07-14-2017, 12:50 PM
Well, at least I still had my slaves... right? As long as I still had them, I'd be okay.
I pulled my jacket back to glance at my waistband; when my eyes caught nothing, they raised like yeast. “Where's my slaves?!”
I expected to see six pokeballs lined along my belt, all containing a happy little servant inside (I imagined that they weren't that happy, but I didn't give a shit, frankly). Instead, I saw just one pokeball; beside it, was a strange orb—definitely wasn't there before—that held a palette-worth of colors inside, which swirled around like a galaxy.
I kicked at the ground, and threw a flurry of wild fists into the air. Pissed much? You're goddamn right I was. My body felt like a kettle filled with boiling water; how it rushed to my head felt like steam was trying to escape through my ears. I worked hard as shit for those little slave-fucks (where the hell did they go; did they run away on some type of underground poke-railroad; why the fuck did they take my damn balls with them?).
Ok, calm down, Red, I told myself. ”Worst case scenario: you rob some pussy motherfucker for their pokemon.
As I grabbed the lone pokeball on my waistband, my mind began to wonder what would be inside. It had a solid chance of being one of my favorites—Charizard, Gyarados, Dragonite—but that one-in-six possibility of the drawing Marcel, the stupid Mr. Mime I traded for, was haunting me (I wish I could change his name, something cool like Silent Loser, but the dumbass copy-cat didn't respond to anything else).
“Moment of truth,” I muttered.
Directing the pokeball's face to the ground, I called upon my mystery slave. A red beam shot from the front of my ball like a laster target, and started to expand into a medium-sized shape.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I could feel sweat glazing my forehead. Not bitch-face Marcel, not bitch-face Marcel! At this point, I'm in all out panic mode. If this pokemon is Marcel, I'm extremely liable to beat him to death with my bare fists.
“Charmander!” the pokemon cheered. “Charmander, charm!”
I pulled my jacket back to glance at my waistband; when my eyes caught nothing, they raised like yeast. “Where's my slaves?!”
I expected to see six pokeballs lined along my belt, all containing a happy little servant inside (I imagined that they weren't that happy, but I didn't give a shit, frankly). Instead, I saw just one pokeball; beside it, was a strange orb—definitely wasn't there before—that held a palette-worth of colors inside, which swirled around like a galaxy.
I kicked at the ground, and threw a flurry of wild fists into the air. Pissed much? You're goddamn right I was. My body felt like a kettle filled with boiling water; how it rushed to my head felt like steam was trying to escape through my ears. I worked hard as shit for those little slave-fucks (where the hell did they go; did they run away on some type of underground poke-railroad; why the fuck did they take my damn balls with them?).
Ok, calm down, Red, I told myself. ”Worst case scenario: you rob some pussy motherfucker for their pokemon.
As I grabbed the lone pokeball on my waistband, my mind began to wonder what would be inside. It had a solid chance of being one of my favorites—Charizard, Gyarados, Dragonite—but that one-in-six possibility of the drawing Marcel, the stupid Mr. Mime I traded for, was haunting me (I wish I could change his name, something cool like Silent Loser, but the dumbass copy-cat didn't respond to anything else).
“Moment of truth,” I muttered.
Directing the pokeball's face to the ground, I called upon my mystery slave. A red beam shot from the front of my ball like a laster target, and started to expand into a medium-sized shape.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I could feel sweat glazing my forehead. Not bitch-face Marcel, not bitch-face Marcel! At this point, I'm in all out panic mode. If this pokemon is Marcel, I'm extremely liable to beat him to death with my bare fists.
“Charmander!” the pokemon cheered. “Charmander, charm!”