A/N: Howdy-Doody everyone! Contrary to popular opinion, I have not, in fact died…at least not yet. And to prove to you (and myself) that I'm still alive, I've decided to write a fanfiction in honor of my favorite childhood TV show. Pokémon! Like my other long-abandoned fic, Pokémon World, it's set in an alternate version of this reality, except in which Pokémon are real. Unlike my other fic, it's all about a band called Flash Moon, centering on the vocalist. I will be using some songs by well-known artists, so I don't own any of those. Oh, well. Anyway, with that in mind, you can start reading now. Hi ho fanfic….AWAY!
Disclaimer: Don't own shit.
First Session-Nobody Puts Baby in a Corner
Music blaring from bass-challenged amps? Check. Store-bought strobe lights hanging from a hook on the garage? Uh-huh. A disco-light swirling around somewhere on a chair? Yep. An area rug in place of a real stage? You know it's gotta be a South Central backyard punk show.
A few weeks ago, if I was at a little show like this one, I'd be in the pit, maybe smoking a blunt or pounding a forty with the best of 'em. But now, I'm on the area-rug-stage, guitar in hand and mike in front of me.
It's actually pretty serendipitous how I got the positions of lead singer and second guitar in the band now known as Flash Moon. See, my best friend, Sam's boyfriend used to be in a band called The Yellowtails or something, but the singer, lead guitarist, and bassist all called it quits, leaving said boyfriend and the drummer in need of some band mates. Sammie clued me in, and me and her brother Chuck filled the positions quite cozily. A half-dozen practice sessions later, we became Flash Moon.
I scan the crowd past the pit of writhing bodies and pick out Sam easily. It's not really hard, considering her hair looks like a horrible dye job gone right. Most of her long, ponytailed hair is black, but a few streaks are multicolored in a completely random, but entirely cool way. The only color that isn't in her quaff is orange, because, quoting her, 'orange is icky.' Her pale skin is stained by the flashing disco light next to her, but her icy eyes stay the same. She catches me looking and grins, then goes back to staring at her boyfriend, nodding her head to the rhythm.
Standing nearby is her ever-faithful Persian, Salem. Salem's a strange one for sure, just like Sam. Where normal Persians are buff or white, this one's black with a blue gem in its forehead instead of the traditional red one.
Making sure I don't fuck up on the song, I turn to find Damien deep in concentration over his guitar. He went from being second to first guitar in the band, and had to make that leap in skill sets to pull it off, but pull it off he did. He's got what you'd call 'classically handsome features,' with a strong, stubble-shadowed jaw, perfect blonde hair forever, and penetrating blue eyes. Working behind the shadows with my Luxray, Thor, is his Electavire, using their Charge skill to power the amps for our set, but between the two, they've got enough juice the light all of L.A. County for at least a week.
A slight lag in the bass part of the bridge makes me turn to Chuck, who gives me a shrug and a grin before plugging back into the amp and continuing on. Stupid idiot. We've been friends since he was born, given the fact that I was friends with his sister when it happened. He's already three inches taller than me, even though he's two years younger than me. In his words, he's 'hotter' than me, too, but that's just opinion. His eyes are the only thing he has in common with his sister. Dishwater blonde hair, ruddy skin, and a rather large nose, not to mention being a giant, all attest to the fact that he's swimming on his dad's side of the gene pool. Chuck's Munchlax, Pit, is somewhere around here, more than likely stuffing his face.
Directly behind me is Christian Ulrich, the band's drummer. He's thick and tall, like an oak tree, and twice as strong, but damn does that dude have rhythm. I mean, Chris could literally out-drum a Machamp. He does it all the time with his Fighting-type friend Atlas. He's got feathery ginger hair and a matching complexion and hazel eyes and a whole helluva lot of facial hair. He looks kinda like a lumberjack sometimes, like now. Especially with his red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and his Levi's all ripped to hell.
And of course, there's me. Remus Esteban Mìguel Yucatán. Yeah, I got four names, wanna fight? It also helps that my initials spell out my nickname, too. My mom, God rest her heroin-addicted soul, was thinking ahead when she thought up my name. Prematurely gray hair (started to gray around the temples at age eight. The full transformation was complete by age thirteen) hangs like a scruffy mop over my intense (or so I've been told) purple eyes and aquiline (though not as beak-like as Chuck's) nose. My lips are too thin for my tastes, and a shade or two darker than my sorta mocha-colored skin.
Now that Damien's solo's over, I have to add my voice back to the song for the last part as everyone's instruments built up to the crescendo.
Baby, you need him and I could be him
Hell, I could be an accident, but I'm still trying
And that's more than I can say for him
So where is your boy tonight? I hope he is a gentleman
And maybe he won't find out what I know
That you were last good thing about this part of town
Where is your boy tonight? I hope he isn't settled in
And maybe he will find out what I know
A little too late when my foot kicks him out of town
After a couple blasts on the three string instruments, the song ends to some decent applause. At least, it was better than what the last three bands got, so I'm feeling optimistic about it.
"Alright, so that's our last song for tonight," I shout to the crowd. The ending words always fall to the singer. "Look for us on Myspace and Facebook. We're Flash Moon, now have a shit-faced night everyone!"
Another cheer, probably more for my mentioning alcohol than for the actual music, but I'll take it. I give a yank on my plugs and start wrapping the cords around my mike as we get off the stage to make room for the next band. Thor and Electavire come out from behind the amp towers, electrical discharge still sparking from their fur.
"What's up, buddy?" I say to Thor, patting him on the head. Any lower and the static electricity would've shocked the hell out of me. Trust, it's happened before, and it'll more than likely happen again. In answer, my Luxray growls deep in his throat, a sign of relaxation.
"Great set, boys," Sammie quips as soon as we're off the stage, Salem sauntering along next to her. Luckily, the band before ours let Chris use their drums, so there's no snares and high-hats for Atlas to put away or anything. Sam pulls off her bright purple backpack and unzips it, revealing several drinks for the band.
It's kinda funny, but when I think about it, Sam's like a soccer mom with those little juice pouches for her kids after a game, except these are beverages that kids aren't supposed to drink, and unfortunately don't come in the cool pouch. Note to self: look into starting a business that sells alcohol in pouches. Beard-stroke is definitely required in this situation, even though my beard is too short to stroke properly.
Chuck and Chris both reach for the massive forties nestled into the random crap Sam carries around everywhere, and Damien goes for the Four Loko can. Pussies. I don't need someone to carry my drink, 'cause I got my plastic pint of liquid courage close to my heart.
I reach into the inside breast pocket of my jacket and pull out a pint bottle of some cheap whiskey before taking a long swig from it. And I've got three more in my other pockets, too!
"Alcoholic," Chuck mutters as he pops the top of his King Cobra. I roll my eyes. I'd quote the case of the pot and the kettle, but I doubt he'd understand it anyway.
Instead, I say, "Well, at least this alcoholic knows how to keep his guitar plugged in. Next time, try not to do the spin-move. You might not be so lucky next time." Thor's rumbling laugh can be heard over the next band's opening introductions.
"You're just jealous," he retorts. It's not uncommon for him to be paranoid that everyone envies him for his 'natural musical abilities' as well as his 'charming good looks.' Sometimes, I feel like knocking his block off, but it's meant in the nicest way, I swear.
"Okay, Mr. Hotshot," I mutter, taking another pull from my whiskey after pushing my shaggy, dark brown hair out of my face. The familiar warmth in my stomach blooms and starts seeping into my limbs. Ah, sweet surrender.
The next band has already warmed up, and now they've started playing. It's a ska band, which I'm very partial to, since the dance that goes with it is just about the only one I can do without making a complete idiot out of myself. It's somewhat fast, yet with a mellow bass part, almost reggaeish, considering that ska has its roots in Jamaica as well. Even the great Bob Marley has several ska songs in his repertoire.
The crowd in front of the 'stage' opens up to form a wide empty circle of sorts, and people and Pokémon start to skank to the music. Skanking is probably the easiest form of dance, besides the Hustle. All you do is step forward with one foot, then slide it back while stepping forward with the other foot, lather, rinse, and repeat. The circle is to keep the skankers in line, 'cause you're also supposed to swing your arms around, push against other people, and basically do what anyone would do in a mosh pit. It's pretty damn fun.
As evidence, Chuck, Damien, Electavire, Chris, and Atlas all leap head-first into the pit and start skanking their asses off. Chris gets off easy in any pit 'cause he's got a fuckin' four-armed hulk to protect him if he falters, and Atlas has that same luxury, excepting the four-armed part, of course. I finish off my first bottle of whiskey and toss it at Chuck, who stumbles and gets pushed onto his butt by a pretty hot girl. Note to self: make a point of picking up on that hot chick that knocked Chuck's ass down.
I find a couple fold-up chairs and snatch them up before anyone else can. Seats are notoriously hard to come by at these kinds of backyard parties, and I've been standing for about a half-hour, so I can't take any chances.
Sam and Salem are leaning against the brick wall that separates this backyard from the house next door, and I make my way to her, dodging party-animals and real animals.
"Take a load off," I tell her when I reach her. She gives me a grateful look as we unfold the chairs and flop down. I stretch out my legs in front of me and sink into the seat. It may be plastic, but to me, at this moment, it's heaven. Thor and Salem take up positions on either side of our chairs, and I reach down and stroke Thor's jet-black fur. I make it a point to groom my Pokémon at least twice a week, so his coat is soft and shiny.
"You guys are getting a lot better," she states, reaching into her bag of goodies and producing a forty for herself, this one an Old English. She also brings out one of those massive bags of Hot Cheetos and opens the bag.
"You're just saying that," I reply, digging into my own pack to retrieve a couple paper plates. Between the two of us, we're prepared for everything short of nuclear war. And even under those circumstances, we'd be pretty well-off.
"I mean it," Sam says emphatically as she pours chips onto one plate for me and Thor and more on the one for her and Salem. "The melody and harmony are starting to come together better with the beat and rhythm. You're getting used to playing with each other."
"Double-entandres are very dangerous things, Sammie," I inform her, and her face goes red for a moment. That's all it takes for me to burst out laughing. It has nothing to do with the pint of alcohol in me, I swear.
"You know what I mean, asshole," she grumbles, crossing her arms and legs. I've known Sam my whole life, so I can read her body language like a well-read book, and I know that this particular gesture means that she's vewy, vewy mad at me. Not about the stupid innuendo, but about me laughing at her. She hates it when people laugh at her expense.
Rolling my eyes, I sling an arm around her shoulder and shake her a bit. "C'mon, Sammie, don't be like that. If you're jealous, I'll let you know that I already tried with Damien, and he don't swing that way."
My crude humor cracks her icy expression, and just like that, she relaxes her extremities and reluctantly smiles. "Like he'd even be tempted by a butt-ugly distraction like you while he's got me as the main attraction anyway." Thor chuckles again, and I can't fault him on that; she got me pretty good.
I give a mock-gasp of offense. "I'm hurt, Samantha," I say. "I'm not that bad-looking. I only hit a couple branches when I fell off the ugly tree."
We sit back and enjoy the music, alcohol, and spicy snacks while we wait for my band mates to finish dancing. After awhile, an extremely hot girl comes up to us. Her hair's dark, but she's got freckles that I've only seen on gingers, so I'm guessing that black isn't her natural hair color. She's dressed in what I can only describe as DAAAAAMMN!
Anyway, she saunters up to us with a Mawile in tow and, after a slight hesitation, she leans down next to me, giving me a nice view of her ample assets. "Hey, do you wanna dance?" she asks me, then, after shooting Sam a challenging look, she adds, "Unless your girlfriend has any problems?"
Sam gives her the sweetest smile she's got, which has given lesser people diabetes, and says, "Oh, not at all." She looks at me and says, "Go on, sweetheart, have fun with the little slut." Salem and the Mawile glare at each other, picking up on their mistresses' emotions.
Now, normally, I'd have no problem being caught between two hot chicks. But when one is a prospective bed-warmer and the other my best friend, it's not even close. "No thanks, babe," I tell Sam, tightening my one-armed hold on her as I give her an almost loving look. "You're prettier anyway."
The other girl huffs angrily, glares at both of us, and stomps away. She's stomping so hard, in fact, that one of her heels snaps, and she goes down hard, knocking over several other people and causing one of the tapped kegs to fall over and soak her very revealing outfit.
"Mawile!" exclaims the Jaw Pokémon worriedly as she tries to help out her Trainer with her steel horns. This, however, only serves to exacerbate the situation by ripping through her already revealing blouse and making it even more revealing.
I glance over at Sam, and we look at each other for a moment before we both burst out laughing. Our fit of humor lasts nearly three minutes, in which we do nothing but laugh and laugh, and laugh some more. By the end of it, my abs hurt from overexertion, but it was fun, so I don't care.
"Nice acting," Sam chuckles when we're done. "For a second there, I almost forgot about Damien."
"Oh, go on," I say, pretending to blush while fanning myself. "Although you did just lose me some action tonight. I should be a lot angrier at you."
"But?" she prompts, pulling off her best puppy-dog face.
"But I can't stay mad at you, you stupid cock-block," I answer, tweaking her ear a bit and earning a slap to the chest. "Enough with The Face already, you won, didn't you?"
"Damn straight I did," she says with a smirk. "And don't you forget it, either." Then, before I know what's going on, she's hugging me. "Thanks."
"For what?" I ask, bewildered.
"For not ditching me to go with that chick," she replies as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "You very well could have, you know."
"I do know," I say, "but like my inner monologue said, if it's a choice between some smokin' hot babe and my best buddy, I'll pick you every time." I'm rewarded by having my air supply cut off as she hugs me even more fiercely.
I have to struggle to wrap my arms around her and hug her back, and after that, she lets me go, giving me back my precious oxygen. "Goodness, me," I gasp. "If that's the reaction I get for not ditching you, I'll have to figure out what gets me something better."
She blushes again, but doesn't sink to my level by responding. Instead, she picks up the bottle and downs half of her beer in a few gulps. Me and her have been drinking illegally since we were twelve, so I know that I won't have to take care of sloppy-drunk Sammie. And believe me, Sam is a very sloppy drunk. Not like me. I'm the kind of drunk who sulks in a corner while he has a conversation with himself about how crappy his life is. But if that happens, I have Thor and a few other Pokémon to help me back to my apartment.
After a little bit, Chuck stumbles over to us, wiping the sweat from his face. Skanking can do that to a body. He grins at me as he approaches and starts digging into his pockets.
"Got blunt?" he asks. It's part of one of his favorite lines in the movie How High. He uses it every single time he's just gotten a bag of pot and searching for someone (me) to supply him with a wrap for it.
"Got weed?" I reply with the other half of the interaction between Method and Red. I reach into my pocket and produce a wine-flavored Swisher Sweet the same time he brings out a little plastic baggie full of our favorite herb.
"You said you only had ten bucks, asshole," Sam gripes. "That bag there's gotta be at least a dub, maybe even a thirty-sack."
"Nah, the big dude over there's slanging like there's no tomorrow," Chuck retorts defensively. "I asked for a dime, and he gives me this big-ass thing." He stops to check out the sack again. "This might just warrant two blunts, buddy."
"I'm surprised that you know how to use the word 'warrant' in a sentence correctly," says Sam with a snort. Chuck glares at her, and then turns his icy eyes on me.
"So you gonna roll it up or what?" he snaps, dropping the bag into my lap.
"Munch?" asks Pit, who showed up as suddenly as a Ghost-type. See, Pit loves smoking weed almost as much as he loves to eat. Almost.
"Hey there, Pit!" Chuck says happily, crouching down and patting the little Pokémon on the back. "I was wondering where you'd got to. Hurry up and roll that fuckin' blunt, man."
I grab the Swisher Sweet and smirk at Chuck. "You don't need to get so bossy," I tell him. "Just 'cause your blunts come out like Cheetos..."
While I reach for my keys, and more specifically the blunt cutter keychain hanging from them, I try to drown out Chuck's whiny retort. "At least I can get more bitches than you."
Myself, Thor, Salem, and even Pit wince when he says that and begin the countdown. Three...two...
"Bitches?" Sam's voice is harsh with indignation. Guess I was off by a second or so.
Too late, Chuck realizes his mistake and tries to salvage the situation before pain comes. "That's not what I said! I said 'wiches, like sandw-"
The rest of his lame attempt at defending himself is lost behind Sam's fist, and he stumbles backward. In my experience, you should never, never say the 'b' word when referring to a girl in front of Sam unless they deserve it.
"Shut up, you dick-head," growled Sam. "At least own up to your mistakes when you get called on 'em." She starts to get up, and nearly makes it, but she's at least a bit wasted right now, and I don't want her to do anything she'll regret later.
Sam's ass makes it a couple inches off her chair before I grab her by the shoulders and gently ease her back down on the plastic. "Relax, Femme Fatale. Chucky's learned his lesson."
"Don't call me Chucky," Chuck snarled from behind his hand. He rubbed his nose and held it far enough away from his face to see if there was any blood. "Y'know, you're a fuckin' beast, Sam. I can't even hit that hard, and neither can any dude I know. Maybe Atlas could beat you in arm wrestling, but I'm still putting my money on you."
"That's 'cause you're a pussy," she retorted matter-of-factly. "Besides, I've seen Remy break a brick with a punch," she continued, grabbing my left hand and showing Chuck the scars on my knuckles from that time. Hey, I was drunk and more than a little faded. It didn't even hurt at the time, although I couldn't strum right for about a month afterward.
"But that's because Remy's even more of a beast than you," is Chuck's answer. "If you two ever have kids, you should name it King Kong."
Sam flushes, though with anger or embarrassment is beyond my scope of drunken understanding. Either way, she swings at Chuck again, who dodges to the left, snatches the rest of Sam's Old English, and books it back into the pit before she can retaliate again, and completely forgetting about the sack of weed he just left in my possession.
Grumbling something about pesky little brothers, Sam opens her backpack, and then starts cursing loudly.
Alarmed, I say, "What?"
"Stupid cock-sucker took the last one," she said, shooting a venomous glare in the general direction in which Chuck fled.
"So?" I say, offering her some of my whiskey. "Beer's for queers. Liquor is quicker." I already know the answer. 'I cannot take liquor without a chaser, Remy.' I'd never actually offer anyone my precious White Gun whiskey.
Therefore, I'm extremely surprised when she takes the bottle from me and takes a quick shot before grimacing and shoving it back into my chest. "God, how do you do that, Remy?" She blows out some of the stinging air from her burning throat, and I smirk.
"Whatsamatter? The famous Bottle-Killer can't hang?" Instead of answering, I get a glare as she takes back the plastic container from me and downs the rest of it in one gulp.
Even I'm impressed.
"Whatsamatter?" she asks mockingly. "Never seen a chick drink before?"
I laugh and shake her around a bit. "Don't ever change, Sammie. So, got any pointers on my guitaring today?"
A/N: So, whaddaya think? Didja like it? Didja hate it? Honestly, I'd like to hear your opinion, so drop a review. The button's right there. You know you wanna. Yes you do. I said yes you do! FMW