Welcome to the doomy hellish depths of my mind! I honestly have no idea where this story is going, but I like how it's going right now, and want to know what y'all think! Please, read and review!

I don't own any copyrights here. No matter how much I wish I did, Matt and trey beat me to it. It's all their creation. Though, I don't think they want it anymore, seeing what fans have made their creations do…

I remember childhood. I remember everything. I remember the fourth grade with striking clarity. I remember all of our crazy antics.

I remember playing Superheroes with my friends. They all made up the stupidest superpowers. Kyle, AKA, "The Human Kite," could fly. Cartman, "The Coon," had the powers of supreme assholery. Stan carried around a bunch of his dad's tools. Token was made of plastic Tupperware. Clyde was a giant mosquito with a vuvuzela on his nose.

I had the only cool superpower. I, "Mysterion," was immortal. I am immortal. None of my friends believed it. They still don't. It's true, though. Over the course of our little Superheroes game, I died at least three times. Each time, I woke up in my own bed the next morning, in my old orange parka, completely unscathed. Each time, no one remembered my death. It totally sucked ass.

But that was years ago. I've given up on making my friends understand. I don't care anymore.

In fact, I died last night. I was going for a midnight walk during a random fit of insomnia, and, next thing I knew, a semi truck was hurdling down Main Street, drugging a bloody mass of Kenny-flesh behind it.

This morning, I woke up to my mom yelling at my dad. No breakfast – I was gonna be late. That was my dad's excuse, anyway. He just gave me an apple in a bag and said it was my lunch. The real reason I couldn't eat? We're freaking poor. Seriously. No breakfast, Kenny, if you don't want the house to be repossessed. Shut the fuck up, Dad, if you wanna wake up tomorrow.

I dashed to the bus stop, a fifty-pound bag slung over my shoulder, and managed to jump onto the bus's front steps before the doors closed. I dropped down behind the Broflovskis, ruffling Ike's hair as I did so. He cringed, Kyle laughed. "Welcome to high school, our resident Canadian Genius!" My laughs were muffled by the plastic-fur-lined hood of my parka pulled tight around my face.

Kyle draped an arm around his brother's shoulders, pinching his cheek with a gloved hand. Shrinking towards the wall of the bus and away from Kyle, Ike pushed his brother away, "Quit it, you guys!"

"Aaw, c'mon, Ike!" Stan was leaning over the back of his seat to join in the fun. Cartman sat beside him, eating Cheesy Poofs. "Stop being such a buzz-kill!"

The following conversation went kind of like this:

"I told you, Stan! Jews can't be fun. They just kill any fun you try to have." Cartman.

"Shut up, fatass!" Ike.

"Stop belittling my people, Cartman!" Kyle.

"Ay! I'm not fat! I'm big-boned!" Cartman.

I chimed in with, "I was big-boned last night with your mom, Cartman," at which point everyone, excluding Cartman, broke out into roaring laughter. Yeah, I'm kind of the shit.

That's when everything changed. That's when my constant mortality became something other than a normal, day-to-day occurrence. It brought him into my life. I've known him for years, but, if it wasn't for this curse of mine, I would never have really known him.

While the others were all laughing at the flustered Cartman, my eyes wandered, scanning the bus. These were the people I'd seen every day of my life. Butters. Token. Wendy. BeBe. All the normal faces I've seen every day of my life.

Tweek, as usual, was curled up on his seat, twitching, a travel mug clutched in his hand. His eyes caught mine. I had trouble looking away. I thought to myself, Kenny, you fag, stop noticing the way his brilliant blue eyes sparkle…

Everyone else mistook it for a normal paranoid outburst when Tweek clutched his legs to his chest, twitching and shaking violently, shouting, "Jesus! It's a ghost! Holy shit! They're gonna get me! Oh, Jesus! Ack!" The boy ducked his head and began tugging at his golden locks, his travel mug falling to the floor of the bus.

Shouts of, "Shut up!" and "Calm down!" were thrown Tweek's way.

I stared at the shaking, crumpled figure. He had called me a ghost. What did that even mean? Was he just being regular old paranoid Tweek, or was there something to it?

I resolved to ask him about it – later, when he calmed down.

I went back to taunting Cartman about his mom being a total whore.