Not Really a Person

•November 1, 2009 • Leave a Comment

Starvation is always an option. I am a little hungry. But if worst comes to worst, I can eat rattata’s legs. Even if worst doesn’t come to worst, I might eat them anyway. They look mighty tasty. Note to self: fatten rattata up to prepare for the eventuality that I eat her.

Thirst could be an issue. The threat of a dehydrated end looms over me. But if worst comes to worst, I can drink rattata’s blood. I’ll do what it takes to survive.

Cabin fever is a constant threat, so I’ll be on the lookout for cabins.

It is true that I could fall victim to a Wooper attack at any time but there’s no sense preparing for that. You don’t prepare for spontaneous combustion. It just happens. And if it does, you’re completely fucked. There is nothing you can do about it.

Hunger and thirst appear to be the most pressing issues that don’t result in sudden painful unstoppable death by Wooper, so I’ll kick those faces first. ‘cmere, rattata. It’s only fair. We drew straws and you lost. The straws are more of a metaphor for me deciding that you should die, but that doesn’t make them any less legitimate. Believe me. I know about metaphors. I’m the metaphor master. Just stay still and I’ll show you what I mean. It won’t hurt, rattata. Pain is only a metaphor. It’s not real.

Get back here, you fucking coward!

Okay, okay, time out. I said time out, rattata. Stop running. I’m serious. Time out. Look, it’s fine, see? I stopped running. I’m not chasing you. I don’t want to eat you. I just want to talk. We’re reasonable people. Well, you’re not really a person, but you’re reasonable. We’re both very reasonable. Reason is pretty much what we’re all about, right? Let’s talk this through.

Mistakes were made, all right? But I’m going to be the bigger man here and overlook the fact that they were all completely your fault. That sort of finger-pointing is just petty and hurtful. The important thing now is that we need to work as a team. Using my superior non-rat intelligence, I have devised a plan. Instead of me killing and eating you, you will kill things and I will eat them. It is the perfect plan!

Note to self: get a leash for rattata so she can’t run away.

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The Cap and The Lunchbox and Everything

•November 1, 2009 • Leave a Comment

Time for some good old-fashioned running and screaming, I think. The chill air whips against my face as I skitter through the undergrowth. This is what the great outdoors is all about: tangling vines poised to snag my feet, branches slashing my sides, stinging nettles in my eyes, leeches everywhere. I feel… exhilarated! No, wait, that’s not right. What’s that word I’m looking for? Terrified? Yeah, terrified. Exhilaration has nothing to do with it. Every single thing in the wilderness is pretty much designed to cause me the greatest pain possible. I hate nature. Which is a pity, because I now appear to be lost in a great swathe of it.

No worries, though. I’m a long-time listener of that Bruno Goes to Wild Places and Kicks Death in the Face radio drama, so I’ve got this shit down. I’m a bonified Junior Wild-Place-Goer. I’ve got the cap and the lunchbox and everything. Caps are totally lame, of course, but I wear it backwards so it’s cool. Anyway, I need to focus. Need to go through my Wild Places checklist:

1) Go to a Wild Place
2) Find Death’s Face
3) Kick It

I look around. Pretty sure no man has set foot in this nightmare arboretum in, like, ever. Step one check. Steps two and three prove a little bit trickier. I’ve never actually seen Death’s face. In fact, I’m not really convinced that Death is a physical entity, much less one with a face. He always showed up on Bruno’s show, but everybody knows it’s just DJ Reed. That man has a nice voice. This is probably one of these metaphor things I keep hearing about. I need to locate my probable cause of death and “kick” it in the “face.”

So how am I going to die?

A Little More Violence

•August 20, 2009 • Leave a Comment

I trot on down south, flexing my muscles to show of that shiny new badge. Unh. Yeah. Work it. My one-man fan club (the guy who was obsessed with body-building) fawns over my every rippling motion. A few sweaty aerobics later, he’s so impressed that he offers to hook me up with some Miracle Seed. I gleefully accept, put the seed into my backpack for later use, and continue my muscular trek.

Along the way, a few bellsprouts and hoppips get introduced to the wheat thresher that is rattata. A youngster also falls victim to her ravenous rampage, and the way she tears up his frail little body like so much wet tissue paper worries me somewhat. I’m just glad her fear of me outweighs her intense hunger. Guess I should start feeding her again. Musing on this, I drag the poor boy’s corpse into the tall grass. No-one saw it. No-one will know. The perfect crime.

Still, some good comes from rattata’s feeding frenzy. One of the victims of her furious maulings was a chick who was pretty hot while she still had skin left on her face. It’ll probably grow back, no worries. Anyway, guess who picked up her number before she blacked out from the pain? This bad boy. She said something about seeing me in court, so it’s pretty clear she’s interested. Grell gets all the ladies.

Two mareeps and one camper later, rattata has finally filled her gullet. Unfortunately, her belly is looking kind of distended. She’ll just have to work it off through a little more violence. I sic her on a weak-looking youngster and, in doing so, fall right into the bastard’s trap. With his face showing a double featuring of sly grin, he whips a wooper out from his backpack and unleashes the abomination upon this world. “Woo wooper,” it says. This most nearly translates to, “I will destroy you and all you hold dear.” It’s not that difficult to understand the language of woopers, really. There are only about thirty words and a full half of them are just different ways of saying “kill.” The trick with wooper-to-human translation is living to tell the tale.

As it happens, I live to tell the tale. A fang or two to the neck and the beast is brought down. But I leave the encounter shaken. Next time, I might need more than luck.

Best Pals

•August 19, 2009 • Leave a Comment

I don’t actually remember beating Falkner, but that’s not too surprising. When you’re as used to excellence as I am, you don’t even notice it all the time any more. That’s why I get all these blackouts. The important thing to take from this is that I got me a badge, bitches!

Blind with excitement, I do a victory lap around the gym. This is perhaps not the best idea. Crashing into one of the pillars, I must have accidentally dialed Elm on my phone, because he’s doin’ some pretty intense yammering. Something about the egg. I just say yes to everything; it’s the easiest way to shut him up.

Ah, no way! Aide! How long’s it been, dude? Put it here! Pound it! Twist it! Pull it! Flick it! Spin it! Bop it! Lock it! Best pals best pals lets do this thing!

Shit, bro! How the fuck are you? What are you doing in this shithole? Wait, wait. Hold on, dude. Check this out. Fuck yeah it’s a badge! ‘course. You know how I do. Haha, yeah. Allright, dude. You go run and do your shit. Yeah, smell you later too.

Well that was just fucking outstanding.

Wicked Crazy

•June 18, 2009 • Leave a Comment

Okay, so, the pokemon in the gym? They fly. All of them.

That’s fair.

Rattata manages to bring a few of the buggers down, but is too slow to get them all. My suspicion is that she’s too fat. Too fat to jump. All that blubber’s weighing her down. I revive her, let her know what a lardball she is, and resolve not to feed her until the Violet City gym badge is proudly pasted to my chest. Hopefully she’ll stop being such a walrus.

Falkner is all talk, except for the parts of him that are wicked crazy bird techniques and intimidating hair. He keeps on babbling about the magnificence of bird pokemon. Bat balls. Birds’ only gimmick is that the ground is too good for those asses they call feet. Talons. Whatever. You think you’re cool because you can use bird slang, but you’re not. You’re like the opposite of cool. Besides, a quick attack from ratatta is like an atom bomb of pure fuck-tacular, so just shut your damn mouth. Beak. Whatever. Nobody fucking cares.

How does he keep beating me?

Hey Falkner, remember that time I hated you and wished you were dead? Yeah, that was right now.

Bird bitch douchebag.

Flying fuckers.

This is some serious bullshit.

No Time for Fashion

•May 12, 2009 • Leave a Comment

Fortunately, zubat broke my fall. Even more fortunately, my fall broke zubat. The mangled corpse look is a good one for her. But really, this is no time for fashion. There’s a bloodthirsty dark wizard on my trail and it’s high time I got the hell out of Dodge. I have had it up to here with ghosts and cultists and truancy officers and socialists and basically every stupid thing the city of nostalgic scents decided to throw at me. Fuck heroism. As far as I’m concerned, these simpletons can save themselves. Rattata and I are outa here. Zubat gets left behind. I’m tired of dealing with her shit.

What I really need right now is a fresh start. A really fresh start. We’re not talking new page here; I need a whole new book. And I think I know where to find one. I head south. Yep, things are looking up for… Ruins of Alph? The hell? The pokedex must be screwing with my inner navigation system ‘cause I’m pretty sure I was trying to get to a book binding, not a boy scout jamboree in retard cave. My fists clench around the empty air. Where’s zubat? I need something to redirect my frustration onto.

Oh wait. The whole “abandoned in a death-pit” deal. Right.

Cranky and confused, I decide to ask for directions. The person I talk to is less than helpful. He asks me if I’ve been to the Pokemon Gym. Likely he has noticed my rippling pecs. Who wouldn’t? I explain that gyms are not my scene. I’m just naturally buff. Check out these guns. I’ve got a fucking armada attached to my shoulders. I call them Rock and Solid. Illegal protein use? I never did any protein. Those rumors are baseless and malicious. I don’t know how they got started, but it’s time to lay them to rest.

God, this guy’s just been talking the whole time. Blah blah blah like it’s all about him. Sounds like someone needs to learn some manners. But I’m merciful. I’m magnanimous. I’ll listen, even if just out of sheer boredom. He keeps going on about Pokemon Gym like that didn’t get old a whole five minutes ago.

Hold on a second. It’s a right of passage? Well that’s different. You know I’m down with that. I’m all about passing rites and such. This is probably where it all begins. It’s the pokemon equivalent of pubic hair.

Boy Will They be Sorry

•April 29, 2009 • Leave a Comment

I have a spring in my step and a song in my heart. This might be due to the adrenaline rush from climbing all those stairs or it might be from the little something that nurse put in those pokebrownies. Wowza! I’m on cloud nine and I intend to use this high ground to great advantage in my next fight. Should blaggards try to scale my castle walls, I will drive them away by pouring down boiling zubat on them. Boy will they be sorry.

This plan has all the characteristics of brilliance: it makes use of metaphor and it adds to the agony that is zubat’s life. Unfortunately, I never get a chance to enact it. The next blaggard I fight turns out to be yet another cultist and he’s using the same damn pokemon all the others do. Bellsprout really have a way of bringing a man down. They crush the soul, so it’s somewhat poetic that zubat crushes their skulls. It is also quite gory. I am a bit shocked, to tell the truth. I didn’t think zubat had it in her. Succeeding really isn’t her style.

Musing on her surprising lack of failure, I ascend to the final level.

This small chamber resonates with the screams of doomed souls. Here and there these wails take on an almost physical quality, resembling walls and floors and creepy old sods in robes. But that is naught but an illusion. Here is a realm of pure sound – a symphony wrung from damned throats and given purpose. That purpose? To kill. The discordant melody enters my ears and slithers to my brain. I cannot help myself now. I heed its malicious call. Rage fills me, yet my thoughts become clearer than they have been in a long, long time. Forget pokemon. I go for the neck.

The first cultist falls easily enough. The second, too shocked to react in time, coughs up blood as I slam him into a wall. The third tries to put up a fight but his bones snap like balsa wood in my powerful hands. I leave him weeping on the floor and charge snarling at the Temple Elder. Only by slaying him can I release the vengeful spirits now lodged in my very mind. He laughs, sidesteps, and flips my feet out from under me. I keep sliding and coast towards a pit. My scrabbling fingers just manage to gain purchase on the edge. I hang there for my life.

Someone looms over me. I look up into the leering face and crimson hair of Rival. He stomps on my left hand; I yelp and let go. He raises his foot above my right hand.

“No hard feelings.”

His boot connects with my fingers and I hear a crack. My grip slips. I plunge into the engulfing darkness.