Boy Will They be Sorry

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.


~ by Grell on April 29, 2009.

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