Hey, nice ta meet ya. I'm what you'd call a bully. I pick on people with insecurities, rough 'em up a bit, steal their lunch money, and go round the school bein' feared and feelin' pretty good about it. I've got a whole list of regular targets too. Leopold "Butters" Stotch is one, and he's hilarious 'cause he apologises when I corner him. Jimmy Valmer is another, and I like to start our sessions by personally kickin' his crutches up from under his feet. I have a whole lot more, but there's one I don't have that I want.
Kyle Broflovski.
Now that would be a good target. He's a regular lil' Goody Two-Shoes, too nice for his own good and a right suck-up to the teachers. He's a nerd too – incredibly bookish. I desperately want to snap one of his books shut on his face. It'd be hilarious, and the perfect way to blind him while I robbed him even blinder. I see him wanderin' through the hallways and I wanna show him the meanin' of the word bullyin'. There's just one problem with that though.
Eric Cartman.
That guy ain't someone I wanna mess with. He ain't a bully, from what I seen, but piss him off and he wouldn't mind givin' ya a swirlie; not for fun though, but to drown ya in the most humiliatin' way possible. Rumours passed that he did that once to some guy, Garry Waters I think his name was. He didn't get expelled or nothin' though. People say even the teachers are scared to get on his bad side. That ain't the point though. Point is, Garry Waters picked on Kyle Broflovski.
And now? I ain't seen Garry in a month.
The other bullies tell me, they say, "Don't mess with Broflovski, else Cartman'll come for ya." I laughed at first, o' course, 'cause, hey, I'm a bully. I'm the intimidator, not the intimidated. I don't scare at ghost stories, I am the ghost. But I wasn't laughin' for long.
It wasn't just Garry who went. Mike Peters was next. Punched Broflovski in the face, and for that he ended up in hospital. Now he's paralysed from the waist down. I see him takin' the disabled ramp at the side of the school buildin', hunched low in his wheelchair, tryin' not to draw Cartman's attention. Billy May was another one who reckoned with the wrong force. He stole Broflovski's homework, threatened his life if he told anyone about it. It was his life that ended up threatened. Had an "accident" while crossing the bridge to get home. Wound up suspended over it, just an ol' thin rope holdin' him up over the traffic roarin' underneath him. He returned Broflovski's homework the very next day, lookin' shaky and spookin' at everythin'. He doesn't talk much anymore, and he's got a huge fear of heights now and screams at the sound o' cars honkin'.
More and more cases like this pop up all the time: new-time bullies who haven't heard the stories, who don't know any better, ending up injured, or broken, or worse than dead. They all end up beaten differently, but they all have one similarity: Kyle Broflovski. If anyone so much as looks at Kyle Broflovski wrong then, boom, that's their fate sealed, Cartman's gonna come knockin'. Cartman, he's always hovering over Broflovski, eyes like a hawk swivellin' round the classroom or the cafeteria or the playin' field while his friends all talk about mundane things, obliviously, unaware of the danger in their midst, Broflovski unaware of the ace of up his sleeve.
That's the thing. Broflovski ain't got a clue about his protection. Alek Baldwin said it once, went right on up to Broflovski (all our hearts were in our throats watchin' him, the poor, stupid idiot) and said, "It's not fair, you havin' Cartman lookin' out for ya." Y'know what Broflovski did? He laughed. He laughed, right in Alek's face, and he said, "Cartman? Lookin' out for me? Nah, he hates me." Well, say what you like about Broflovski's grades, but that guy was honestly the stupidest mook I'd ever seen at that point in time. And poor Alek came into school on crutches a couple o' days later for his troubles.
Tell ya what, 'cause you're probably havin' a hard time believin' me, ain't ya? You're probably thinkin' it's a load of fibs – another ghost makin' up another story to scare ya. Well let me set ya straight, 'cause I'm talkin' from experience. Oh, yes, once even I, when I was new and young and foolish (probably had other bullies watchin' me with their hearts in their throats), I went up to Kyle Broflovski. Oh, you're quakin' for me now, ain't ya? Well, I did. I went up to him, while he was packin' stuff at his locker, and I slammed my fist against the one next to his. The look on his face was hilarious, I tell you. Still sits with me, gives me belly chuckles.
"Hey, Broflovski, right?" I said to him. He looked me up and down, probably confused about who this mook was, what he wanted. What did I want? Sizin' him up, o' course. You gotta set sights on the right fish before you strike, and then you gotta pick the right hook for 'em, get the right bait. It's all a delicate process, this bullyin' stuff. Broflovski? For him, I was standin' there thinkin' use his religion. There ain't many Jews here – Roman Catholic's the trend – so he's probably feelin' singled out, right? I thought I'd get in there, make fun of that, and then, who knows, probably pick on his hair – huge, it is, and bright red, so he's probably self-conscious about it – and his nose, too – it's bigger than most, an impressive konk.
"Yes," he said to me, polite as an idiot. "Sorry, who are you?" I grinned, 'cause this was my opening line. "Me?" I was gonna say. "Me? I'm your worst nightmare." Classic, right? Traditional. Bullying: it's an art. I was gonna say that, but before I could, before I could so much as open my mug, there he was: Eric Cartman, approaching from behind Broflovski, quiet and deadly as the plague. He made me flinch for a moment, I'll admit. His stare – so dark, so cold, so lethal. If looks could kill, I tell ya. Well, he came up, grave as anythin', and he stepped up in between me and Broflovski, cuttin' me right off from the guy.
"Eric Cartman," he introduced himself. I won't lie, I was a little scared. This Eric Cartman – ya seen him? He's huge! He's built like a mountain, that one. The wind couldn't bowl him over, I swear, he was tall and wide and big, bigger than me, so course I was scared. But I was a newbie, right? Thought I could take on anythin', y'know, mountains or whatever, bring it on. So, here's the thing: I grin up at him, all shit-eatin' to really rile him up, and I say to him, "Do I care?" In hindsight, probably wasn't wise. In hindsight, I'm surprised he didn't punch my teeth in right then and there.
"You should," he said to me, and his voice was low, deep, nightmarish. I think that was when I started brickin' it. "You should," he said, "'cause that's the name your parents are gonna want to give the authorities when they find you dead in the pond." My grin went there, I admit, I couldn't keep it up, 'cause that was some creepy shit. He leant in then, and he grabbed me by the scruff of my jacket like I was some kinda pussy or somethin', and he said to me, all quiet-like so Broflovski couldn't hear, "I know what you're thinkin', and you lay a finger on Kyle – just one – then I'll break every one of your fingers, slowly, one by one, and if you touch him again after that, then I'll butcher your fingers, I'll chop 'em off so you can't touch him again, and after that, if you so much as breathe in his vicinity, then I'll stop your breath." And then, like we're talkin' business, he leant in closer, so we're inches apart, so that I could smell the threat o' death on his breath, and he whispered to me, "Do you understand?"
Well, what d'ya think I did? Think I grinned? Think I replied, "Do I care"? No, I high-tailed it outa there, waddled away with my britches full of shit, nearly shat myself I admit, 'cause it wasn't just the threat but the way he'd sounded like he meant it. Course, I was still intent on picking on Broflovski after that, but two things stopped me.
Firstly, I told my buddy Michael Ball about it, and Michael, oh, he had a sweet story for me. "Cartman?" he asked me. "Eric Cartman?" Yeah, I told him, the very same, and, oh, the way he pursed his lips and shook his head. "Don't mess with him, man," he said to me, he said, "That guy? Cartman? There are stories about him in South Park," and he told me, "People say he murdered his father. Minced him up into chilli and fed him to his half-brother." Course, I laughed at him at first, thought he was shittin' me, but he said, serious hand-on-heart, "I ain't shittin' you, man. Just ask around and you'll find out the easy way. But get on Cartman's bad side? Then, my friend, you'll find out the hard way."
That wasn't enough to stop me from pickin' on Broflovski either, I tell ya, foolhardy, I was. Lucky for me, somethin' else stopped me: Garry Waters. Remember him? He picked on Broflovski one day – made fun of his religion, apparently. At first I was mad he got to that gig before me, but just the followin' day I felt relieved about it, 'cause at least it wasn't my body that'd been found in the toilets by the janitor the next mornin', barely alive. That was enough to swear me off Broflovski. And the cases that happened afterwards – the other bullies – that was enough to make me swear everyone off Broflovski, like I'm doin' now.
I'm tellin' ya, don't go for Broflovski. Have your pick of any other guy. Stotch, he's hilarious; Valmer, he's a riot. But Broflovski? Kyle Broflovski? Don't risk your life, you idiot. Cartman? Cartman's a psychopath, and Broflovski's his property. Friends? You think they're friends? Nah, Cartman's gettin' away with what we all wanna do: pickin' on Broflovski, callin' him a Jew like it's an insult, teasin' his hair, bringin' attention to his nose, kickin' his legs under tables. But you try that? You try doin' what Cartman's doin'?
That, my friend, will be the last thing you ever try.
Author's Notes:
Oh, look, another direct-speak story. But this time with...well, what I guess could be classed as an OC. I've no idea what's happening with his accent though. It started off normal, I swear, but then...New York happened, I think? I don't know, it's all a blur. But I like it. Bully or not, I like this guy I made. I hope you do too. But if he pissed you off instead, then whoops, sorry!
This is for the headcanon where Cartman is jealous of others fighting with Kyle and/or looks out for Kyle in his own secret, disturbing way. That messed-up, aggressively possessive type of Cartman is kind of fun to write for, I must admit.
Thank you for reading this, and I hope you enjoyed doing so as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Disclaimer: South Park does not belong to me, but to its creators, Trey Parker and Matt Stone.