It's lokshen with cheese."
"I'm not hungry, mom," Kyle answered.
"What do you mean, 'you're not hungry?' You haven't eaten since lunch."
"I'm just not hungry."
Sheila gave up with a simple "Oi," and walked back downstairs.
For hours, Kyle continued to work on his evil plan. His pencil was at work for such a long time that his wrist began to cramp, and the friction of the led and paper practically went up in smoke. He didn't mind the pain in his wrist because it only reminded him of the countless times his people were belittled at the hands. When Kyle knew his work was finished, he dropped his pencil and looked into his hand; red with work. He raised the book above his head.
"Yes," he said. "Yeeeeess!" He began to laugh as an evil villian would. Something he would have never thought he would ever do.
But it was final. His plans were complete. All he needed now was an accomplice.
