Prologue: Meeting My Nemesis
Hey! A new face in Pallet town, huh? What brings you to this little shithole south of nowhere?
-The fucking Pokemon lab? Seriously?
Okay then. First question:
-Are you a boy or a girl?
Naw, just fucking with you. Gramps may be nearsighted and borderline senile, but I'll be damned if he hasn't earned his peculiar reputation.
...Whatcha laughing at?
-Never heard an eleven year old use profanity before?
Well fuck me. What's your excuse for a clean mouth, Red?
-I don't give a shit what your name is, you're Red to me, Vlad Dracula.
Yeah, bullshit you got a medical condition. I wasn't born yesterday. Those are fucking contact lenses.
-I'm still calling bullshit.
Anyhow, why are you heading to the lab, Nosferatu?
-Oh fuck, another mooch. What's the matter, Red? Daddy can't catch you a rattata?
Oh. Shit. Sorry bra.
-No man, I mean it. You ain't the only bastard in this pisshole of a town.
Duh. Whadidjaya think: that the chip on my shoulder was the byproduct of flawless parenting?
-Eh, no biggie. Dad died when I was two. Ma ditched Saffron and moved to Pallet Town in order to raise Daisy and I close to a father figure. But, man, she picked one shitty father figure for me and my lil' sis. So what about you?
Ouch. I actually feel bad about the bastard comment now.
-Ha! I knew that I could get you to swear, you goody-two shoes!
Heh! Now your face is red as your eyes!
-Yep. If cocky was a merit, then I'd be a fucking General. And if introverted was a medal, you'd be its hero.
Dude, I hate to break it to you, but you are the spitting definition of introverted.
-Whatever? Shit, I thought that you might have had a spine for contentious discussions.
Yeah well, I'm bored. And I'm stuck in snoozeville with no conventional way to pass the time other than mucking out the tauros stalls. So as it stands, Red? You're currently the most interesting thing there is in this dried-up piss bowl.
-Yeah, I work at the ranch. Gramp's back isn't quite what it used to be, so he employed me to shovel the shit for him. He claims that mon-husbandry is fucking therapeutic, but all he does day in and day out is jab needles into ferals and cut up 'donations' from the League.
Researcher? Fuck no, man! My Gramps is The Professor Samuel Oak.
-No, I ain't messing with you.
My name? Shit son, it's Gary Motherfucking Oak.
-Oh I see how it is.
So I'm Blue now, huh? Whateva floats your proverbial boat, Red.
-So why do you want a mon, Red?
Can't blame you there. Adventure sounds worlds better than growing old here. But you do know that mon are lethal as fucking hell, right?
-You do? And you still want one?
Shit. I knew that I liked your cut the instant I saw you.
-So I take it you're gonna nab a minor's licence and take full benefit of the Youngster Act?
Yeah, I thought so. Here's a tip, Red: Don't.
-No. Hell no. I totally think that you should get a mon. Just not one when you're eleven years old.
Dude, that's like giving a kid a pneumatic assault rifle. Nothing good ever comes of mixing inexperience with deadly hardware.
-There's ways of getting experience with mon, other than being eaten by a fucking arbok, Red.
Come on now, listen to old and wise Gary Oak here. Most dumbasses who get a minor's license have an adult in their life to dissuade them from acting on the Youngster Act. That piece of legislation is corporate condoned murder. Don't be another suicidal tool of the League, Red. Live long enough to take a share of their profits.
-Sixteen. You can take the PKMN T.A.R.E. then, when you're smart enough to realize that swellows don't deliver babies to expecting parents.
Yeah, that's my gameplan. I've already aced the T.A.R.E. I have a goddamn minor's license. All I'm missing is the mon, and I'm smart enough to not compete in the League until I'm sixteen.
-It's not just the feral mon, Red. Statistically, your chances of getting butt-raped by a hobo decrease dramatically for each year you age past eleven. At sixteen, the odds start reversing: and hobos are more likely to get butt-raped by you, than you are by them.
Holy shit. You're a virgin, aren't you?
-Get a move on, Red. You're making our generation look bad.
...So I've talked you outta your suicidal plan then?
-Good. Just for that, I almost respect you. Now come on, I was supposed to have the tauros stalls mucked out an hour ago. Grab a pitchfork and open the eyes in the back of your head. Tauros are angsty motherfuckers when they're confronted with strangers.
No, you are so helping me shovel shit. You remember me going on about getting experience with mon?
-Oh hell no, it ain't gonna be boring. We'll be lucky if the whole herd doesn't try to gore you.
I promise you: It will be anything but boring.
-Fuck. You keep shit-talking like that, and I'm gonna have you delousing the rhyhorns right after we're finished with the tauros.
Shit, I can ride a fucking rhyhorn like it's a fucking ponyta. They don't scare me.
-Will Gramps be okay with you helping 'round the ranch? Red, mark my words: If you live through one day with me, he'll hand you a fucking job alongside a complimentary dinner.
Don't start thanking me yet. Wait and see if we have to amputate your dismembered limbs first. Mon wrangling ain't no ice cream social.
-Double negative, triple negative, double-triple negatives: Who gives a fuck? You know what I meant, Red.
...I thought that my name was Blue, asshole.
