#CARTMANWEEK 2026 - DAY 5
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!
"The day the god looked in the mirror and didn't recognize the child he killed"
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
That pathetic loser. That kid everyone hated, everyone humiliated, everyone wrote off as 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.
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.
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.
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.
But the feeling didn't go away.
And then, as if the universe wanted to mock me, I remembered what happened three days ago.
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.
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.
—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.
—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.—
—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.—
—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.—
—You also know that everything you have, you got through a lie, Eric.
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.—
—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.—
He put the gun to his temple.
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.
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.
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…
So this is what being a god feels like?
No. Mom wanted me to be successful. To be someone important. To finally do something with my life.
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.
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?
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.
It's my assistant, reminding me about the meeting tomorrow. The production. Right- the production in 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.
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.
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…
I'm not Eric Cartman anymore.
And I'm the fucking king of the world.
— Mitch Conner (Eric T. Cartman), age 35, about to return to the place where it all began.
titsay
izzy806
gracieabrams
dailybridgerton
theartofmadeline
2087
