-1The Fall, the Rise, and Fall of Kyle Broflowski, as Told by Eric Cartman

Cartman's strange ass accent translation:

Kahl - Kyle

Kenneh - Kenny

Meemm! - Calling for his mother

Hyah - Here (sometimes)

Nyehr- There (sometimes)

Towahl - Towel

Anyways, I decided to make them Highschool age because it's easier and I won't be in danger of violating pedophile laws. Cartman is in character, because I'm sick of Cartman x Kyle fiction with a skinny ass, fluffy (New Curse Word), happy-go-lucky, non-racist Cartman. However, I'm sick of Kyle x Cartman where Cartman rapes Kyle. You can write an in-character, evil, fat-ass Cartman without rape.

I thought Kyle looked absolutely satisfying when he was depressed. Not that anything about the Jew himself was appealing, but the sadness, Kyle's sadness, was wonderful. That, and the fact that I, Eric T. Cartman, had caused it. It was an expression I had practically waited my whole life to see, and been my life's goal to cause. I decided that this moment was too great not to relish, so I invited him inside, to "comfort" him. Not knowing that this decision would turn out to be the biggest mistake, the best choice, and the largest turn of events in Eric T. Cartman's life.

Rewind a few hours ago, before the literal and figurative storm began. Stan, Kenny, Kyle and I were playing Star Wars with my mom's new mini-van. Okay, I know, a bit childish for Highschoolers, right? Well screw you, nobody asked you. Anyways, Kyle and I began to fight about the Passion of the Christ (again) and he finally gave in and went to see it. Fast-forward to present time, where the deliciously depressed Kyle Broflowski, the Super-Annoying-Jew-Rat, is dripping rainwater all over my floor. Disgusted, I find him a towel he can dry himself off with (purposely ignoring the one that offers me a joint). He dried that ridiculous, red, Jew-fro of his as he mumbled a thank you. "Whatever, I just don't want you getting my floors wet, bastard." I said. Kyle glares at me, but otherwise says nothing. "Now," I said, "I can make tea, or something. Mom says that stuff is supposed to make everything better." I add sickly-sweet smile at the end of my statement. I know he doesn't trust me, but he obediently follows me into the kitchen anyways. How wonderful this was! Kyle was in such a weakened state, he could probably cry any moment. God, how I wished he would cry. "Chamomile or Lemon?" I asked cheerfully. He grunted and sat at my table. I shrugged, putting on Chamomile. I always did like the taste of Chamomile. I sat across from him, grinning. He didn't notice, he was too busy staring at the floor .

When it was ready, I poured the tea into two separate mugs. "Two cubes or one?" I asked with fake innocence. He stood up angrily, chair scraping harshly on the floor. "God damn it Cartman! This is serious!" He yelled, slamming his hands down on the table. I jumped, but did my best to compose myself. "Well excuse me for not being the epitome of sympathy, but you did kill my Lord and Savior, Jewboy." Kyle slumped back into his chair. Shrugging, I dropped two cubes into both of our cups. I sat back down and slid his tea across the table. He took a sip, only to wrinkle his nose in disgust, "Ugh, it's too sweet."

"Well, you should have told me you wanted one cube, instead of exploding at me." No response. I frowned slightly; I was getting tired of his silence. And what the hell? Wasn't he supposed to be crying? "It was so… violent." He said in a quiet voice. Ah, here it was, the grief. He stood up suddenly, "I have to go." He said. And it was gone as soon as it came. Damn. I followed him towards the door, "You know Kahl, it doesn't have to be this way." He paused, door hanging open, foot out the door, but he did not turn around. "I could help you, Kahl. There are things that you can do to fix this." He walked out into the storm, making no indication that he had heard me, but I know that he had. I closed the door behind him. The seed of corruption has been planted. I thought, chuckling, then paused, "Damn bastard. Stole my towahl." Not like I cared, I would have just burned it anyways. Humming to myself, I returned to the kitchen and dumped Kyle's unfinished tea down the sink. Then, after a moment's consideration, I threw the mug away. Still humming, I went to my bedroom. I had plans to make if I was going to lead the second Holocaust.

I stepped out of the shower, finished washing myself clean from a certain person's excrements. I looked into the fogged up mirror, my reflection stared back at me. "GOD DAMN IT!" I yelled, smashing my fist into the mirror. "Ouch!" I yelped. Instead of breaking the mirror, like I had expected, I simply succeeded in hurting my hand. "Shit, that works out so much cooler in the movies." I grumbled. I dressed myself and headed for the snack cupboard. I had a date tonight with the lovely and energetic Ms. Television and for that I needed Cheesy Poofs. As one could probably tell, I have failed in my brilliant plan to finish Hitler's work by now and I planned to drown my sorrows in Terrance and Phillip re-runs and a good twenty-two medium sized bags of flour, water, and processed, powdered cheese. I would not have such sorrows to drown if it hadn't been for a certain queermo and a certain poor boy. "Damn you, Stan and Kenneh. I hate you guys." Just as I was sitting down, the telephone rang. "Meemm! Telephone!" I called. "Mommy's busy poopsykins, can you get it?"

"God, I gotta do everything myself around here." I grouched; it was true… sort of. "What?" I growled into the speaker. It was a sign of how upset she was, that the bitch of a woman on the other end didn't tell me off for being rude. "My bubalah, I can't find my bubalah!" Mrs. Broflowski bitched at me through the receiver (no matter how she sounded, no matter what she said, Mrs. Broflowski will always be bitching in my mind.) I sighed at Sheila's babble. I was in no mood to translate God damn Hebrew, for Christ's sake. "What is a boobuhla?" I asked, butchering the pronunciation partly on purpose. Was Mrs. Broflowski seriously crying at me over some sort of lost bra, or something? "It's Kyle! I can't find him anywhere!"

"Have you checked Stan's house yet?" I asked, monotone. "Y-yes!" She bitch- I mean blubbered. "Then if his little fag partner hasn't seen him, what makes you think Kyle would want to see a person, who, not two hours ago, tried to eradicate his people?" She made a strangled, indignant, upset cry and the phone line went dead. "I swear to Jesus," I said, flipping on the television, "Sheila Broflowski is the only person in the world who can make a single noise sound bitchy."