-dies- 53 reviews?!?! I don't deserve this. THANK. YOU. GUYS. SO. MUCH! ROCK ON!

Dedicated To: Arc Knight! (again?) for continuously being an awesome beta. He is awesome. Go read and review his hilarious fics. NOW. (well, after you R&R this one. . . heheh. I am such a hypocrite.)
Thanks To: Arc Knight for being the awesome beta of this story!
Warnings: Suggestive humor (please don't be offended by it D:); and attempted humor. (man, I hope I don't appear vulgar. . .)

Without further ado, let the chapter commence!

Drew Rosalind Must Die
CHAPTER FOUR: Beginning of a Conspiracy
An Alternate-Universe Pokemon Fanfic by Galbinus

The car ride back home is not boring at all—though he emanates a coy aura, Wally is actually quite hilarious. Then again, I reckon that I must be easy to please. . . or perhaps someone entertaining me is such a rare thing that I laugh at anything he says. Twice, we are so carried away in our jokes that we nearly crash into other people, and once we rushed a red light out of sheer lack of observation.

At last, Wally pulls to a stop in front of my house. Flushing red from laughing at some joke or another, I open the car door and step outside. As the cool evening air rushes into my lungs, clearing my mind, I realize just how late I must be and all the blood drains from my face.

"Crud!" I exclaim, hurriedly fastening my fanny pack around my waist. Wally, who has also come out of his car, raises an eyebrow. Turning apologetically towards the green-blonde, I say as quickly as I can, "I had a wonderful, er, time with you, but I really have to go home now, so. . . see you later!"

Hoping that I don't appear to hasty, I flash him a smile and scuffle back to my house, feeling heat slowly returning to my face. Walking up the concrete steps leading to the small flat, I tentatively push open the door and close it, as quietly as possible, behind myself.

To my horror, I discover Mom and Max already seated at the dining table; there is one plate of cold-looking spaghetti with meat sauce on the tablecloth, but I don't try to go near it, despite near-starvation clawing at the insides of my stomach. Doing so would only insure my death. Mom's already piercing blue eyes are glazed over with anger. Max looks smug. The two were not a good combination for me.

Attempting a weak smile, I try to walk to the stairway—forget dinner! I have my own life to consider!—without drawing attention to myself, but this is rather like trying to pull yourself out of a five-feet-tall pitcher of tar (which I don't recommend you to do. Trust me. I've tried. I now speak to the firemen in Springfield on a first-name basis.)

"Maybelline. Sapphire. Maple." My mother grinds out, accentuating each syllable of my name. I gulp, hopefully not too loudly. Slowly, I pivot on the spot to face her, noting with fear that her face is absolutely contained—a poker face, if there ever was one. And this could mean nothing good.

Gulping again, I manage to choke out, "Y—yes, mother," and add as an afterthought, "M-mother d-dear?"

"Don't mother-dear me," Mother snarls. I now truly fear for my life. Shaking, I attempt surreptitiously slip off my fanny pack, but that action is a little difficult when you're trembling as furiously as I am. Luckily for me, however, neither Mom or Max seem to care all that much—the former seems only intent on redding steadily.

"O-okay, mom," I say hesitantly.

My mother lets out a very slow, very exasperated, and very loud sigh. Max, who had previously been busy exchanging between the two tasks of looking smug at me and reading some book on Physics, is now looking understandably apprehensive. Oh, shoot. If Max is worried—Max, the perfect little angel—then I must be in all sorts of disaster.

"Maybelline," Mom begins again. I brace myself. "Ever since we moved here, you've been acting a little. . . weird." I relax slightly, then tense again. "But just because we've moved, that does not give you an excuse to come home so late at night. Tell me, May, what were you doing after school?"

"Detention," I say, staring shamefully at my knees.

"Detention?" Mom says, sounding both surprised and disappointed. Well, I'm glad that she's not fuming mad, at least; but this sort of cold discontent is almost worse than pure anger. Max smirks. I resist the temptation to thwack my brother across the head. "Maybelline Sapphire. . . this comes as a surprise." She frowns. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I forgot," I blur out, hoping I don't sound like I'm lying, because I'm not. "It just, well, sort of escaped me; and I, well, I guess I didn't think of phoning you or anything. . ."

Mom heaves another great sigh. "How typical of you, May," She continues icily. I feel my dignity sink lower and lower with each word. "You will definitely be punished for this. Hmm. . . let me think. . ." She pauses, looking as if she were contemplating something of utmost importance.

I hold my breath, hoping that Mother won't be too harsh. Given her record of unusual albeit infrequent punishments that she gives me, I could go either way. Sometimes she lets me off just by washing whichever sports car she drives at the time, and other times. . . well. . . I prefer not to dwell on the matter.

"You must write me an essay," Mom says finally. It's now my turn to frown—an essay? What sort of punishment was that? Nevertheless, I continue to listen to her speak. "It must be at least one thousand words long—any less, and you're writing another essay. Anyway, this will be an essay on what you think honesty and integrity, and not forgetting to tell your mother that you have a detention means. You'll hand this in when this term ends." Finishing, Mom leans back on her chair, looking proud with her accomplishment.

Trying my best not to look to relieved, I nod timidly and, deciding that I might as well satisfy my hunger before I faint of starvation, I sit down and begin eating. The food's not so bad.

Then, I remember something else. "Uh, Mom," I say, trying my best not to look nervous, "I have another detention today, and, uh, you'll have to pick me up at school at five today. . ."

Mother's face turns a lovely shade of tomato.

Later

The next day at lunch, I slide onto my usual table—by myself, of course. Picking up the plastic eating utensils, I lackadaisically prod at my lunch: a pile of reddish-brown goop, with ball-like features poking out at odd angles, and the customary loaf of rock-hard bread.

Sighing, I force myself to ladle a spoonful of the meat-sauce and smear it across the bread. Reluctantly, I lift it to my lips and take an unwilling bite. It's far too salty, but I don't complain.

Glancing around the lunchroom, I notice that Turquoise is seated with the good-looking scarlet-haired boy—Silver, I think, that was his name—and flirting extravagantly. It's a rather odd sight; I never thought of Silver, who I never heard utter a single word, as exactly a flirter, per say, but. . . I suppose I'm glad for Turquoise. She looks like she's having the time of her life.

Allowing my gaze to flit over the heads of the other students, I note that Misty is busy chastising her camera-man—she's a reporter for the school news or something like that—some rather scrawny black-haired boy whose name I can't recall. He looks positively terrified, in any case—I can see spit flying from Misty's mouth. Poor kid. I feel real bad for him; I don't wish the wrath of the volatile-tempered orange-haired girl upon anyone.

Looking elsewhere, I see Dawn chatting animatedly with the orange-haired Zoey, who looks rather bored. However, the ginger-haired Kenny and the blond Tyson appear to be listening closely, although obviously unbeknownst to the excitable cheerleader. Lucas, who is Dawn's brother, is seated next to Tyson, though he's definitely not paying any attention to Dawn's words—he's far too engrossed in his book on microbiology to pay attention to anything else, and regularly drops great red dollops of his food onto the pages out of sheer inobservance. (1) Vaguely, I wonder what Dawn is talking about so heatedly, but it's probably makeup or something. (I don't like makeup, much. I always accidentally snap the tubes of lipstick.)

Taking my gaze elsewhere, I disturbingly note that a girl with black hair and a tall, violet-haired teacher dressed completely in green have been staring at me with intense dislike. Gulping, I look away, though I can still feel their chartreuse and amethyst glares boring into my back, respectively, and I have a feeling that they'll continue to do that for the rest of the lunching period.

Looking away again, I notice that willowy Marina, dressed incredibly scantily, is conversing with her ring of equally-scantily garbed friends. Another black-haired boy is seated a little apart from the girls with a blond boy who has the strangest looking cowlick; but just closely enough to still be able to be associated with the girls. What is their affiliation, anyway? Vegan Marina doesn't seem like the type to have many male friends, and hell knows that she wouldn't dare cheat on Drew, even though he's cheating on her quite stupendously.

Speak of the devil. An unnatural hush falls over the rowdy lunching students as the blue doors to the cafeteria part, revealing an entourage of robust male varsity basketball players. I recognize the mean-looking purple-haired teen and the equally mean-looking (and yet, queer) auburn-haired teen as part of the group. There are also two more boys, but I don't have the chance to recognize them.

The great Andrew Rosalind himself steps into the cafeteria. His bottle-green hair, I hate to admit, is rendered an even more alluring shade of green underneath the fluorescent lights, and his mere presence is enough to incur painfully high-pitched shrieks from most of the girl students (and some boy students.) Smirking, as if pleased by his easy accomplishments, he saunters his way through the crowd. Everyone respectfully parts for him. I wonder why they can stand him! Argh! Simply looking at his self-assured arrogance makes me want to tear my hair out. I compensate for this by tugging on my two brown side-bangs. He's a player, too—surely some rumor about his adulterous behavior should have gotten out; surely?

But, even as I disconcertedly watch Drew make his way through the group of lunching teenagers, I can see the worshippers' philosophy—he is simply too perfect. The way his silky bangs falls so casually, so elegantly, into his perfectly-formed feline emerald eyes; the way his lean but muscled body emanates a sort of heavenly vibe; the way he smirks so impossibly confidently, is just so. . . surreal.

And hot, but I don't want to admit that fact to myself.

In short, Drew Rosalind seems to have ascended to. . .

A god.

And worshipping of a god was all right, right? Because whoever thinks that his irregular attractiveness was normal, well. . . they're definitely insane or high on something. Still—Drew's a human, and humans have flaws; and I simply can't believe that nobody else has, before me, pointed them out.

Even as I try to assure myself that Drew isn't as perfect as he appears to be, his crystalline celadon eyes meets my own for the briefest of moments.

My heart freezes.

Then he looks away, and my heart defrosts just as quickly as it has frozen up. It still beats rapidly, and only resumes its normal rate when Drew has picked up his lunch and moved to his 'table'—butting off some other kids who had been sitting there, but they scamper off all too happily.

My thoughts flit back to yesterday's detention, and the operation 'D.R.M.D.' that Misty briefly mentioned. I have a feeling that she thought of the name for the plan—Drew Rosalind Must Die—on a gist, but I have another, stronger feeling that the four of us have to do our best to overthrow the subtle tyranny Drew Rosalind has set in Oak High.

Later

Detention (again.)

I manage to arrive there first this time, not wanting to be admonished for being late like the last time. Immediately, I set off to work; picking up two thick hard-covered novels from a table, I locate their correct spot and stuff them into place.

A few minutes later, Marina arrives. Naturally, she is the quietest of the three girls, so she doesn't say much, but also sets off to work. Another minute flies by, and Dawn announces her presence loudly with an uproarious, "Hey everybody! I'm here! Did y'all miss me?"

Dawn misfiles all of her books, leaving me—as Marina wouldn't degrade herself to picking up after others—to file all of her misfiled books. It's rather irritating work, as she misfiles excruciatingly quickly. A solid five minutes pass, and Misty finally arrives.

The two blue-haired girls look deliriously happy—they finally have a chance to deride the usually so composed Misty. The orange-haired girl, however, give neither a chance to do so. Swiftly retying her side-ponytail, she announces in a snobbish sort of way, "Hello, girls. Now, let's get down to business."

Without so much as glancing at the pile of books we were supposed to file over the week, Misty swaggers over to the whiteboard-on-wheels again. I hastily stuff another dictionary that Dawn misfiled into some shelf and look curiously at what the orange-haired reporter was doing.

Taking a marker from a nearby table, Misty loudly slings her sea-green backpack across the back of a chair and begins making marks on the white board. Dawn stops in her misfiling to look at what Misty was doing, as well; and somewhat grudgingly, Marina looks at what Misty is doing, too. It turns out that the orange-haired girl was simply titling the board in fat, cursive writing, 'Ideas Of Ways to Overthrow Drew Rosalind.' Underneath that, she added in tiny handwriting, 'who is actually Misty's bf, but w/e.'

Fortunately, neither Dawn nor Marina see this subtitle, as they are too lost in thought, undoubtedly pondering how to accomplish the task. I, too, wonder how we can achieve our objective, but it seems rather impossible. Misty coughs significantly and motions to the board. Looking, I note that she's written down, 'What Makes Drew Rosalind So Desirable As a Man.'

Immediately, Dawn pipes up, "His beautiful green eyes." Misty scribbles on the whiteboard, 'eyes'.

Sighing wistfully, Marina says, "His hot body." Misty nods fervently in agreement and writes on the whiteboard, 'hot body.' Then, she underlines 'hot' three times for emphasis. And another time for good measure.

All at the same time, the three girls say, "His silky green hair." Misty writes in loopy cursive, 'Hair' on the board.

I feel a little inadequate as I have failed to contribute anything to this discussion.

Unfortunately, the three girls notice this and turn to me expectantly, obviously waiting for me to make a comment. Hesitantly, I suggest, "He's, uh, he talks really silkily and enchantingly. . .?" Well, I can't say that I'm lying. He hasn't exchanged a full sentence with me, though I can still recall the fluidness those words had rolled off his tongue.

Dawn, Misty, and Marina stare at me for a few moments, before bursting out laughing all at the same time. I frown slightly; is my comment really that dumb? I don't think so, but Max tells me (and Ruby at some times) that I can be a little dense.

"What's so funny?" I say confusedly, scratching my red bandana.

"Mary," Marina wheezes between gulps of air and laughing fits. I simply can't be bothered to correct her. "You. . . crack me up. Drew's voice is definitely above average, as is all parts of his body,"—Misty and Dawn suddenly stop laughing to ogle her, their faces absolutely deadpan—"but. . . it's certainly not what makes him so hot! Sheesh, May, have you ever had a boyfriend?"

There is silence as blood drains and then floods back into my face.

"You've never had a boyfriend before?!" Dawn shrieks, absolutely appalled. Marina and Misty seem still too busy trying to digest this fact. At this precise moment, the hawk-nosed librarian rounds a shelve and shoots us a patronizing glare before sinisterly stalking away. I don't reply—do I really need to? Besides, I'm pretty sure that Dawn was being rhinoceros. No, wait. . . rhetorical. I always get the two confused.

Misty and Marina, shaken out of their reveries, look toward me now as if I am carrying some sort of highly contagious disease. Influenza, maybe. Dawn, meanwhile, is too disgusted to make another comment.

"Y-you mean, all this time we've been listening to a rookie like you?" Misty asks; also, a rhetorical question. "Goodness. All this time I thought we were following the advice of a master. . . and now. . ." She looks very close to an emotional breakdown. I think I can understand—from what I know of her, Misty appears to be a very organized (although equally aggressive) type of person.

"Great. Just wonderful," Marina groans, rubbing her forehead. "What are we going to do about operation D.R.M.D., now? We haven't even gotten past the first stage!"

In a desperate attempt to save my life and my reputation in my new school, I pipe up, "Well, we can still continue on with Misty's plan, and, like, try to find a way to exploit Drew or something. . ."

They turn toward me interestedly. Hurriedly, I rack my brain for more ideas, and voice the first thing that comes to mind.

"Well, Andrew Rosalind would be nothing if he didn't have his self-confidence," I begin, feeling a little apprehensive, "And, um, if he didn't have his arrogance then he'd be, you know, very weak and. . . stuff." I'm surprised that the other three girls are nodding along like I was giving a life-altering lecture, but I'm not complaining. "So. . . the best way to take away a man's pride is to take away his. . ."

Dawn, Misty, and Marina finish the sentence for me. "Manliness."

But none of us knew how to even begin achieving that. We stand in silence for a solid minute before the librarian, having reached the end of her tether, barks out a shrill, "GET TO WORK BEFORE I CALL THE PRINCIPAL!"

Later

Wow. . . I can't believe that I've actually lasted a week in my new school. That's almost a new record for me.

However, it hasn't been exactly an easy week. In between trying to decipher the advanced jargon pouring out of Ms. Rock's mouth concerning quadratic functions and trigonometric theories, attempting to have a normal conversation with Wally without having his face turn scarlet, trying to juggle the pressure that all the detentions have forced upon me, stealing oblique glances at Drew Rosalind whenever I have the chance (I swear I do not know what possesses me at times like these), trying to look smart in front of Mr. Stone and Mr. L'eau (2) (darn, I never knew that art class could be so hard), and trying to not tear my hair out at the fact that Ruby has failed to reply to my email, well. . . things have been a little rough. Dawn, Marina, Misty, and I still haven't managed to finish filing all of the books we were supposed to have finished filing.

Right now, it's Saturday morning—09:23, if I remember correctly—and I'm trying to cram the last few moments of sleep before starvation kicks into full gear and also trying to forget that I have to go to work immediately after lunch. Max is playing annoying classical music from the next room. I groan as he plays along with it on his violin and piano—simultaneously. (I've no idea as to how he manages that task; I've also no idea how Mom and Max—as we're too cheap to hire movers—managed to move that huge piano upstairs without tearing a large chunk of wall off the frame of the house, but that's a different matter entirely.)

"Argh, shut up, Max!" I mumble to myself, burying my head under my red pillow. Despite the fact that I hate the flawless music that's pouring straight through the thin walls, I don't actually have the guts to tell him that he should do me a favor and never touch a violin, piano, or stereo again. Last time I tried, I ended up with purple hair for a fortnight. And just who has purple hair, anyway? (3)

To my surprise, it's not my bratty little brother who finally tells me to go downstairs and get some brunch, but my mother who first knocks on my door and lets herself in without waiting for a reply. Befuddled, I take my head out from other the pillow and stare questioningly at her.

More to my surprise, Mom's actually look cheerful, which hasn't happened since the night I told her about the whole detention thing. Her whole face radiates brilliance. It's a bit disturbing how joyful she can look at times. "May, you didn't tell me that you had friends coming over!" Mother says happily, seating herself on my red-painted chair without my permission—not that I command respect of any sort.

"I don't have friends coming over, Mom," I say, scratching the back of my bandana. Shoot, I forgot to take it off when I went to sleep—my head is going to look like tumbleweed when I remove it. "Well, actually, I do have a few. . ." I amend, thinking of Turquoise (who's spoken to me several times over the course of the week, though she's failed to remember my name) and Wally (who's remembered to remember my name.) I don't add 'I think,' which I probably should have, since I don't have any idea whether or not Turquoise and Wally think of me as their friend.

"Wow, that's great, May!" Mother beams at me, as if I've just told her that she's just won a million dollars in the lottery. "You haven't had a real friend since Professor Birch's kid, Brendan! And that was way back in Japan, too. Anyway, you better hurry up and change and go downstairs to meet your friends."

Knowing that it was useless to protest, I grab a new set of my outfit and drag my feet over to the bathroom, sighing as I close the door behind me. In record time, I change and brush my teeth, not bothering to untie my bandana for fear of the evil that lurks underneath. Trudging downstairs, I find out (to my surprise again) that Dawn, Misty, and Marina are seated at the dining table, munching on a couple of pancakes left over from the breakfast that I did not attend.

"Hey, Mary!" Dawn says happily, waving her hand at me. I notice that she's not wearing her usual beanie today. Instead, she has decided to display the great wonderfulness that is her (unnaturally shiny) azure hair to the world. I wonder why she picked my Saturday to do so. "We thought we'd come over here to discuss plans for Operation D.R.M.D.! And pshaww, your mum's hot! I thought she was your older sister at first. 'S pity you didn't inherit her hotness."

"How. . . wonderful," I say soberly, subtly flaunting my mastery of sarcasm. Casting a dark glare at my mother, I reluctantly seat myself at the end of the dining table, as far away from the three girls as possible; I note that they're all wearing outfits a little different from their usual school attires—the changes are all pertinent to a considerable lessening of the surface area of the clothes that are covering their skin (I learned that from Ms. Rock!)

Taking a loud bite out of her pancake and swallowing, Misty says, "Good morning, Mary. How does your day go so far?" Then, without waiting for me to continue, she says, "Whatever. I don't care. Let's get down to business."

Extravagantly, she dabs at her mouth with a tissue and gets to her feet. At an apt time, Mom leaves to go upstairs, probably to compliment Max on his musical talents. I look to Misty, who's seated herself on the couch and has pulled out a thick notebook and a blue ballpoint pin.

"So, I've been doing a little thinking over the week, but I still haven't managed to come up with any decent ideas," Misty says professionally, adjusting herself on the sofa so that she's facing us. I'm a little amazed at how obsessed she is—no, wait, all of them are—with this Drew Rosalind business. "Do any of you nitwits have any ideas?"

"No," Dawn and Marina say somberly, looking ashamed of themselves.

"No," I concur, continuing, "But just how did you find the address of my house?"

"Well, at first I tried asking Wally where you lived, since I thought I saw you talking to him the first afternoon of our detention, but he just flushed a really dark shade of crimson and looked away, not answering my question at all," Misty says dismissively, waving her hand. "Then I tried randomly asking people around the place—said it was for a school report, of course they replied, but all of them didn't know that you existed—but then some sophomore girl with black hair (4)—or was it dark gray, I can't tell—gave me this address, so I phoned up Dawn and Marina here and we drove in Dawn's mother's Ferrari over here."

It's a rather long procedure, but from the casual way Misty worded her sentences, you would have never been able to tell. However, I'm astounded that three girls three extremely different cliques have managed to band together just for this one cause. "Oh," I say dumbly.

Dawn takes this time to pull out a medicine bottle of some sort from her jellyroll bag and unscrew the cap, pouring a couple of light-colored tablets into her pale hands. Marina immediately assumes a stern expression.

"You really shouldn't be taking those pills, Dawn," Marina reprimands disapprovingly, shaking her head, "They're really bad for you. Plus, don't you know just how many cute little animals are killed by animal testing just to make those tablets. . .?"

"Hey!" Dawn retorts, "My mom takes these all the time! Guys take man-pills—or steroids, whatever you call 'em—all the time for sports! I just want to go up a cup size!"

Marina's eyes twitches repeatedly for a few moments, and she looks like she's gathering her thoughts for another rebuke. Misty, however, has dropped her notebook to the carpeted floor and stares at Dawn as if she were a goddess.

"Wait, Dawn, say that again," Misty says.

"Say what again?" Dawn asks, appearing confused.

"Just repeat what you last said one more time!"

"What, the part about going up a cup size—?"

"No, no, the part before that! Nobody cares what cup size your pathetically small breasts are!" Misty says, losing her already short temper with Dawn's understandable slowness. Well, so much for thinking that Misty thought the azure-haired girl was a goddess. Dawn turns a nasty shade of maroon, and while I grow more terrified by the threat of another fight, Marina steps in as the mediator.

"Hold on, girls," The cerulean-haired vegan says, thrusting her slender arms between the other two girls, "Dawn, Misty didn't mean to offend you; Misty, Dawn doesn't really get what you're saying—"

"She insulted my boobs!" Dawn shrieks, losing it. Afraid, I look to the stairs, expecting to see Mom thundering down any moment now, but the faint classical background music still plays on. "They're not small!"—I glance briefly towards Dawn's chest, and note that they really are kind of small, but wisely I do not voice my opinion—"They're a 'B' already!"

"Why, did you stuff your bra with a boxful of tissue?" Misty says, suppressing sniggers and failing at the task.

"Enough already!" I yell, waving my hands. Surprisingly (it seems that my life's now full of them), Dawn and Misty stop bickering, though they are still looking rather haughty. "Just chill! You don't need to get worked up over a little matter like this! In fact, this whole operation won't succeed if we can't even cooperate." Tiredly, I knead my forehead. "Ugh, Dawn, just repeat what you said before the whole cup-thing."

Huffing indignantly, Dawn says bitterly, "I said that guys also take pills—"

"That's it! That's it! That's how we'll bring down Drew Rosalind!" Misty hollers. I half-expect her to yell, 'eureka!', but that would have been a little embarrassing. "He takes pills, doesn't he, Dawn? Since he's the lead basketball player and you're the cheerleader, you should know this."

"Yeah, duh," Dawn says, rolling her eyes. "He takes them quite frequently, actually." Marina looks aghast, but Misty looks inspired. Me, I'm torn between.

"So I guess you could say that his steroids are his source of manliness," Misty says, her turquoise eyes flashing enigmatically. Dawn, Marina, and I don't need the orange-haired girl to spell it out for us, but she does anyway. "And since our original plan was to take away his manliness, if we put two and two together, that means that we should. . ."

All together, we finish, "Take away his pills." (5)

Author's Notes:

(1) I'm pretty sure I'm the first person to instigate a 'book-worm' Lucas. Eh. Worth a try.

(2) Mr. L'eau is the last name I gave to Wallace (aka the eighth/last gym leader in Ruby and Sapphire and the Champion in Emerald) in this fanfic, by the way. In case you did not know already, it means 'Water' in French.

(3) No offense to Harley, of course. I freakin' adore him, actually, but I'll stop spamming up the author's notes.

(4) . . . I seriously couldn't resist. Get it? You probably don't. Well, it doesn't matter too much.

(5) While replying to an email from the wonderful beta of this story (Arc Knight in case I have not emphasized that enough), I suddenly, erm, decided that I want to tell all of those who've watched John Tucker Must Die that I'm making a minor canonical change here. It won't be significant, but hopefully, it will add to the humor of this fic in the future. You'll see what I mean, in time. On the other hand, if you've never watched the film, kindly ignore this paragraph.

I spent eons on this, but it still came out horribly. . . -sighs- Well, I hope it wasn't too much of a disappointment. . . -cringes- Gosh, I really don't deserve any reviews, but I still want them anyway. :K Proves what a big hypocrite I am.

Anyway, much thanks to Arc Knight for his beta'ing work on this piece. (:

Now. . . review, please? I promise I'll try harder next time.

Pokemon Characters and Pokemon © Nintendo, Gamefreak, Satoshi T., and the rest.
John Tucker Must Die ©
20th Century Fox
Writing © Galbinus.
Do not redistribute.