Subject: [PW] The Red Pokeball Diaries (pt1)
Date: Friday, August 27, 1999 7:48 AM
THE DIARIES OF RAFAEL DOMINGUEZ (TR ELITE)
Awake with a horrifying hangover.
Last night I made the decision to hold a solid, one-man celebration of
the hatching of my evil scheme. It is a particularly good one, better
than the one involving selling omelettes made of Chansey eggs (lie) and
even better than the one involving starting a cult to the Pokegods.
(Also a lie, but it made me enough money for a case of Chateau Roquet
To this end I went out drinking with the blackshirts. I must point out
immediately that it is not the policy of the elite to hang around with
the common Rocket Thugs. The reason I deigned to enrich their pathetic
lives with my scintillating repartee was so that I could further indulge
my hatred for our dispatch driver. Mondo, for such is his monniker, is a
pathetic little oik whose parents probably bought him into the elite
through a training school, and whose white TRE shirt is an insult to the
one I wear. Amongst the ranks it is a favourite trick to pour alcohol
down his throat and watch him bump into things.
After we had had some fun popping the poor little lamb's skull for a
while by showing him doctored pictures from the internet of Agent
Musashi doing unspeakable things with her treasured Arbok, the evening
moved on and we staggered into the streets in high spirits. It was at
this point that one of the soldiery offered me a puff on a cigarette
which he claimed had been enriched with pure dried Oddish leaves. Well,
I was drunk and the image of Mondo red in the face and trying to hold
his Pokedex over his groin were fresh in my memory, so I agreed.
And that is how I come to be staggering along the road to the Psychic
Gym, trying desperately to keep bits from falling off my throbbing
skull. I hope I don't have to do the motto today. If any fledgeling
Pokemon trainers show up, I may just call an airstrike and chalk it up
Arrived at Saffron. Evil Monthly is sold out at every single newsagent.
Spent a delightful day hanging around the bins at the Psychic Gym. I
called one of the blackshirts in to relieve me on a spurious excuse, but
this lasted exactly as long as took for him to start telling jokes.
"Have you heard that the Boss has discovered a new type of Pokemon in
the south?" Sincerity.
"No, please enlighten me." Genuine interest.
"It's called a Kway-Gom. They're going to establish an unofficial gym
dedicated to the training of them." Totally straight.
"Really?" Walking straight into it.
"Yes. They're going to call it Kway-Gom Gym."
That was at 1400 hours. At 1736 my quarry emerged to smoke a cigarette.
I stopped pounding the blackshirt, wiped the blood off my gloves and
"Citizen of Saffron," I said in an official tone. "The Elite of Team
Rocket require your assistance."
The poor, lab-coated prole drew back in horror and his new romantic
hairstyle went all of a flutter. God, I hate psychics. "B-b-but… No!" he
whined. "Team Rocket are evil! We of the Pokemon League will never give
aid to one such as-"
I slapped him very hard across the face with my gloved hand. His 80s
poodle-rocker hair flapped around him fist in a satisfying manner.
"You are obviously unaware of who it is that is paying your wages," I
"Wh-what do you mean?" he stammered. Good, he was frightened. As long as
he was too frightened to get his Pokemon out, I was home free for now.
"Oh, for Goddish's sake," I growled, rolling my eyes theatrically. "Team
Rocket OWN the Pokemon League. Surely you must have wondered why we're
allowed to control the most powerful Gym in the land?"
His face bounced wildly between disbelief and terror for a few seconds,
and then he fled.
He stayed in the Gym for the rest of the night, allowing me to put the
next stage of my plan into operation. Rounds on and two inclusive to me,
My quarry nervously leaves the Gym, looking around on every side.
Presumably. I'm not there to see this, as I am encamped outside his
house approximately half a mile away.
He trots back to his accommodation, where his wife is nervously waiting
for him. I climb a tree and watch through the window. Aaaaah. She's
showing him the flowers I had delivered for them, to congratulate their
daughter on passing her Pokemon Tech entrance exams. Attached to the
flowers is a picture of me, smiling. I pull out my binocs and take a
thermograph of him. Hmm, cold sweat. I always thought that was just a
figure of speech. Oh well, we all live and learn.
I accost him on the way to work that morning. He looks at me with a
hunted look poking out from above his sleep-ringed eyes.
"Good morning," I say to him pleasantly.
"Look," he says. "I don't know what you want, but it's not going to
work. I may not trust Natsume… any more… but I can still pull strings in
the gym. I can have my daughter surrounded at all times by the most
talented psychics in the town. People who can make your worst nightmares
come true if you mess with them."
I pat him reassuringly on the shoulder. "My dear fellow," I say. "Of
course you can. What did you think was going to happen to your daughter
if you defied us?"
The penny drops. His face falls. I have him.
Thought for the day: I will never understand the boss.
Have you ever been to the Team Rocket game centre in Celadon? I spent
some time there working as a blackshirt, and the amount of Abras,
Dratinis and other rare and powerful Pokemon and training manuals he
shifts through that place is staggering. And what are we operatives
lumbered with? Whatever we can get our hands on. Why not just cut his
losses and give us some of them? A tooled-up team of Rocket thugs with
Dragonairs and Scythers should be just what he wants. Hmmmm… Or is it?
Not that I'm bitter of course. I like my Pokemon just the way they are.
Take mine - Spearow (my Zapdos) and Persian (my Mewtwo). Spiteful.
Jealous. I can really identify with Pokemon like that. Makes them all
the more easy to manipulate. Do I really want a proud creature like
Dragonair? I'm not bitter. Do you hear me, I said I'M NOT BITTER!!!
The long-haired dandy from the Gym returned my Persian today, having
taught it Psybeam as I requested. God, I love to see people grovel. The
Mewtwo looked as ungrateful and thin as ever. Honestly, these creatures.
I take a Pokemon that nobody else would raise (I mean, let's face it -
nobody wants Persians, they're petty and mean), and I give it a chance
to masquerade as one of the most powerful animals in existance. All it
has to put up with is not eating occasionally, for a few weeks at a
time. And is it grateful? Gah.
I can't wait to run into a naďve trainer. I'm bored as hell, I haven't
had a drink for days and I'm in exactly the mood to kick some ass.
Left for Celadon. Wine, women and gambling.
No Poke-brats on the road today.
Or today. Bugger.
He came into view just as the sun began to set. Scruffy jacket, one
Pokeball (probably a Caterpie), Official League Hat tilted backwards at
a rakish angle: in short, prey.
I leaped out on him as he was rounding a corner, and shouted, "Roketto
Dan Sanjo! Shiroi Ashita Da!" (Memo to myself: Something still missing.
Try a theme tune.) Almost immediately, he let rip with his only
Pokeball. A huge flash of light opened in front of me. My bowels begin
to twitch as I survey the Tauros snorting in front of me. Oh well,
fortune favours the brave.
"MEWTWO! GO!" I bellow and hurl my Persian down. Ah, that's shaken him a
little. Obviously too young to know what one looks like. Come to think
of it, what DOES a Mewtwo look like? The Boss says they're thin and
feline… oh well, no time for idle whimsy.
"MEWTWO! PSYBEAM!" The moment of truth arrives as a thick, evil-looking
beam sears through the air from the jewel on my Persian's forehead. I
stand back and wait for the Tauros to fall.
What it does, in fact, is take a few bemused steps backward and rubs its
forehead with one of its front hooves.
Brilliant. I should have known. Jon Bon Jovi back at the Gym gipped me.
I have one short think about standing in the Pokemon League stadium and
shouting "NOW! SLIGHT HEADACHE BEAM!" and shake my head sadly. Ah well.
Nil desperandum. Time for a backup plan.
"…and that was just a TASTE of the true power of the Team Rocket Elite!"
I yell dramatically. "Surrender now, or your precious pet will me good
for nothing but HAMBURGER!!!"
He hesitates. I know what this means. This has turned into a game of
chicken. Well, fortune favours the brave.
"Mewtwo… Psybeam! FULL POWER! RIP THIS THING'S SKULL OPEN!"
That clinches it. He panics and returns the thing to his hand, squealing
"Nooooo! Please, mister Rocket! Don't hurt Tauros!"
I smile, tear the ball from his hand and shove him aside.
"Hey!" He shouts from the ground. "Give that-"
"Mewtwo," I say, "Turn your power on this child. I want to see how much
pain he can take before his brain starts bleeding out of his nose."
I stroll towards Celadon, tossing the ball up and down. This thing will
fetch a princely price at the Game Centre - enough to keep me drunk and
well fed for a month. Then a nasty though occurs to me.
That kid could reach Saffron tomorrow, and one of the Jennies could
easily catch up with me by bike before I reach sanctuary. I decide to
radio for backup.
The Team Rocket dispatch Jeep arrives. I wonder which driver they've
sent this time?
*These pages filled in with badly-drawn cartoons of Mondo dying in
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