Bienvenides mis 🐊

"I'M THE MAN"

FINALLY!! I FINISHED IT!! Sorry for posting it so late, I didn't think it would take this long, but the result is honestly so beautiful!! Though Eric (from the Future AU) always looks super handsome anyway.

If you've been following my art this week, you'll see I included every version of Eric as he aged up: 10, 12, 15, 25, and 35 years old, ending with 38-year-old adult Eric, happily married to his beloved Kyle Broflovski, of course (because I always have to sneak Kyman into everything I do, hehe).

I loved participating in this Week! Huge thanks to @P_111_k4 on TikTok for creating such a lovely week that I hope stays alive in the future with new prompt themes <3

And now, all I can say is that I'll be moving on to KymanWeek (because it's never too late to participate xd) and other pending projects, like updating my fics.

I'm leaving the drawings from the video here in case you want a better look at them in high quality <3

And you already know the drill- for those who want to read this last writing piece, it's right down below!

Enjoy!!

"I'M THE MAN" - DAY 7 FREE DAY

"The last entry in the diary of Eric Theodore Cartman"

Dear Diary…

This is the last time I'm writing in you.

Not because I don't have anything left to say. God, if there's one thing I have in excess, it's words. But I don't need a paper confidant to listen to my deepest thoughts anymore.

Now I have Kyle for that.

And trust me, it's way better than having to handwrite all my bullshit. Although I admit I sometimes miss the feel of your pages, that distinctive ink smell, and the way I could say things here that I'd never say to anyone else.

But I don't need that anymore.

Because Kyle knows everything. Everything, even the worst parts.

From the darkest stuff -everything I wrote when I was ten and wanted to see him suffer. To what I wrote when I was fifteen and wanted to die. To what I wrote when I was twenty-five and wanted to rule the world.

And still, he stayed.

That, Diary, is more than anyone could have ever expected from me. And more than I could have ever expected from anyone.

Three years have passed.

Three years since I fell into that frozen lake and emerged a different man. Three years since Kyle looked at me with those green eyes and told me that, despite everything, there was still something in me worth saving.

And he was right.

It wasn't easy. Fuck, it was not easy. There were fights, screaming matches. There were nights when Kyle kicked me out of his house and I slept in the car, waiting for his pride to cool off. There were days when I wanted to give up, go back to L.A., pretend none of this ever happened.

But I didn't.

Because, for the first time in my life, I had something worth fighting for.

Something I couldn't buy, couldn't manipulate, and sure as hell couldn't control.

Something real.

The first few months were… complicated.

Kyle and I didn't know how to do this. You know -how to be together without the world exploding. How to be a couple when our whole history was filled with hatred and resentment, along with a massive pile of accumulated shit.

But we tried.

First came the drinking sessions with the group. Stan, Kenny, Butters. All of them -my friends. Beers in Kyle's basement, laughter, telling stupid stories about the past. And then, when everyone left, he and I would stay behind. Talking. Looking at each other. Feeling something neither of us dared to name.

Until one night, after way too much whiskey, we did.

That kiss was clumsy, honestly kind of pathetic. Almost as embarrassing as when we had to admit the other was right. But it was real. And when our lips parted, I knew there was no going back.

And then came the dates.

The "non-dates," as he called them. Going out to fancy restaurants—because I could afford them, and he loved arguing that we should split it 50/50 while I'd already swiped my black platinum card and endured an hour of complaints—dressing up like we were going to a gala, walking through the streets of South Park like we owned the damn town.

And he always looked so fucking good in those lawyer suits.

But it didn't compare to how he looked when he was naked.

That, Diary, was even better.

The first time we made love was… cathartic.

No, seriously. It was like all those years of hatred, tension, and denial exploded in a single night. I was so nervous I couldn't stop talking- justifying everything, saying it was biological, that it didn't mean anything, that we were just releasing stress.

Lie.

Lie. Vile lie. Monumental lie.

Because when I saw him—naked, with that red hair all messy and that smile that always drove me crazy—I knew I couldn't keep pretending anymore. That everything I'd built, all the masks, all the ego, all the power… meant nothing compared to the satisfaction of being with him.

And he knew it.

Because even though he tried to keep his composure, his eyes gave away the same thing mine did- that we'd both been waiting for this our whole lives.

And the second time was better. And the third, don't even get me started. And the fifteenth… well, by then we'd lost count.

But we never lost the desire.

Then came the question.

God, I'd never been so fucking scared in my life. Not when I almost got fired from my own production company. Not when Scott Tenorman had me cornered. Not even when I fell into that goddamn lake.

Nothing compared to the idea of Kyle saying no.

But I did it. I got on my knees—yes, me, Eric Theodore Cartman, got on my knees—and I asked him.

And he said yes.

But he looked at me with those sharp green eyes, like he was waiting for it all to be a joke. Like he couldn't believe someone like me could want something like this.

And then, I told him:

—I'm not playing, Kyle. I never played. I was just a scared kid who didn't know how to tell you that you drove me crazy.

—And now?

—Now… —I smiled with that childish expression I thought I'd lost.— Now I'm telling you I love you. And I want to spend the rest of my life proving it to you.

And he cried. Well, it was more like one tear of happiness- or relief that I wasn't pulling his leg.

But he cried. And so did I, even though I'll never admit it out loud.

But here, in these pages, I'll admit it.

I cried like a fucking baby.

The wedding was perfect.

Star Wars themed, because of course we weren't gonna do it the boring way. Kyle wanted something elegant, but I insisted that if we were getting married, it was gonna be my way. And for once, he gave in.

Because he liked the idea too.

The suits were white with red and black with green- he was a Mandalorian… and me, of course, Darth Vader, helmets and all. The rings had "May the Force be with you" engraved on them. And when Butters—our officiant—said "you may kiss," I kissed him like the world was about to end.

And it almost did.

Because, of course, we had to argue about who was gonna wear the pants in the relationship. Since we both like being in control- our dynamic has always been like that a constant power struggle.

But that's the point.

That's the reason we work. Because at the end of the day, we know power doesn't matter. What matters is that we're together.

And that we're the only ones who can stand each other.

Now, three years later, everything is different.

We live together. Not in L.A., not in my penthouse- but in a house on the outskirts of South Park. A big house, with room for everything we need. Kyle joined a prestigious law firm—of course he did, the ambitious bastard, still a Jew through and through—and I moved Cartman's Productions here.

Because no way in hell am I going back to L.A.

I don't need Hollywood anymore. I don't need the power. I don't need the world to kneel before me.

Because I already have everything I need.

My health is better. Kyle makes sure I eat on time, that I don't go overboard with junk food, that I exercise. We cook together—though he's better at it, and I'll never admit it—and we go out to restaurants that, honestly, have nothing to envy of the ones in L.A.

And we love each other.

It's not perfect, of course- that'd be boring. Sometimes we argue. Sometimes he gets mad and doesn't talk to me for hours. Other times, I do something stupid and have to buy him flowers so he'll forgive me.

But we always come back.

Because this, Diary, is real. And I've never had anything real in my life.

.

.

.

There's something else I want to tell you.

A few days ago, I bought a plot in the South Park community cemetery. For my mom. So her grave could finally rest where it always should have been.

Where we always should have been.

I don't know if she'd see me now and be proud. I don't know if she'd approve of Kyle, or my life, or the choices I've made. But I do know one thing…

I kept my promise.

I got back up. I became an important person. I became someone.

And it wasn't because of the money. It wasn't because of the power. It wasn't because of the success.

It was because of Kyle.

Because he taught me that I don't need to be a god to be happy. That I don't need the world to kneel. That sometimes, all you need is one person to look at you like you're the center of their universe.

And Kyle looks at me like that.

Every single day.

And now, Diary, I'm saying goodbye.

Not because I don't need you, or because there aren't things left to write. But because I know that no matter what happens, Kyle will be there to hear them.

You are my witness. My past. My logbook of chaos.

But I'm not the same person who started writing in you anymore. I'm not that narcissistic kid who wanted to see Kyle humiliated. I'm not that broken teenager clinging to guilt. I'm not that empty adult who sought power to fill a hole that was never gonna be filled.

Now I'm Eric.

The one who loves and is loved. The one who, after everything, found what he was always looking for.

And when I close this page, when I put you away somewhere no one can find you, I'm gonna look at Kyle and tell him something I never thought I'd say out loud.

—I'm the man.

Not because of my millions. Not because of the power I once had. Not because I conquered the world.

I'm the man because I found someone who made me want to be better.

I'm the man because, finally, after so long, I'm not alone.

I'm the man because I'm happy.

And that, Diary, is more than any empire could ever give me.

The fat kid doesn't exist anymore.

The broken teenager is gone.

The empty adult left.

Only Eric remains.

And Eric, at last, is the man.

The man his mother always knew he could be.

The man Kyle always believed he deserved.

The man who, at the end of the day, learned to love.

—I love you, Kyle —I whisper, closing the diary.

—I love you too, idiot —he replies, not taking his eyes off the box he's packing.

—What if I tell you I'm the man?

—That was already obvious, wasn't it? —He wrinkles his nose the way I love, rolls his eyes like always.— You just needed to realize it.

I smile at him. And in his smile, I see everything I've gained.

Everything that was worth it.

Everything that, in the end, made me who I am.

—Yeah, —I put the diary in a box full of memories and old photos.— Now I know.

And for the first time in my life, I'm exactly who I want to be.

WIP 🔥

This is a sneak peek of my last post for the "Cartmanweek 2026", Day 7 - Free Day

Let's just say Butters took the photos!! ☝️😉

​Hey everyone!! I got back from my trip a couple of days ago (and I've been super busy with work), so that's why I hadn't posted anything. I barely managed to make these fake screenshots using some of the photos I took during my trip ✨️💕

Alright, I’m making this post for those who just want to enjoy the entries without reading all the short stories (which you can still easily find using the #Cartmanweek tag or on my blog).

There are a few references to movie posters, like "The Godfather Part II," "American Psycho," and "Vertigo." The rest came to me based on each day's theme.

"A Taste of His Own Medicine"

The second to last day!! And my personal favorite <3 (although the free day is so much better, but I'll post it once I return from a trip I have coming up). With a nod to a fan-made poster for the movie "Vertigo" this "outcome" brings a total 180° change to our dear Eric's psyche, and it’s all because of his beloved Kyle.

As always, if you want to read today's short story, it's right below!

Enjoy!!

A TASTE OF HIS OWN MEDICINE – DAY 6

"The day the god drowned in cold water and woke up human"

Dear Diary…

I'm alive.

And I shouldn't be. Logic, physics… the fucking universe that's always hated me- they all say I shouldn't be.

But I'm alive.

And Kyle is too.

That's what matters. Actually, it's the only thing that matters.

Because when Scott Tenorman —that son of a bitch who should be rotting in a mental institution— pushed him off that cliff, I didn't think.

I didn't think anything.

For the first time in my goddamn life, I didn't calculate. I didn't plan. I didn't manipulate. My legs just moved on their own, and my body threw itself into the void without asking my brain if there was a backup plan.

And that's the most fucked-up part.

Because in that moment, I wasn't Mitch Conner. I was Eric.

And Eric Theodore Cartman always has a plan.

But this time, there was no plan. Just the image of Kyle falling. Just that high-pitched ringing mixed with the sound of his scream cut short by the wind. Like a spike driving into my mind, hammering my skull, filling it with the certainty that if I didn't jump, I'd lose him forever.

And that thought… that fucking thought… was worse than death.

The cold hit me like a freight train. The lake water was an ice dagger stabbing into every pore of my skin, into every cell in my body, into every memory I'd buried under layers of cynicism and expensive suits.

And Kyle… fuck, Kyle was there.

Kicking, cursing, those green eyes wide open, that damn red hair floating around him like a crown of dying fire.

—WHY THE HELL DID YOU JUMP, YOU IDIOT?!— he yelled, his voice broken by the cold and the fury. —AT LEAST I WOULD'VE DIED ALONE! NOW WE'RE BOTH GONNA DIE!—

His words hit me like a slap. And instead of answering with an insult or a joke —with that goddamn Mitch Conner mask I'd worked so hard to build— all I could do was tell the truth.

—I DON'T KNOW, SHIT! I JUST DID IT, I DIDN'T THINK ABOUT IT!

—THAT'S THE PROBLEM!— he shrieked, clinging to a rusty metal structure sticking out of the water. —YOU NEVER THINK!—

And then, the current pulled us apart.

I saw his hand slip as his fingers lost their grip. The panic in his eyes tried to paralyze me. But in that moment, the whole world narrowed down to a single goal.

Don't let him go.

The rest is a blur.

Water, cold… darkness. And then, earth, dampness, his hands reaching for me.

A kiss.

Short, desperate, pulled from the deepest part of my desperate soul.

And finally, that hospital smell, those white lights, voices in the distance.

But Kyle- I was sure his heart was beating.

I knew it before I even opened my eyes. Because I could smell his cologne—that damn citrus fragrance he always wore—mixed with cheap antiseptic and the stale odor of sweat blended with chlorine from the sheets. I knew it from the sound of his breathing- ragged but present. I was sure, because even though my body wouldn't respond, my heart knew he was there.

And when I finally managed to open my eyes, I saw him. Lying in the bed next to mine, his right arm in a cast, his pale face covered in bruises, and those eyes- tired but alive.

Alive.

Kyle was alive.

The doctors told me I was lucky. That the cold water had slowed my metabolism just in time, and that my injuries were superficial. Kyle, though, hadn't been so lucky- he'd suffered more, his arm fractured when he tried to save us both.

Of course, as always, he'd gotten hurt playing the goddamn hero. The fucking martyr. The one who always has to carry everyone else's weight.

My martyr.

And then, when the doctors tried to kick me out of the room because "only family could visit", I did the only thing that came to mind- the only thing that made sense to me.

—I'm his husband— I said, my voice firmer than I thought I was capable of.

The nurse looked at me skeptically, while Kyle —still unconscious—stirred under the sheets. And just like that, they didn't pull me away from his side.

And that was the first time in years that lying didn't make me feel powerful.

It made me feel… needed.

Kyle didn't talk much at first. He couldn't, I guess- too many emotions in too little time. The shock, the hypothermia, the bruises. But when his eyes met mine, when his trembling fingers brushed against mine, I knew something had changed.

—Why did you come?— he finally asked, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper. —After everything you did to me. After everything you... —

—I don't know— I answered, and it was the truth. I didn't have a specific answer, no Plan B like always. Just the certainty that I couldn't stand losing him. —I don't have an excuse. I just… I couldn't let you die, i couldn't lose you. Not again.—

—Again?

—You wouldn't understand.

—Try me.

And then, like an idiot, I told him everything.

Not the plan. Not the manipulation. Not the fucking success.

Just that.

The night in Texas. The alley. My mom's death. The promise I made her.

Kyle listened in silence, never interrupting. He didn't judge me. He just looked at me with those green eyes that always saw past the mask, past the theater I always put on.

—You were always an idiot,— he said finally, with a tired smile. —But I never imagined you were that much of an idiot.—

—Is that a compliment?

—It's the truth.

And just like that —without knowing how, without knowing why— our lips met again.

It wasn't planned. It wasn't calculated. It wasn't a move.

It was… inevitable.

And when we pulled apart, right as the air filled my lungs again, I knew I couldn't keep pretending anymore. That the Mitch Conner mask had shattered at the bottom of that frozen lake, and the man who'd emerged from the water wasn't the same one who'd gone under.

It was Eric.

The fat kid who always wanted to be important. The teenager who always wanted to be loved. The adult who, without realizing it, had built an empire just to fill the void Kyle had always occupied.

And now, that void didn't exist anymore.

Because Kyle was here.

And he wasn't going anywhere.

.

.

.

There's more- more than I'd like to admit.

Scott Tenorman was arrested along with the other villains. Turns out Butters—that idiot Butters—had been manipulated into playing the "Professor Chaos" card —his stupid alter ego— to get revenge for being abandoned. So dramatic. And although my first instinct was to blame him, when I saw him crying in the waiting room, when I saw the fear in his eyes the moment the nurse told him how serious Kyle's condition was, I knew I couldn't keep being the same person I'd always been.

Hatred had defined me for so long that I'd forgotten what forgiveness felt like.

But Kyle was teaching me.

Slowly, painfully, fucking slowly- he was teaching me.

I also found out that my friends —my so-called ex-friends— didn't know anything. They didn't know about my mom's death, or Texas. They obviously didn't know about the promise.

They didn't know about the years of shit I lived through in silence, hating them for not being there.

But it wasn't their fault.

It was mine.

I was the one who pulled away. I built the walls. I chose hatred over pain.

Me, Eric Cartman—I convinced myself that success would fill the void.

And while success gave me power, power didn't give me peace.

Only Kyle could do that.

Now, as I write this in the hospital room, with Kyle asleep in the bed next to me —his arm in a cast, his face covered in bruises that remind me how close I came to losing him— I know what I have to do.

I can't go back to L.A.

I can't keep being Mitch Conner.

Mitch Conner was a disguise. A perfect armor, built on a reputation stolen from others. A shield I built to protect myself from the world.

But the world doesn't scare me anymore.

Only Kyle scares me.

And fear, I've discovered, is what makes me feel alive.

So tonight, as the clock strikes three in the morning and the hospital hums its song of silence, I'm making a decision.

I'm staying in South Park.

I'm going to rebuild what I broke.

I'm going to be Eric.

Not the kid everyone hated. Not the teenager everyone feared. Not the adult everyone envied.

Just… Eric.

The one who loved his mom. The one who cared about his friends. The one who, deep down, just wanted to be loved.

And if Kyle lets me, I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of him.

Because in just one day—in the time that's passed since I got here, in those hours I've spent by his side—

I can't imagine my life away from him anymore.

—I love you, Kyle— I whisper, as sleep starts to win over my eyelids.

I don't know if he heard me.

But unlike before, I wouldn't mind if he did. I just want to stop lying to him. I want him to know the truth- all of it.

The truth that was always there, hidden under layers of hatred and pride.

The truth that the cold water finally brought to the surface.

"Self-Destruction"

Down to the final stretch now, just this one and two more days left!! Today is day 5, featuring this Eric who is a billionaire CEO, owner of his own production company, and at the top of the world.

Nothing could go wrong... right? It's a clear nod to the iconic "American Psycho" poster; Mitch Conner now murders (in a way) Eric Cartman, making it crystal clear that he would soon return to South Park.

You already know the drill- for those who want to read today's writing piece, it's right down below!

Enjoy!!

SELF-DESTRUCTION – DAY 5

"The day the god looked in the mirror and didn't recognize the child he killed"

Dear Diary…

I don't know why I still write in you.

Maybe it's habit. Or maybe it's because, after all, you're the only witness I've had since that alley in Texas. The only one who saw the fat kid get back up. The only one who knows that Mitch Conner is just a well-tailored disguise.

Or maybe I just need something to listen to me while I decide if tonight I'm going to keep feeling something- or bury that too.

Twenty years.

Twenty years since I started building this empire. Full of manipulations, contracts signed in moments of desperation, and outstretched hands that I pushed off the cliff myself just so I could save them and collect the ransom.

And here I am.

Mitch Conner.

The name everyone whispers with respect. The star director who can turn any pile of garbage into gold. The Midas who the industry's biggest icons get on their knees and beg for a role, a song, or a single miserable line of dialogue in one of my productions.

And I charge them well.

I charge them their soul, their pride, their dignity. I take everything they have and more. Because if they've come to me, it's because they're desperate. And desperation, as I've always known, is the best fuel for burning people's dreams to the ground.

Always my world. Always my rules.

But tonight, as I review the documents for the next production, as I sign contracts worth more than most people will earn in their entire lives, I can't help but feel… something.

And I hate that something.

I look at my reflection in the penthouse window, and the city sprawls at my feet like a submissive whore. The man staring back is perfect: black Armani suit, a red shirt the color of the blood I've left along the way, a yellow tie that screams "I'm the fucking king." My hair slicked back, a defined jawline, a body that's no longer that young adult who could barely breathe after climbing one flight of stairs when the elevator was broken.

And yet…

What the hell is this?

A strange sensation. Like a tingle at the back of my neck. Like a voice whispering from the depths of my brain, as if it's taken up residence in that corner where I locked away the fat kid I swore I'd kill.

Eric Cartman.

That pathetic loser. That kid everyone hated, everyone humiliated, everyone wrote off as dead.

Dead.

Yeah, he's dead.

I killed him coldly, buried him six feet under, and stomped on him with my Italian leather shoes while I climbed that endless ladder to success.

Right?

Then why the fuck did I see him in the knife tonight?

I was in the kitchen, making some goddamn pasta and a piece of steak —since my fucking maid decided to take the day off without telling me, or maybe she did, but I wasn't paying attention— and of course, I was having my whiskey. Just one, because the body doesn't hold up like it used to. And I saw him. In the reflection of the steel, right on that shiny blade I was holding between my fingers.

It wasn't my reflection.

It was him.

The fat ten-year-old kid. The one who believed leprechauns were real because he'd actually seen them. The one who made Kyle sign that fucking contract.

And he was staring at me. Not looking away.

With that look he used to have: full of fury, hunger, and determination. But also full of something else- something I don't know if I still have, or if I'm just trying to forget.

Fear.

The fat kid was afraid.

And me- Mitch Conner, the god of Hollywood, the man who's manipulated hundreds of people, who's watched empires fall and built his own on their ruins- I didn't know what to do.

So I gripped the knife, stared him down with an intensity that would make anyone tremble.

And he disappeared.

But the feeling didn't go away.

And then, as if the universe wanted to mock me, I remembered what happened three days ago.

The psychologist.

That idiot with the nerdy glasses and a degree that wasn't worth the paper it was printed on. I'd been seeing him for months- not because I needed his help —of course not— but because I wanted to see how far I could push his "professionalism." I wanted to watch him break, to prove that even the most trained human psyche could be manipulated by someone like me.

And I did it.

But not the way I expected.

We were in his office, as usual. Those white curtains next to the piercing smell of cheap lavender, and the sound of sand grains falling incessantly inside that fucking hourglass, marking the minutes of my "therapy." I was sitting across from him, legs crossed, wearing that smile I always have- the one that says I know something the other person doesn't.

And he was looking at me.

With those sad eyes… those eyes that always saw too much.

His tired orbs had started to see past the mask. They wouldn't look away. They told me they'd begun to catch a glimpse of the fat kid hiding beneath my facade, beneath Mitch Conner.

And then, he spoke.

—Eric…— he said, with a calmness that turned my blood to ice. —I know what you did. And I know what you've been doing… I know who you really are.—

—I don't have a fucking clue what you're talking about,— I replied, my voice firmer than I felt inside.

—Yes, you do.— He leaned forward; his hands were trembling slightly, his lips twisting a little. I could feel his nervousness seeping into every word. —I've seen your records. The old ones. South Park, Texas… all of it.—

—And what do you think you're gonna do with that?— I asked, the smile still on my lips. —Tell someone? Who? Who's gonna believe you"a failed psychologist"over the powerful Mitch Conner?—

He sighed, and in that sigh I heard something I didn't expect.

Defeat.

—I'm not telling anyone, Eric,— he said, trying to hold onto the firmness he'd started that interrogation with. —Because I know it wouldn't do any good. You have too much power. You're a billionaire, you have important people on your side.—

—Exactly,— I replied, feeling victory course through my veins.

—But I also know something else.— His eyes met mine, and what I saw in them froze my blood. —I know that nothing you've done has filled that void. You're still that same fat, scared little kid hiding behind expensive suits and fake smiles. And not all the money in the world will buy whatever it is that would make you feel whole.—

—Shut up.

—And I know, Eric,—he continued, ignoring me, —that one day you're going to realize none of this was worth it.—

—SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!

I shot up from the chair, my fists clenched at my sides, my breathing ragged. That mask I always wore with pride was cracking for the first time in years.

He didn't move. He just sat there, looking at me with that goddamn compassion I hate so much.

—You don't need to kill me, Eric,— he went on, shifting his gaze, staring at all those diplomas hanging on his suffocating office walls. —You already have. You killed everything in me when you made me doubt everything I believed in- especially when you made me question my own ethics. In that moment, you turned me into your accomplice without me even knowing it.—

—I don't have a fucking clue what you're... —

—Yes, you do.— His voice rose, and I saw something different in him: fury, desperation. But also… peace. —And you know what, Eric? I'm glad it was you.—

—What?

—Because now I know all of this is your fault. All that shit I did. Every time I betrayed my principles. Every time I pretended not to see what I was seeing.— He smiled- one of those sad, broken, beautiful smiles. —And the best part is… you know it too.—

—Shut up.

—You also know that everything you have, you got through a lie, Eric.

—SHUT UP!

And then, he did it.

He pulled out a gun.

He held it in his right hand—shaking—pointed directly at my chest.

And me —the one who always has control, the one who always has a plan, the one who always manipulates the situation— I froze.

—What… what the fuck are you doing?

—What I should have done a long time ago,— he said, and his voice was so calm it scared me more than any scream ever could. —Setting myself free from you.—

—Don't do anything stupid! We can talk about this!

—Talk?— He laughed- a hollow, empty laugh, like an echo of what he used to be… it marked the beginning of the end. —Talk? Eric, I've been talking for months- trying to make you understand. And every word you've said has been a lie. Every session, a goddamn comedy of errors, and every time I looked at you, all I saw was the little that was left of me.—

—I don't understand…

—No. Of course you don't.— His hand tightened around the grip. —Because you're the one who always wins. The victorious billionaire. The one who pays other people to pick up the broken pieces of the consequences of your own actions.—

—Put that down!— I yelled, and my voice sounded weaker than I wanted it to. —Don't do something you'll regret!—

—I'm not going to regret this, Eric.— He paused, scanning my tense posture with those cold, fearlessly empty eyes. —Because for the first time in my life, I'm doing something for myself. Something that has nothing to do with you.—

—NO!

And then, he did it.

He put the gun to his temple.

And pulled the trigger.

The sound.

That fucking sound.

It was the echo of the shot that completely unhinged me- bouncing off the walls of the office, piercing my ears, my brain, my soul.

The blood, mixed with the smell of gunpowder, rose alongside that tingle at the back of my neck. His body hit the floor like a sack of shit.

And me —standing there— I just stared at him.

Not moving.

Not reacting.

For minutes —hours? I don't know— I just stood there, staring at the psychologist's body. The man who tried to save me. The professional I'd destroyed without even realizing it.

And I felt nothing.

Well, I felt something: Relief.

Relief that he didn't shoot me. Relief that his death was his fault, not mine.

Relief that he wasn't there anymore to remind me of what I am.

My shoulders felt lighter, realizing that his goddamn compassion had died with him.

I called my contacts- the cleaners. The ones who fix all my problems and make bodies disappear along with the evidence and any trace that Mitch Conner was somewhere he shouldn't have been.

Within two hours, the office was spotless. Like nothing ever happened.

Like the psychologist never even existed.

And me, now, in my penthouse, staring out the window, I could only feel…

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

So this is what being a god feels like?

Is this what Mom wanted?

No. Mom wanted me to be successful. To be someone important. To finally do something with my life.

And I did it.

I'm Mitch Conner. I'm the fucking god of Hollywood. People fear me and adore me. They'd do anything to stand by my side.

And yet…

Why do I feel so empty?

Why, when I look up at the sky, don't I hear her voice anymore?

Did she leave? Did she get tired of me? Or is it that, after all, the fat kid she loved no longer exists?

No.

I'm not going to think about that.

It doesn't do me any good. It doesn't help me. It doesn't fill my pockets or give me power.

So, I'm not going to feel anything.

That's the key. Feel nothing.

Because if I feel nothing, I can't be hurt or manipulated. Because if I feel nothing, no one can use me the way I use others. No one can make me their puppet, their dog, their lackey.

And that makes me invincible.

My phone buzzes.

It's my assistant, reminding me about the meeting tomorrow. The production. Right- the production in South Park.

South Park.

That name. That goddamn town that keeps showing up in my life like a tumor that won't get cut out.

But this time it's different. I'm in control. I'm the one producing that series, deciding what gets shown and what doesn't. I'm the one shaping the story.

And of course, there's Kyle.

That fucking Jew. The moralist. The one who always thought he was better than me.

What's he doing now?

Is he a lawyer? Or did he end up a failure like his dad? Or maybe, just for once, did he actually manage to accomplish something on his own?

I don't know, and I don't care.

Lie.

I do care. Fuck, I care. That's why I'm gonna stop by his house before I go to the scout- just to make sure he doesn't screw anything up. I want to see his face when he finds out that the powerful Mitch Conner is actually Eric Cartman.

That fat, pathetic loser. That kid he hated so much.

The one who's now the fucking god of Hollywood.

I want to rub it in that freckled face of his that I have everything I ever wanted. Make him get on his knees… make him understand how successful I am without him around.

Or at least, that's what I hope.

Because if Kyle doesn't kneel… if Kyle isn't surprised… if Kyle doesn't feel anything when he sees me…

Then what the hell have I been doing all these years?

What's the point of all this if he doesn't see it?

The whiskey in my hand has gone cold by now, and the night stretches out in front of me- endless, empty.

Soon, that whole goddamn town will be mine.

Well, more mine than it already is.

And when I get to South Park, and I stand in front of all of them, showing them who I really am…

Everyone will know.

I'm Mitch Conner.

I'm not Eric Cartman anymore.

And I'm the fucking king of the world.

"I'm God"

Day 4, and of course, our little Eric (who isn’t such a little kid anymore) shows us the peak of his corporate rise as the famous consultant and songwriter signed to 'Sony Music Entertainment.' He is finally starting to fulfill the promise he made to his mom... and nobody will be able to stop him.

You already know the drill- for those who want to read today's writing piece, it's right down below,

So enjoy!

"I AM GOD" – DAY 4 "The day the god remembered his promise"

Dear Diary…

Ten years.

Ten goddamn years since that alley in Texas. Ten years since the fat, scared kid stood up and decided he would never kneel before anyone again.

And look where I am now.

Hollywood.

The fucking Hollywood.

The world I always knew belonged to me. The city of broken dreams and bought opportunities- the place where talent is a second-rate product and truth gets sold to the highest bidder.

And I'm the highest bidder.

The city lights flicker through the window of my penthouse, reflecting off the glass like a million stars that shine just for me. It's funny, isn't it? When you're down at the bottom, the stars seem unreachable. But when you're on top, you realize they were always within your grasp.

You just had to get your hands a little dirty to grab them.

I look at my reflection in the glass. The man staring back isn't that fat kid who could barely climb stairs without running out of breath anymore. He isn't that ragged teenager who slept in alleys and stole food from dumpsters.

He isn't Eric Cartman.

Well, technically he is. But the name… the name weighs on you. It carries too much baggage, millions of memories, and a whole mountain of shit when it comes to South Park. Too many taunts… too much contempt.

Maybe I should change it.

Yeah, I've been thinking about it. I want something classy- something that sounds like power every time it leaves those idiots' mouths. Something people will remember. Something that doesn't ooze that aura of fried chicken and the fat kid everyone hated.

But that's for later.

Right now, I have a dinner. A very important one. With two names that could seal my ultimate rise.

Trey Parker and Matt Stone.

Two idiots with an idea. Failed screenwriters who were about to crash and burn before I showed up like the fallen angel who'd rescue them from failure.

How the world works, right?

The rumor spread fast. The new guru of dark comedy —the man who'd saved the careers of over a dozen fading screenwriters— was available for consultations.

And they bit the hook.

They always bite the hook.

I've always found it fascinating how the human brain works. How desperation makes you vulnerable, and how the promise of salvation blinds you. How people are so desperate to believe in something, in someone, that they don't even bother to ask who's behind the curtain.

And behind the curtain, it's always me.

I adjust my tie. Italian silk, dark blue, with a perfectly symmetrical knot I learned to tie watching tutorials on the phone —clearly stolen— that I used five years ago. The jacket is Armani. The watch is a Patek Philippe I bought at auction. The shoes are Italian leather that shine like mirrors.

The costume is perfect.

Because that's what I am now- a costume, a mask, a goddamn movie actor playing the role of a successful man, a comedy genius, a visionary who just wants to help others reach their potential.

Lie.

I only want to help myself.

The climb was slow at first- way too slow for my taste. But once I learned how to pull the strings, once I understood that the world runs on fear and greed, everything got easier.

I remember the exact moment.

Twenty years old. A broke mechanic in a shitty garage on the outskirts of L.A. My hands stained with grease, my uniform reeking of burnt oil, my back destroyed from hours of working around that massive gut. And then, a famous producer. A man with a car worth more than the entire garage.

And I just saw the opportunity.

Sabotaging the brakes was easy. A loosely connected hose, a little brake fluid in the wrong spot, and the car turned into a death trap.

Watching him go over the cliff was… poetic.

Almost idyllic.

But I was there, right on time. Like the hero who shows up at the end—the savior extending a hand when all seems lost.

And of course, I had the contract ready.

He signed. Of course he signed.

Who wouldn't sign when they're hanging off a cliff and the only person who can save them has a pen in their hand?

It was beautiful.

After that, everything went uphill. My name started circulating. People wanted to know who the mechanic was who'd saved a famous producer's life. Who was the man who, according to the producer, "showed a clarity and vision that no one else had."

No one asked if the producer was high when he said that.

And so, little by little, I climbed. From mechanic to assistant. From assistant to consultant. From consultant to composer. From composer to… well, to this.

To GOD.

Because that's what I am now. A god.

Not in the religious sense—not that "almighty" bullshit people believe in. No. I'm a god in the purest sense: I control other people's lives.

My world. My rules.

Every decision I make, every word I whisper in a desperate screenwriter's ear, every suggestion I drop in a production meeting—it's a thread I weave into the tapestry of their lives.

And they don't even know it.

Funny enough, part of this success I owe to an old acquaintance. That weight-loss doctor from the brutal boot camp. The one who beat me to condition me to pain every time he saw a damn Cheesy Poof or a bucket of KFC. The son of a bitch broke more than a few of my ribs, left me with bruises that took weeks to heal, and made me cry like a baby on more than one occasion.

And I thank him.

Sounds sick, right? Thanking the bastard who hit me. But if it weren't for him —if he hadn't forced me to lose the weight, if he hadn't made sure I wouldn't die before I turned twenty-one— I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't have made it to Hollywood, and I sure as hell wouldn't have had the energy or the health to pull the strings I pulled.

So thank you, Doctor. Thanks for the punches and the bruises. Thanks for conditioning me to pain.

Because now, every time someone tries to hurt me, I just feel like laughing.

The doctor told me that if I didn't change, I'd die young. That my heart wouldn't hold out, and that my body was a ticking time bomb.

Look at me now.

Sony Music Entertainment.

One signed contract was all it took to catapult me into fame- the deal went through a few weeks ago. Now I'm a recognized composer. My name is gonna be written in the credits of projects people listen to all over the world, every single day.

It wasn't easy getting here. But every hit, every humiliation, every night I cried alone in the dark- it all taught me something.

Pain is temporary. Victory is eternal.

And now, Sony Music has my music. People dance to my songs. Movie directors want to meet with me. Screenwriters seek me out like I'm some kind of oracle.

And I give them what they want.

What they need- so I can keep climbing.

Trey and Matt. Two names about to change comedy forever. Or at least, that's what they're hoping. They told me they have a series, a simple premise… something about a town in Colorado.

A town in Colorado.

… South Park.

Isn't that ironic? The universe has a shitty sense of humor. Just when you think you've escaped your past, it finds you. It looks you right in the eyes and smiles, like it's saying, "Gotcha, you son of a bitch."

But it doesn't have me.

I'm the one in control. I'm the one who decides what to do with that information. The only one who can take that series, mold it, manipulate it, and turn it into something else. Something I control.

Maybe I'll make the fat kid the character- the one the plot moves around, revolves around, and twists around.

That would be poetic, wouldn't it? The fat kid everyone hated, the one who was always the punchline, the one everyone wrote off as dead- becoming the center of everything. The main character. The reason the show becomes famous.

Or maybe I'll make him the villain.

No.

Better yet—make him the hero.

I've always been the hero of my own story. It's time the world understands that.

THAT I AM THEIR GOD.

My phone buzzes. My driver is downstairs, and the dinner —oh yes, the dinner— is waiting for me.

But before I go, I need to finish writing this. I demand that it be recorded in this fucking diary. Because this isn't just another entry.

This is the confirmation of my reign.

I look up, toward the sky. Toward where I'm sure she is.

— This is for you, Mom,— I whisper, my voice threatening to crack. — All of this is for you. —

And the echo of my words fades into the silence, like cigarette smoke in the darkness of the night.

I don't know if she can see me. I'm not even sure there's anything up there at all. But I don't care.

Because I'm here. And I'm the god I always knew I'd be.

This is my world. And these are my rules.

No one will stop me.

Hollywood never knew what hit it.