R̍̋͒͡.̑͛̉͐̿͞Ỉ͐͗̂͂͠.́̄͊͞P҇̀́͂.̈̄͌̏̓̕ K̓̿͞Y͂̂͠L̾̐̈́͠E҇̐̀̏͋ M҇͆̿̏A̛͛̚R̛̋́S͆͋̇̍͒̕H͐̈̓͞
1̧̠̰͕̮̭̭̥̜̖̘9͎̞͈̜̦͚̥͇͢ͅͅͅ9̢̲̙̟̜͈͖̞̰̩̯̲̞9̢͙͍̪͎̣̠̖̠͓̜̳-̡͔̮̰̮̝̟ͅ2̨̖͍̝̣͉͚̘̘̳̬̳0̩̭̭̫̪͇͍̮̙͈̱͢1̢̟̬̟̦̜̮̝7̣̲̩͈̘͍̠̘͔͢
MAN WITH NO FACE
(̑̋̕?̀͗̐͠?̌̈́̊́͞?̛̅͆̓̓)̒̂͡
̌̔͑̇̎͝
͗̿͞(̋͊͆͡!̓̐̔͡!̀̐̑͡!͒̈̄́͋͞)҇̉̎̔
(k
kenny?)
I͌̏̈́̉͠ W̛̆͒̇̐̆I҇̏͗̾L̄̊̈́͌̑͠Ĺ̛̓̿̽͆ H̏̔͌͗̕A̾̒̽̉͞V҇͒̄̀E̛̍̃̚ M̔̇͝Ỳ̛̀ W҇̉̏̚Ȧ̒̕Ý̛͛̚
WHAT HAST THOU DONE? UNNATURAL AND U̿́̌̂̾̉̈́̕Ǹ̓̔͊͐͠K̾̿̑̅̿͋͑̀̂̌̓̍͠I҇̑̒̒̒̽N̉͆̋̽͡D̾́͊̃̔̄̄̊̇̆̎̊̕
R̆͆͝.̍͋̐͝I̛̿͒̈́̋.͗͒̌̌̒͠P̑͌̍̾͒͞.̊͛͝ Ḱ͒͐̌͡E͊̔͆̔̀̕N҇̓̍̃̋̓N̛͐͊Y͐̇͞ M͆̃̚͠C̛̃̃̍̍̚C͗̀͌͒͊͞O̍̿̒͝R͐̄͞M̓̆̋͌͛̕İ͛͝Ĉ͑͝Ǩ̾̓̉͞
̔̊͞1҇͛̐͒̐̃9̀̔̏̐̔͝9̛̈̈̎̔9̆̓̏͗̄͝-̿̍̈́̉̿͝?̿̌̆̎̔͝?̐̑͐͝?̔̑̃́͑͝
҇̒̀̃̏̑
͆͂͠T͂̓̌̈́̕H͌̾̌͡Ȅ̏̕Y͂͐̒͗͡ È̛̇̈́͋Ǹ̀͛̉̕D̈́͒̚͡Ư͒͂̑͌̆R̈̃̉͝E̛̒͗̆D́̊̂̇̍͞
"Kenny?" he called for him but couldn't hear his own voice. Only the name vibrated in his throat. Cold sand skirted over his arms and legs. He lay at the bottom of an ocean, but everything was dry. Coral cradled his head, and violet light touched his skin. He looked above to lurching waves. Through the water, he could see lightning, felt the thunder echo under his ribs.
Kenny was long gone, cast from the frame of his dream.
(how can i dream if i am dead)
He'd never been here before. In all of his memories, being at the bottom of the ocean was in none of them. Several times friends pushed into Stark's Pond and he never sunk to the bottom like this. There was no way he would have lasted.
(AM I DEAD AM I DEAD Ả̉̋̈́̀͡M҇̽̊̆̓̚ Ĭ̅͂̀͠ D͆̐̈́͡E҇̓͑A̛͊̔D̐͊͠)
A vision of a man with a horseshoe scar across his nose and the snarl of a ragged hound grabbed his face with a blood-stained palm, forcing him down on a leather car seat. Something clinked - he could hear it in his head - and saw through the windows between fingers that weights were chained to his ankles. Lightning flashed, and he saw himself sinking, schools of fish swarmed around his floating hands.
(not my hands)
Kyle's hands were pale, bony, with stout fingers. Kenny's hands were large, callused, with long fingers, and one little mole on the skin between his left index finger and thumb. These were Kenny's hands. Kenny's memories.
How long had he been stuck down here, weighted down and bloated with water?
Now he's in a truck, sitting on the street in front of Kyle's house. A photo of Kenny's mother, lodged in the dashboard, and Stuart McCormick is saying something, wagging a finger in his face.
In a tree. It's cold. There's a little orange coat stuck in the branches above. A crow. Stan and Cartman's small faces staring back up. Stan says something and goes to unzip his jacket.
The next moment he recognized.
Plates of challah, hummus, strawberries, raspberries, falafel, and fish. Himself, in the distance surrounded by family, so small in white robes. Then the next image: the back of the bus in early morning dark, lights flashing stalks of corn outside, the back of his and Stan's heads a few seats ahead.
Carol McCormick screaming outside the elementary school, kicking snow, a younger Karen and Kevin wrapped up in blankets surrounded by garbage bags of clothes and toys.
Kyle, backed up against the wall, sunlight through the window casting over his face, little specks of dust and Kyle's lips: what are you?
A popcorn ceiling then hands on the sides of his face, he sees his own eyes:
I love you.
Kyle, dead. Suffocated from blood loss. The image is blurry. Maybe from tears. He can feel his chest burning.
He touched his face. His cheeks turned up small spots of warmth. Then the feeling came back in his toes. His stomach whined. His lungs unfroze.
K̑̏͆͌͠E̊̏̈́͊͝N̾̅̔̒͠N̿͑͗̓͡Y̾̃́̾̕ M͐͐͞C̀͊͂̇̕C̓͛̉̿͝Ő̍́̌͋̕R̅͂̕M̎̀̈́̑͡I͋̀͠C̀̎̀̆͝Ḱ̿͝
̛̐̔1̛̍̃̀̍9̊̒̕9̛͒̍̇́̾9͆͗͌̔͛͞-̀̃̃̀͞2̒͗͐̐̀͝0́̽̅̕1̋̈̚͝7́̓͛̕
̓̂̓̅͂͞B҇̌͑E͂̔̂͡L͗͂͗́͠Ő̈́̓̏̓͝V̛̍̇͛̎Ẽ̛́D̀͌̐̍͋͡ Ṡ́̏͞O̐͐̔̊͗̕N҇̀̄̌͆́ Ä́̓̔̐̄͠N҇̐́̃̚D̏͐̿͋͞ B̛̂͊͛̓R҇̊̓͌̌̐O̐̍͡T̿̀̄͐̇͠H̐͛͡E҇͛̀͐R҇̀̆
KYLE MARSH
BELOVED S͂̈͑̕O҇̅̆͋N̅̇̒̀̀͝ AND BROTHER
1999-
….
With a loud crack, his chest rose off the ground. Garbles of sound wormed into his ears. Screeching, panicked voices. His heart vigorously pumped, awakening all the limbs like a Ferris wheel, ablaze one light at a time. He couldn't see yet, but he could smell smoke. Then the yelling became clearer:
"You shot me! You fucking shot me, asshole!"
"And I'll keep shooting until you're fucking dead!"
His skin tickled. Slowly, he tilted his head back, vision manifesting in fragments until he could make out the patchy, tilted ceiling. He rolled over to his side and first saw Kenny's body, face resting on his arm, skin purple, puffy, with blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.
"Oh, Kenny, no…" Kyle whispered.
"Ky?"
Stan was on his back, gun pointed at Cartman, who was sitting in a pool of blood and holding his thigh. Trembling, Kyle got to his feet. Cartman seized the opportunity of a distracted Stan to swipe the gun away from him.
"Stay back," he pointed at Kyle.
Kyle approached him anyway, eyes bloodshot and aflame with rancor. Cartman shot. Kyle fell back. His head hit the floor.
"Fuuuucckk," he groaned. The bullet went into the tender part between clavicle and shoulder.
"Kyle?!" Stan was trying to get to him.
"Don't! Just stay there."
Wincing, Kyle dug in with two fingers, pulled out the bullet, and threw it at Cartman.
"Fucking sick!" he screamed.
"Oh, fuck off," Kyle sat up again, using a pew to help him stand. "This shit ends now, Cartman."
"I'll keep fucking shooting you," he said. His eyes were closing and he held the gun as if it were a brick. Blood continued to pool around him, and his breathing was heavy, strangled. Dried blood clung to his cheek.
"You can. You'll run out of bullets though," Kyle stepped toward him, bending down to try and get the gun away.
Red and blue flashing lights filled up the windows, alighting the stained glass, the organ, and Jesus. There was huffing, then clicking.
A woman's voice barrelled in: "Stop! Stop what you're doing!" She carefully stepped around Kenny's body.
Kyle rolled his eyes, expecting Cartman to do the same, but he didn't. His eyes were wide and wet, face cold with fear.
"What? These ones aren't on your side, Cartman?" he said, their elbows clashing. Cartman's grip on the pistol was still surprisingly strong.
Footsteps inched closer.
"Sir, put down the gun!"
"I can't do this!" Cartman burst, "I can't go back to how it was!"
"Damn it, Cartman!" Stan yelled, "Put it down! You're going to get us all killed!"
Cartman shook his head.
"You'll never understand what it's like to be me. You'll never fucking know." He wrestled his upper body away from Kyle and lifted the pistol to his temple. "No regrets."
There was an explosion of light and sound, then Cartman's body slumped to the ground. Stan turned over and retched. Rough hands grabbed Kyle's blood-spattered arms, then latched his wrists into handcuffs.
…
South Park GAZETTE
July 9, 2017
STRING OF MURDERS RATTLES TOWN
On the night of July 3, nearby campers heard gunshots through the rainstorm. They soon realized that Saint Marcouf, one of the town's oldest churches, was the center of the commotion.
"I can't believe this happened in my town," said Mike Phillips, one camper who got caught in the rain that night. "But that building is so old criminals will definitely hide out in that thing."
The criminal that Phillips speaks of is Eric Cartman, a young man born and raised in South Park, responsible for the deaths of four Park County residents, two of which, were former classmates. After taking the lives of his victims, Cartman has since died because of self-inflicted gun wounds.
Police have quarantined the area for further investigation.
LOCAL TEEN BACK FROM THE DEAD
Earlier this year, South Park mourned the loss of Stan Marsh - the boy who went missing for several days until they found his body in the woods by Stark's Pond.
Marsh's sudden reappearance raises several questions about the other body found. There has been speculation about deranged cult activity. Police cannot comment on the rumors at this time.
CANDLELIGHT VIGIL TO BE HELD FOR VICTIMS
Father Maxi and Sister Anne ask everyone and anyone to gather by the bell tower at the South Park library to reflect on the lives lost at the hands of the escaped convict Eric Cartman, and other recent, untimely deaths.
Prayers, stories, and poems are not only welcome but encouraged.
The event will honor the lives of Sheila Broflovski, Gerald Broflovski, Heidi Turner, Butters Stotch, Earl Castonguay, Craig Tucker, and Kenny McCormick.
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