From: <> Subject: [PW] The Red Pokeball Diaries (pt1) Date: Friday, August 27, 1999 7:48 AM THE DIARIES OF RAFAEL DOMINGUEZ (TR ELITE) August 5th 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 anyhow.) 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 to expenses. August 6th Arrived at Saffron. Evil Monthly is sold out at every single newsagent. Bugger. August 7th 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 approached him. "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 said levelly. "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, I think. August 8th 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. August 9th 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!!! August 10th 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. August 11th Left for Celadon. Wine, women and gambling. No Poke-brats on the road today. August 12th Or today. Bugger. August 13th Bingo. 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." He flees. August 14th 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. August 15th The Team Rocket dispatch Jeep arrives. I wonder which driver they've sent this time? August 16-18th *These pages filled in with badly-drawn cartoons of Mondo dying in amusing ways* Sent via Share what you know. Learn what you don't.