A Little More Violence

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.


~ by Grell on August 20, 2009.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: