Just Your Average Day
He straightened his collar. It was nearing midnight. He chuckled softly to himself. Boy did he ever love his job (if one could call it that). Late nights, glamorous parties, plenty of promiscuous sex. It was a great life he led. He walked slowly, leisurely to his car. It was nothing fancy, just your regular sedan with the occasional bullet hole. He ran his hand gently over the door, then the hood, and stopped on the fender. A new dent, great. Looks like he'd have to choke a bitch after all. And after doing so well, too. Nearly an entire week without a murder.
One had to wonder how he began his current line of work. He was attractive enough, cute really, though short and almost entirely spherical. The almost unnatural pink color of his skin was offsetting to some, but didn't seem to bother most. But as things were, he was not one of the most sexually appealing in his field.
A footstep. He spun around and immediately reached for the microphone at his waist. Overreacting? He didn't think so. These were dangerous times. There it was again, and again. Whoever was trying to sneak up on him was doing a horrible job. He turned back around, trying to appear oblivious, all the while keeping his hand on the microphone.
The attack came from the left. He ducked down so far he appeared almost entirely flat. The tire iron smashed into his window, breaking off the side mirror. Oh, now the bitch would pay. He turned to face his attacker. God, this punk again. Guess last week's beating wasn't enough. While his attacker was still trying to dislodge his weapon from the car window, he hit him with a solid body slam from the first. The little bitch never even knew what hit him. He walked over to the kid. He couldn't be more than sixteen or seventeen. With his foot on the kid's throat, he slowly reached for his microphone. "No! Oh god, no. Have mercy!" his assailant cried. He smiled and flipped the switch on the microphone. He opened his mouth and let out a single, high-pitched note. "At least a Bb," he mused as he watched the young one in front of him writhe in pain.
Ten minutes passed. He let the exhausted battery drop from the microphone onto the body of the now smoldering charizard. The look of agony on the punk's face was enough to put him in a good mood for the rest of the evening. He spit on the face fo the corpse and then yelled to no one in particular, "You see? Do you see what happens when you decide to mess with me? You have your weapons, your guns and broken bottles, but the real power is in the song!" He cackled maniacally for a bit and then screamed, "I am Gigolopuff, bitch!"
