On Sunday, I walked into the studio. It had taken even less time than I expected to arrange an on-the-air interview. I wanted to talk about my curse. And I wanted everyone to hear it.
Talking to Mom the other night had given me an idea. If she remembered me dying, then wasn't it possible that some other people did, too? I already knew my friends didn't remember, so I wasn't too concerned about that, but I wanted to see if anyone else did.
I also knew that most shows wouldn't let me talk about the curse, just because they wouldn't believe me. Fortunately, there was one show that would. And it was aired right here in South Park. "Jesus and Pals."
I walked up to the chair on the stage. The studio audience looked at me, not sure what to think. They might have thought I was going to eat manatee guts again—that's a long story, but basically I was promoting my own show, "Krazy Kenny," on "Jesus and Pals." On "Krazy Kenny," I did all sorts of messed up stuff for money, but eventually I landed in some trouble and had to cancel it—but this time I was doing something much more serious.
Sitting across from me was the host of the show. The lord and savior, Jesus Christ.
I don't think anyone in this crazy town knows why Jesus lives here. I mean, there's certainly nothing worthy about this town that would make Jesus want to live here. Maybe it's just that everyone here is so stupid that it doesn't occur to them how strange it is that Jesus came down in human form in the 21st century, and hosting a TV show of all things. I guess it's kind of like my situation; you'd think people would notice it if a little kid died every other day, and was back the next morning.
"So, you still believe me, right?" I asked Jesus quietly, so the audience wouldn't hear.
"Of course, my son," Jesus said. I was glad that at least someone believed me. Maybe it was because He had some experience in coming back to life. I wondered if He was jealous, since He had only come back once, and I had several hundred up on Him. That would be pretty funny.
The director spoke up. "We're on in 5…4…3…2…1."
"Yea. Believe in me and ye shall be saved," Jesus began. "Today, we are joined here by Kenny McCormick, who wants to speak to our listeners. Kenny?"
"Thank you, Jesus," I said. I pulled my hood off, so the audience could hear me better.
"I want to tell you all something. You all will probably not believe me, but I want you to listen." Deep breath. "I can't die. I've been killed many times before, but every time, I am reborn again in my mother's womb. But, as far as I know, no one ever remembers that I die except for my mom and dad. I am willing to talk to callers about it, but what I really want to know is if anyone else remembers."
The audience was dead silent. Well, I had half expected them to laugh, so it wasn't too bad. Jesus decided to ask a question of His own. "So, would I be correct in assuming that you have seen Heaven and Hell?"
"Yes. I've been to both."
"Is there anything you would like to share with audience about them?"
"Well, Satan is a real jerk, so you probably want to be good so you can go to heaven." Jesus chuckled a little at the joke. There were a few laughs from the audience, too, but I was glad when the phone rang, because I didn't want to keep talking about Heaven and Hell. That wasn't why I was here.
"Hello, caller, you're on the air. Go ahead, please," Jesus said.
"Kenny, I want you to stop spreading lies." I recognized Father Maxi's voice. "God doesn't take kindly to people who lie for attention." Then I heard the dial tone. Well, so much for that. After everything my mom had said, I wasn't feeling too happy with Father Maxi right now.
"Well, Kenny," Jesus said, "it seems that there are some people who are skeptical of your story. Is there anything you would like to add to try and convince them that your story is true?"
I did have one idea, but I wasn't going to use it just yet. "No. You see, Jesus, I'm not trying to convince anyone. If they don't remember, then they will forget me telling them as well, as soon as I die again. And if they do remember, then I don't need to convince them of anything; they already know."
"Can you prove it?" someone from the audience called out. A few others agreed.
"Well, technically, I could, but I don't want to," I said. "Because it wouldn't do any good. And it really, really hurts."
Another call came in. "Hello, caller, you're on the air," said Jesus.
"Kenny, what the hell are you doing?" It was Kyle.
"Oh, I don't know, Kyle. Just reaching out. Maybe I'm trying to find some people who actually give a rat's ass about me." The words were out before I could stop them. I mean, I was pissed at him, but I hadn't intended on calling him out like that on TV. Or Stan, for that matter.
Over the phone, I heard Eric laughing in the distance. That probably meant that all three of them were watching the show together. "That goes for you too, fat boy!" I yelled, making sure it was loud enough for him to hear.
I hadn't planned on calling out Stan and Kyle, but I suppose I could make an exception in Eric's case.
Kyle struggled for words. "Kenny…I didn't mean it like that. I know we don't always pay attention to you, but this isn't how you should cope with it. You don't need to do all this just to get our attention. You're our friend."
I sighed. "I wish that were it, Kyle. But everything I said was the truth. And I've already told you—you didn't remember, and you didn't believe me…So, unless you have something else you would like to ask me, I would like to hear from someone else, now."
I could tell he was trying to think of what to say, but eventually, he just hung up. Immediately, another call came in.
Tammy Warner's voice came over the phone. "Hi, Ken. I just wanted to say that even though I can't remember you dying at all, I believe you. I'm sorry; that must be really tough."
Tammy believed me. Well, that makes one, even though there was still no one who remembered. Maybe I could forgive her for giving me syphilis after all…
"Thank you, Tammy. That means a lot to me," I said.
I got about five more calls in the next three minutes, and my excitement quickly vanished. Nearly everyone was calling in to say that they didn't believe me, and that they thought I should be put in an asylum. I was starting to think this whole thing was a bad idea. Then the next call came.
I gulped. It was Heidi Turner. The girl I was going to the dance with. Oh, shit.
"I just wanted to let you know that you have officially scared the shit out of me. I was going to ignore what Red told me about you, but you are FUCKING NUTS! And I am NOT going to the dance with you!"
Well, things were going about as bad as they could possibly get.
It turned out that I was wrong . The next call came in.
"Nyah nyah nyah nyah nyaaah nyaaah! Ha ha ha ha haaa haaa!" Eric's voice jeered over the line. Salt on the wounds.
Eric hung up. Even Jesus looked surprised at how quickly and brutally the abuse was coming in.
Time to bring in Plan B.
"Ok, everyone," I said. "It seems pretty clear that you all don't believe me. However, you are all listening to me. You have all heard my story. How many people are watching this show?"
One of the camera crew started to check, but Jesus immediately answered, "Over 20,000 people across Colorado." One of his better tricks; multiplying loaves and fishes is really overrated.
"That's a lot of people," I continued. "It's possible that the people who might remember haven't seen me die yet. Well, it's time to fix that. Jesus, do you know if my mother's watching?"
"No, she is not."
That was good. I hadn't told her I was going to be on TV. Because I didn't want her to see this next part.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my gun. Several people screamed, and the two security guards at the back of the studio drew their weapons. Before they could aim at me, I put the gun barrel up against my own temple.
"Please remember," I prayed. Jesus nodded.
Then, in front of 20,000 people, I pulled the trigger and blew my own brains out.