"ANOTHER SEASONING FOR MY SEASON SOUP," sang the great chef Paccioretti as he pushed Winter into the pot. The old man dissolved rapidly as he was boiled alive, splitting into muscle and fat and gristle and bone until even that melted like an ice cube in a hot cup of tea.
"IT IS MOLTO FAMOSO, MY SEASON SOUP." Paccioretti had turned to me, noticing just now that I was standing and watching him in the doorway. "ALL THE BEAUTIFUL WOMEN AND MEN AND CHILDREN OF THE WORLD COME RUNNING FOR A TASTE."
I nodded at him, conspiratorially. "I remember Winter, not fondly," I told him. "I never had affection for the cold, nor the snow nor ice. But I do wonder if, since you melted the season down and put it in your soup, you'll be upsetting the natural order of things."
"THE ONLY ORDERS I CARE ABOUT ARE THOSE OF MY CUSTOMERS," scoffed the chef, pausing to wipe sweat off his brow onto his white jacket. "CUSTOMERS WHO CRAVE THE DELICIOUS SEASONS IN MY SOUP."
"Uh-huh," I said. Then I looked up to the ceiling, talking to the version of me writing this story. "You've run out of ideas on how to continue this, haven't you?" I was right; I had run out of ideas. There wasn't really anything to be done about it now, though.
"What's your favorite Pokémon?" I asked Paccioretti.
"ELGYEM."
"That's such a—" I shut my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose to stave off a coming migraine. "That's such a random pick for a favorite. Why Elgyem?"
"I DUNNO, THEY LOOK LIKE FUNNY LITTLE GUYS. PICCOLO ALIENO."
"Yeah, alright."