Kenny never saw Cartman laugh harder than when he read the royal decree. He broke into hysterics, tears sleeking brown, bulbous belly jiggling as his peals of twisted cackling soured the air. He poisoned happiness, perverting elation into something vitriolic, sheer joy matched only by pure malice. He was disturbing but predictable, Cartman so reliable in his audacity, his outrageous disrespect, his complete disregard for others and infatuation with himself. Once finished reading, he rolled up the scroll, wiping his tears with his sleeve, then tossed it with the firewood and, as though his intent wasn't clear, gave Kenny his instructions: "Burn that garbage with the rest of the faggots."
None of them expected a change of heart, because Cartman doesn't have one of those. Yet disappointment still hangs over the manor, a thick fog permeating throughout all forty-three rooms, its sadness seeping into every sofa and stool. Hope is fool's gold, lustrous and lovely until its illusion ebbs away, leaving only loss, a longing for something that was never really there. Kenny knows of hope's many guises—liquor in a bottle, drugs in a vial, summons in a scroll—knows better than to fall for its fictitious shine. Except the hollowness lingers in his chest, Kenny mourning a night he'd never have, because it was never his to have.
Sudsy water sloshes, Kenny dipping his brush into a pail, soaking the bristles thoroughly. Cartman must have smelt their optimism, these last days' chores particularly gruelling, but lacking innovation. Their volume masks their tactless value, unusual for someone whose pastime is instilling misery in his servants. Since receiving the invitation, Cartman's been preoccupied, lashing out with smoke instead of fire, his hatred funnelling elsewhere. He cannot go a breath without mentioning the monarchy, without going on a tangent about the royal family, without dedicating a lengthy tirade to insulting Crowned Prince Kyle personally. Why, Cartman hates him more than he hates Kenny, and he hates Kenny a hell of a lot.
He scrubs the parlour's marble mosaic, bubbles adhering to his circular motions, clusters of foam floating across the puddle's surface. He tries to focus on the washing, cleansing his head with the soapy slush, but his thoughts keep wandering, a moth tempted by a snuffed-out flame. The water prunes his fingers, the bending hurts his back, but neither distract, stop his mind from wading in wonder, then wallowing in remorse. He doesn't understand why those silly dreams keep pestering him, teasing and taunting, torturing him in his master's stead. Life is not a fairy-tale, and only those with wealth and power get happy endings. And, he supposes, that lucky girl picked by the Crowned Prince at the ball, but she's the rare exception, and she won't be from this household.
His heart pangs, as he stares into the lathery pool, as he thinks of the dejection etched on both Wendy and Bebe's faces. The ball is the ultimate opportunity, offered once in a lifetime—if that—and Cartman's gladly robbing them the chance. Like Kenny, they know better, neither surprised by the answer. Nonetheless, hope invaded their heads, hushed reason and logic, promised them a night to remember. They'll never forget it, because it'll be the night they could have gone, could have left, could have escaped. Bebe plays it off with breezy humour, but Kenny hears sorrow quaver her lilting voice. Wendy hides behind her stalwart will, but Kenny sees melancholy flicker in hazel's transitions. Kenny tells himself his grief is over them, but cannot deny those pesky fantasies, as if one night could change all their fates.
Tonight, the ball is tonight. People will dance, drink, prattle on, then the Crowned Prince will choose his bride. And none of that will matter, because Cartman will still be the Lord of the Manor, with Wendy his cook, Bebe his tailor, and Kenny just a piece of furniture, with nothing of his own.
M-m-meee-oow!
Kenny looks up, blinks away the misty glaze. A raggedy brown cat stands near the puddle, Jimmy ambling from the pantry for a short stroll. His harness allows him walk around on two front legs, both supported by sturdy braces, his hind dragging along in a leather bag, protected from injury during travel. Cartman loves mocking how Jimmy crawls across the ground, overlooking his remarkable coordination and harping on his 'hilarious' handicaps. Luckily, felines disregard humans' foul opinions, undaunted by jeers about his fixed eyes or stammering mew. Kenny wishes he could be more like Jimmy.
He leaves the brush on the floor, straightens up as he shifts into a kneel. His neck and shoulders feel taut and cramped, however their ache is marginal, nothing compared to the pain radiating throughout his body with every breath and beat. Rather than acknowledge, than give hope any more power over him, Kenny pretends it isn't there. He forces a weak smile, though his words leaving in a wisp, "How's it goin'?"
"Fffine, but wuh-what's wrong with you Kh-Kh-Kenny?" Like the rats, Kenny gives Jimmy a voice, a stutter matching his meow, "Ya look—ya look dow-ow-down, very much."
He needs to stop thinking he can outsmart his animal friends. He can't, because he has animal friends because Kenny imposes his emotions onto them, their bonds an elaborate delusion within his psyche. At least pretending makes him feel better, feel like people care; well, a handful of rats and a crippled cat, but they all act enough like people, they ought to count. Kenny shrugs, heaves a sigh, "Same as always."
"No, it's not," Jimmy asserts, thumping his tail. His copper eyes stare into the distance, though his attention rests on Kenny, "Y'know you cah—y'know you cahhh—y'know you can tell me anything, and I'll help you out the b-best I can."
Sometimes, repeating thoughts aloud alleviates their burden, their weight lifted by a pair of listening ears, even if they are triangular. Clyde, Craig, and Tweek usually chatter through his rants, but Jimmy holds his sandpaper tongue, listens as Kenny laments his frustrations. It might be little more than projection, but Kenny relishes the few moments of catharsis, before Jimmy shuts his eyes and takes a nap.
"It's this stupid ball," Kenny says, bitterness coating his mouth, lips slipping into a frown, "Like, the whole point is that everyone in the kingdom gets to go and meet the prince, right? But 'cause of one sack of shit, Wendy and Bebe aren't gonna get their fair shot and that's bullshit."
"Well, Kenny," Jimmy takes a few wobbly steps forward, paws skirting the water's edge, "I-I can't change anything, becau-ause I'm a cat. But y'know what I can do?" He blinks, Kenny raising a brow, "Br-bri-igh-ighten your day with a li—a li-li-light bit of comedy."
Kenny likes imagining Jimmy as a master of comedy.
"What do you call someone who thinks ah-animals actually care about his st-st-stupid probleh—problems?"
Except Kenny isn't all that funny.
"A f-f-f-f-f-fuckin' lo-oo-oo-oser."
But is extremely self-deprecating.
"Wow, what a terrific audience."
Kenny frowns, snorts a harsh breath out his nose. Those jokes sting a little more coming from Jimmy's meow, but they all originate in his self-conscious, so he can only himself. Kenny rolls his eyes, reaches out, pets Jimmy's head. Calloused fingers soothe over the coarse fur, raggedy and thick, requiring a wash. Loud purring erupts, vibrates under his fingertips. No, he can't be mad at Jimmy, not at all. Kenny scratches under his chin, softens his expression, "We really gotta workshop your routine so'more."
Jimmy's ears perk alert, but not at Kenny's words. He detects something else, his senses keener, sharper. Umber eyes blink wildly, and Jimmy backs up, braces scuffling on the stone. Despite his motor problems, Jimmy is fast, moving quicker than any scurrying rodent. He speeds off without a goodbye, and Kenny finally hears what spooked him: two sets of footsteps, one heavy and one swift, one Cartman and one Butters. Cartman's bellowing voice reverberates.
"TWO GENERATIONS, Butters, it took those sneaky rats TWO GENERATIONS to finally drive this kingdom to SHIT."
But he isn't merely acting out, vocalising a short temper.
"First, they use some backhanded LOOPHOLE to weasel their way into power!"
No, the ire echoing is stronger, crude and unrefined, raw and brutal.
"Then they start talking about giving the COMMON PEOPLE a voice!"
He speaks with pure and unadulterated rage.
"And now they're getting RID OF RANK all together!"
The beast crawls from the black pit at his core, emerging from inky depths.
"And if WE don't STOP THIS, we're all SCREWED!"
Cartman proves just how real monsters are.
Claps of thunder herald their approach, let in by the crack in the ajar parlour door. Kenny glances down, looks at his brush, his pail, his soap and suds. He can easily keep to his work, snatch up the brush and diligently scrub the marble, wait out the tumultuous storm. That's safer, shields him from the warpath, from being a causality of wrath. But it doesn't sit right. No, something isn't right. Something is wrong. Very, very wrong.
Determined, he rises from the ground. He awkwardly manoeuvres around the puddle, distrusting his innate clumsiness and own two feet, and creeps over to the door. He presses to the wood, peers through the opening, sliver so narrow he can only peek with one eye. Kenny glimpses Cartman on his stomping warpath, his eyes blazing bonfires. Butters closely at his heels, barely keeping pace.
"Is—HHH, HHH," Exhausted pants interspace his quavering voice, "Is it rea—HHH—lly that bad?"
Although spoken in a trembling timbre, Cartman stops, struck by the audacity lacing his words. How dare he imply Cartman exaggerates! Doesn't he know anything that slightly inconveniences him is a dire emergency? He stands still, a block pillar or stone wall, and Butters walks into him.
"EAH," He stumbles back a step, half-step. Mid-wheeze, Cartman swivels around, his glower stealing the breath from Butters' lungs, choking him with a stare. Butters' mouth gapes, grey eyes bulging in their sockets, scared to stillness. Pale and panicked, he sputters, "I-I mean, the decree just says that the lady's rank doesn't matter! Not, y'know, that they're just gonna get rid of it…"
Cartman reminds Kenny of a dragon, one of those scaly scoundrels found in stories he told Karen before bed. He hoards fortune in his keep, reeks of brimstone, and terrorises all he encounters. He looms over Butters, chest puffed, eyes glassy. He can easily roast him alive, crisp him where he stands. But he doesn't; Cartman restrains himself. Sparing Butters is not an act of kindness, as Cartman views generosity solely as a means to an end. His mercy is tactical, because Butters trusts him completely, obeys him absolutely. Manipulating him is child's play. In a tone slick as oil, Cartman pitches his case:
"Don't you see? This is just the beginning! Think about it! We've already got a monarchy with tainted blood! They stole their class and won't even stick to it! They just want to dilute the lineage even more!"
Unlike Cartman, who obtained his wealth through fraud and felony, the Broflovski family gained their status through a wholly legal process. Cartman resents them not only for their stature, but also for their legitimacy. None impugn the Crowned Prince's claim to the throne, because he is the rightful heir. And Cartman isn't.
"Next thing you know, some dumb bitch commoner waltzes up to that dibshit ginger, flashes her titties, and BOOM! She's the next queen 'cause Prince Kahl's thinkin' with his dick! Does that sound fair to the kingdom?"
Maybe Cartman only reserves mispronunciations for those he truly despises. In that case, both Kenny and the Crowned Prince have Cartman's deepest disrespect, which is more than Kenny ever thought he'd have in common with royalty. In a way, he feels honoured.
"And then it's like who gives a shit who your parents were or how much properteh you own! All our values become WORTHLESS!"
Cartman treats people like garbage because he's worth something. He points to things like his manor and his money and his title to prove his superiority. But he doesn't deserve any of it, he never has. And, if his material wealth no longer holds clout, he goes back to what he was before: a brothel bastard with no heart or soul. After all misdeeds and crimes he's committed thus far, the Crowned Prince's marriage can unravel everything he has.
Butters looks down at his shoes, lips pressed in a thin line. A part of him must doubt Cartman's logic, must know he's lying, must disagree. Cartman actively denies reality when it contradicts his ideals, fabricates facts to justify his wanting whims. Butters cannot believe him, not wholly anyway, yet he can't defy him, won't dare speak against him. He choses loyalty, his morals eroding, "Well, when you put it like that… It sure makes a lotta sense…"
"Of course it does," Cartman said it, so obviously it's the truth. Kenny rolls his eyes, then watches Cartman place a hand on Butters' shoulder, "And it's up to us to make sure that no-good greedy piece of shit doesn't destroy our way of life."
Butters looks to his master unblinking, ready for orders. He gulps down his integrity, pipes out, "What're we supposed to do?"
"Our best option would be killing him, getting him out of the picture completely," Cartman talks about murder the way most talk about the weather, a thwarted attempt on someone's life akin to a raincloud infringing on a sunny day.
"Oh, jeez…" Will Butters draw the line at conspiracy? At treason? At regicide?
"But we don't have time to make that work," Cartman huffs, disappointed. Butters, meanwhile, sighs in relief. Brown eyes squint, nearly closing, Cartman thinking very hard, "The ball's way too public and they'll have guards at every damn door. Shit, Kahl's probably gonna be surrounded by them, slimy fuck."
"Yeah," Butters also thinks, albeit not very hard, too unnerved by the possibilities to give them much meaningful thought, "'Nless he's meetin' a lady..."
Brown eyes open, glimmer, glint and shine. Cartman is only as smart as he is motivated, a moron when apathetic, but a genius when provoked. Most underestimate him, because he gives them ample reason, because he wants them to assume, because he seizes the advantage the moment they laugh him off. He's a fat son-of-a-whore, but he isn't always stupid. Sinister brilliance orchestrated House Tenorman's fall. Did his eyes have this sheen when he devised that plot?
"Exactly," A toothy smile unfurls, twists Kenny's gut, "Kahl's gonna be surrounded by a bunch of sluts and cunts, right?"
Butters raises a brow, reluctantly nods.
"But," Cartman snaps his fingers, "If we show up with a slut and a cunt, we can get close to him."
Kenny breathes in sharply, the air cutting his lungs, slicing his throat. No, not them. Not—
"Ya mean Wendy and Bebe?" Butters asks, lost and confused, "They're dumb bitch commoners."
His veins both sear and ice over, burn and freeze simultaneously.
"My dumb bitch commoners," Cartman asserts, scoffs at Butters' ignorance, "And all we have to do is make sure Kahl picks one of them to marry at the end of the night."
No. Not like this. The ball should be their freedom, their escape. They deserve that, not this.
Butters absently clunks his knuckles together, "How does that help save the kingdom?"
It doesn't. Because, in Cartman's stories, only he gets to live happily-ever-after. Everyone else starves and dies.
"Because the future queen will come from my house!" He shoves Butters back, sends him bumbling to the carpet. Butters yelps, lands on his ass, as a dreamy glaze coats Cartman's eyes, admiring his ingenious scheme, "To thank me, I'll get a royal courtship for sure. And from there all I have to do is become Senior Counsel…"
He doesn't say it, but Kenny knows the rest. Cartman achieves Senior Counsel, then wills some sort of accident, a tragedy masking his coup. Then, through the same law that began the Broflovski reign, Cartman would become king. And the kingdom would be doomed.
From the ground, Butters groans, rubbing his lower back. He looks up at Cartman, frowning, but doesn't complain. Rather than stand up for himself, he asks, "Won't Wendy 'n Bebe be awful sore with you if you, y'know, use 'em like that?"
Cartman's eyes flicker down, casts a shadow glare over him. He grinds his teeth, insulted by the notion of taking others into account, of treating people as more than his playthings or pawns. Austerity booms in his voice, "I own them, Butters, and their parents. They'll either go to the ball and play along or I'll wake them up the next morning to a heaping helping of Stevens-Testaburger stew, farm-to-table."
He'll do it, too, without hesitation. Kenny knows that. Wendy and Bebe know that. No matter how much either of them hate Cartman, they won't jeopardise their parents' lives. They won't force their families to pay for their defiance, so they'll concede, be coerced. Like the smart girls they are, they'll try sabotaging the plan from within; but, like the smart girls they are, they'll tread cautiously along the fine line drawn. Everything gets messier with hostages involved.
"O-oh jeez…" Butters supresses a shudder. Grey flits to a random spot on the carpet, contemplating the ethical dilemma, then the price of insubordination. He bites his lips, caves to the fear, and looks back at Cartman, "Uh, what about Kenny?"
At his name, Kenny holds his breath.
Cartman quirks a brow, Kenny clearly absent from his machinations, "What about 'im?"
"Isn't he gonna cause trouble?"
Kenny can cause trouble. Cartman has no leverage over him. Kenny has no family shackled to his land. He has no potential of leaving servitude. He has no fear of death. Cartman can do nothing to stop Kenny, so Kenny will cause trouble. Kenny can ruin everything.
Cartman puts a hand on his chin, mulls it over. Creases wrinkle his forehead, realising that, while Kenny is poor and stupid, he poses a potential problem. He can't control Kenny, and that bothers him, infuriates him. His jaw clenches, a harsh exhale sneaking between gritted teeth, "Kinny's a fucking retard. If he comes with us, he might make me look bad, but if he stays here unsupervised, he'll probably burn down the manor trying to light the fireplace. It's safer to take him, but he'll need to stay on a very short leash."
This isn't his imagination. Kenny's going to the ball. Except he feels nothing, nothing but dread, dread, overwhelming dread.
"Now, go tell cook-cunt and sew-slut the news," Cartman commands, a forceful hand pointing down the corridor, "Make sure they both go to the second floor's third storeroom where all Lady Tenorman's shit dresses are and pick something decent for tonight."
"Right away, my Lord!" Butters bobs his head, peeling himself off the floor in a hasty scramble. He bows, whole body bent in obeisance. When he straightens up, he starts to turn, then pauses, "What'll you do?"
"Taking a bath, shithead," Cartman scoffs, "I have to look my best. 'Sides, I'll need Kinny to draw it, so I can tell him it's his lucky fucking day."
Kenny stifles a gag. How much luckier can he get?
One more bow, and Butters takes his leave, hurrying off the way he came. He'll tell the girls their dreams will come true, and what will happen if they don't cooperate. Cartman goes the opposite direction, searching for Kenny with no grasp of where he is. With so many insipid chores, he might not find him for a while, which will, naturally, be Kenny's fault.
He steps back from the door, softly pulls it shut. If Cartman finds him, he at least won't figure out Kenny eavesdropped, heard his whole demented scheme start to finish. For as long as possible, he must remain unaware, so Kenny can come up with a plan of his own. Except, what is he supposed to do?
Sure, the odds of the Crowned Prince picking Wendy or Bebe are slim, especially with every other maiden in the realm warring for his hand. Even under duress, they'll resist conforming to his will, though they'll rely on subtlety more than anything. And, although Kenny has utmost confidence in Wendy and Bebe, Cartman has an uncanny knack for getting his way at the worst possible moments, and Kenny cannot think of a worse one than this.
His best chance is warning the Crowned Prince, somehow getting close to him and exposing Cartman's treachery. First, he'll need to slip away from Cartman, which won't be easy. However, should he slip away, the Crowned Prince is seeing every single girl in the kingdom, so he won't have time for Kenny. Hell, Kenny probably won't be allowed to go near him, let alone talk to him. But if he can't do that, then what? He has absolutely no clue.
M-meee-ew! He glances down at Jimmy, emerged from his hiding place, sitting beside his feet. Pink tongue licks bumpy nose, Jimmy blinking at him once, twice, "Y-you're in some deee—eep shit, Ken."
He snorts, shakes his head, "We all are, Jim, we all are."
Unless he can stop Cartman, everyone is at risk. Wendy is, Bebe is, the Crowned Prince is, the kingdom is. Kenny can't leave matters to fate, won't underestimate Cartman like everyone else. He'll stop Cartman before he can worm his way into the court, spread his disease, curdle the country with corruption and hate. Lord Eric Cartman embodies everything wrong with the world, and Kenny will not let the villain win in the end.
It'd help, Kenny thinks, if he knew how to do that. That would really, really help.
A/N: I'm sure this could have been better covered in a Disney villain solo, but alas. Either way, Cartman's teeth and ambitions are barred, and Kenny's gotta be prepared for the ball! Also Jimmy. Because Jimmy deserves all the love and attention. Thank you so much for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting! I sincerely hope you enjoyed this chapter, and will continue to enjoy it.