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I don't know. How do we know this kid is really psychic? I mean, this boy is certainly no Eric Cartman.
Sorry, Sarge, the psychic's mom says her son hasn't been home for a couple of hours.
Do it! Do it!
Dude, I really don't think that's a good idea!
and he lives at 621 Castillo Street. He's usually there between seven and eleven p.
Ah, no, these people claim that they are the "real" psychic detectives.
While the ice-cream store owner was in jail, another murder was commited.
The magic... of flight!
Because of you, nobody knows the extent of my deeds.
This is gonna be totally cool, you guys.
Cartman thinks he can fly off of his roof.
But I am the serial killer! The one whose rightful place in history you have smirched!
I was given my gift from a tragic accident. I didn't need to go to Psychic Detective School.
Damnit! Damnit all to hell! They just found another body! That means a fifth copycat killer is on the loose!
Oh my God. It's a fried chicken sundae.
Come on, Murph, we've gotta talk to Eric Cartman again!
Wuh be careful, Kyle.
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE
I'm sorry, detectives, there was nothing we could do.
Get him!
I see... a man... with a baseball cap.
Call an ambulance.
Aww man, this smells like meatloaf. Again?!
We'd better get back to the station, sir.
No.