Chapter 1: I improve things

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"Mister Giovanni will see you now, sir."

I looked up from my newspaper, (the article was titled "how to be a better conman") and tilted my sunglasses down over the bridge of my nose to see the receptionist, sort of waving at me. She was cute. A small figure, nice hips, red hair. Even round glasses that looked cute on her semi rounded face—

"Please hurry sir, he does not like to wait,"

"Oh yes," I thought. "Mustn't keep the important people waiting…"

(If this were a movie, the screen would freeze while he explains things about himself, to fill the viewer in. Because it is not a movie, however, just pretend that I'm not trying to indulge myself in clichés.)

I suppose I should provide you with some details about who I am, so you won't get confused. I am, what a lot of people like to call, an "improver." I improve things. When, say, production rate is down at a factory, I improve their rates, and so on. I have an excellent record. I've never…not…improved…something. Yeah.

Of course, the things I improve are not simple toy store production rates.

I followed far behind the young receptionist as she led me to the Don's room. I noticed, as I subtlety glanced at her behind, that she had a pokeball attached to a keychain. The keychain held many keys. I wondered how the ball stayed attached. Magnets? God, she looked good. Her tight red uniform matched with the red tiled floors that we walked on, and even her red hair. If only it was not a professional environment—

She stopped at a door, and used one of her many keys to open it. She pressed down on the shiny gold doorknob, and pushed open the oak door.

It was like a large lawyer's office, almost. There were bookshelves on two sides of the room. Behind me was the door, and a plant near the door. It looked like it was in excellent condition, almost breathing, even. I wondered if Giovanni liked plants. On the wall farthest away was a desk and a window with some curtains in front of it, that had been drawn to suck out the light. As my eyes adjusted to the room, I could make out a figure sitting at the desk—

"What did I say," the figure whispered in a cold, cruel voice. It pierced my soul. "…about knocking before you enter?

I turned around. The once cute receptionist had turned pale and acquired a clammy look. "No," she whispered, her voice wavering, "Please, I won't do it again please I promise ohgodnoplease," was all she could mumble before two large men appeared from the shadows of the room. One hoisted her above his shoulders, and the other handcuffed her. She sobbed as they walked her to the curtains, and kicked open the window. I watched, paralyzed with fear, wondering if what I was seeing was even real. Then, before I could do anything, they threw her out of the window. Her scream was muted in seconds as the window electronically closed itself. We were on floor number 7.

I've seen some pretty bad things. I lurked on some strange web sites for a while when I was younger, and even in my job, I had helped with large gangs, but I had never seen a man do something like this before, over something as simple as a door—

"Do not be alarmed," he spoke calmly and coolly. I did not notice his two men disappear into the shadows. "That sad, unfortunate end," he said, as he pushed a button, and the door slammed behind me, "will only be yours if your record does not hold up to its standards." I swallowed, hard. If I failed, would I be—"Now sit down," he said, interrupting my thoughts. "I have a team for you to improve…"

I felt hazy. The room was spinning around me as I sat down in the chair placed in front of his desk. Giovanni pulled a folder out of nowhere and pushed it to me. I felt uncomfortable, to say the least. His desk was not very big. I was about a foot away from his face, and that's too much for me, after watching him kill his receptionist and all.

I took the folder and opened it.

There was a picture of a striking trio. One had red hair, the other, a sort of grey blue color. He held a rose in his hand. The third seemed like a weird sort of mascot, for it was a cat. I read the files to myself, not daring to speak a word; the silence was too intimidating to interrupt. I could feel my fingers shaking as I held the file and read their names and history…

"Jesse and James…missions attempted, 653…successful missions…4."

I wanted to die, reading that. I looked up, knowing the answer anyway. I dared, and asked, "Am I supposed to--"

"Yes. I want you to improve their record. I sent them on a mission a long time ago, you see…"

I chanced a look away from his cold stare, and saw some Heineken bottles in the corner of his room, near the curtains. I wished that I could disappear for a minute. His cold gaze brought me back, and now I could smell the liquor on his breath. "I told them, 'I want that kid's Pikachu. Look at the file. Look at it."

His tone had sped up now. This team must have really bothered him if it made such a cool leader like Giovanni this aggravated.

I looked down at the file, and saw a picture of a young boy. He looked to be about ten or eleven. He was holding a large rat like creature. I suppose this was a Pikachu. I was never too into this Pocket monster thing. I went to business school and skipped the whole "leave home at ten" fad.

"I sent them out for that thing five years ago, and they still don't have it. They refuse to come into my office (I wondered why, sarcastically, and had to force back a grin) to this day, but they don't know what I know…"

Just then, there was a flash of light, as Giovanni stabbed a knife into the gold coin on the Meowth's forehead. My hand was less than a centimeter away. I almost jumped. It was important not to show fear, even though my insides felt like shit. I needed a smoke badly, and I quit years ago.

"That THING has a miniature spy camera inside of it. I watch their battles, and I watch them make a mockery of my name, of Team Rocket. This is unacceptable."

He pointed the knife at me now.

"I want you to improve them," he said.

The room was deathly quiet, as he sat there, across from me, leaning his elbow over the table with a sick grin, and a knife held inches away from the area between my eyes. I had taken off my sunglasses when I came in. I could feel myself sweating, but I kept my eyes focused on the sharp edge of the blade for what felt like an eternity of silence.

He moved the knife away, and I could breathe again. He passed me a paper with the team's coordinates on it.

"They've been notified of you. They are a stubborn lot, so they may pretend that they don't know who you are. Your mission is this," he leaned over to cough.

"I want you to make sure that by this time two weeks from now, that team has all of that Ash kid's pokemon; Every last one. It's like an interest rate after the years of failure. I'm giving you full access to Team Rocket's resources, although you should not need them. The kid is, what, fifteen or sixteen now? I can't believe they couldn't…" He trailed off. I wanted to get out; I could see his rage building. A small vein was forming over his left eyebrow, and his face was growing red.

"GO," he yelled finally, waving the knife at me. "Get out of my office and go do your job like I'm paying you to do." He shoved the folder towards me, and I took it without noticing.

I didn't need to be told twice. I stood up to leave, probably too eagerly, for the two men from before were already there, hoisting me out of my own chair. They walked me out of the office, and to the elevator, where I was accompanied by another older man with a handgun. He did not have a pokeball. I left the building in a daze, and strode past the corpse of the young secretary. I tried not to look; there was already a crowd gathering, and I heard one man say, "Yeah, it's the third one this week. Whoever works here has been sending them down every time they mess up. My wife's scared to death that she'll be next, and he just keeps paying off the police…"

In that moment, a kid moved out of the way, and I saw her face again as I walked by. I felt sick. What was once the nicest thing I'd seen in days wasn't even recognizable. I could almost see the mush of her brain on the sidewalk, but an older man blocked it.

I made my way to my car. After fumbling around in my pocket for a while, I found my keys. I sat down, closed the door, and placed both hands on the steering wheel to settle my nerves. I hadn't even noticed, but I had left his office with the file. Apparently I had set it in the passenger seat without noticing. I was never this rattled. I had to calm down.

As I started the ignition and drove out of the empty parking lot and past the crowd surrounding the beautiful receptionist's corpse, I wondered, what had I gotten myself into?