Repost in an effort to encourage me to write chapter 2 after two years of this sitting around. I warn first that this is a humour created piece of writting. I piss take things you may not agree with nor understand, please respect that this will not be to everybody's taste nor does it try to be. A lot of references are towards life in Britain, amongst other things, so they may go over your head. Truth be told they might not but there we go.
See how many piss takes I inserted or indeed references I've chucked in there you can find
This is written to be a wtfable thing, not my usual type of writting. Given my wierd sense of humour... yeah. I think I editted it to catch typos, not sure.
Ps. Mr. Pokeball owns your socks.
The Not Too Serious Adventures of Nick, Hero Of The Plot
Chapter 1 – Adventures Begins and Soup is Made
Well, I understand we should go back really before starting, inform you of the very plot to commence and all that. Here I am trying to drop you already into a poor destined boy’s tale of woe and idiocy, which is a little unfair per say isn’t it? I do apologise.
For you see, this tale begins with a mere 12-year-old boy, thrown out his excited mother’s house for a journey of a lifetime, so she says, into a world of adventure, which he does not want.
I am sure you may have heard such words before surely countless times, children of 10 whom used to be the ones kicked out their houses to often end up eaten by Arbok and… other such pleasantries. Since that time however a law has been brought in, which seems to only exist in order to infuriate the parents, as the children were far too immature to understand the basic concepts of the “outside”.
It states clearly on that scrap of illustrious paper for children to be at least 11 years of age as of course, an 11 year old will surely have much more sense in a single year extra at home. Logic at it’s finest you may agree!
The snake Pokemon and even the foul violet globs have never been rounder or as round as can be considered before maybe a diet is in order.
To be 12 though and to have not left, a stigma fixates on that so strongly. I mean really, how would a mother live with herself for committing such an atrocity?! Bah she deserved such out-casting from her town, shunned I say!
‘This is for your oh so precious daddy,’ she would ramble endlessly, ‘you’re doing this for daddy, just for daddy, yes all done by daddy’s precious little boy!’ always while moving on the rather flimsy rocking chair within their home to the sound of each floorboard creak. These words repeated over and over about this utterly non-existent father, quite normal affairs really.
You must wonder of course how a boy with such an excitable mother, one who set about dancing and screaming till she was arrested and awarded an ASBO by the neighbours whenever she heard a word with the letter P in it, how on earth he stayed remotely “normal.”
Answer? Just a wandering miracle.
Today lacks any kind of speciality in reality other than being anymore than part of this formerly mentioned tale of woe. Just another Wednesday it is for the pick up of new starter Pokemon, all the other days are generally booked for the lab owner’s sunbathing and tan session you see. Why bother weekly then? Because who doesn’t love those little bundles of wrathful joy that is a new Pokemon generation!
All the more ideal for a deranged mother to shoo her son out the door while going
‘Stay out, you’re a big precious little boy now taaa~’, before blocking it shut with the rocking chair on the inside and then in turn rambling how her infinitely precious little boy is finally going out into the world.
So when a backpack is shoved into his arms and he is thrown out the door as he was momentarily before, what is he to do? Cause mild profanity and stomp over the to lab of course! It is a very good thing that those boots were made for walking as well as stomping otherwise they might be not as good for the agitated trainer to stomp in.
Now, standing before the door with a somewhat scowling face and crossed arms would be the hero of our tale, supposedly destined to save us all from imminent destruction according to some fanciful cryptic documents and to do what nobody ever could do before him.
At least, according to the script.
With his rather eccentric mother’s words still driving him from turning away from the possible mightiest of adventures that only the previous week others had set out for the same, he sighs a slight before opening the great lab doors with a firm tug and into his grudgingly accepted decision.
‘Ah there you are HERO, I was waiting for you!’
‘My name is Nick, NICK!’ the young hero hisses angrily slamming the door behind him.
Within the hallowed Laboratory walls of pristine and white as though untouched by the hand of man or somebody had just taken a Flash Wipe to the area. Where not a book or paper lay out of place on bookshelf or desk is where the quest giver be like some deranged place prop.
Standing perfectly still as quest givers may when not yet “A”ed at nor clicked do while hosting pixel perfect and well-gelled spike of hair, Professor Chestnut happens to be in the place of. After a few dragged out moments for illusionist effect, he tilts his head ever so slightly with a floorboard creak, seemingly in an almost zombie like stasis as his eyes stare blankly without life. All the while during these fanciful affairs hosting the eerily grasped penny box in his hand.
It all speaks of some cheap budget horror flick, somehow.
With a curious frown, our hero walks up to the professor with the greatest of care should the older man suddenly jump out at him for some reason. Frowning further, he looks that bit more unnerved in expression as the Professor doesn’t even seem to be breathing either…
Making a face at the predicament he has found himself in, he gingerly pushes at the held box with a single fingertip just to see if would do anything or indeed cause the man to speak again. It just seemed to encourage the puzzling thought of why such a flimsy piece of cardboard is being held at all.
As his hand is withdrawn, text decides to appear in a classic digitised font on the front of the penny box with even the horrible green colour of those old fashion types.
“Insert coin above”, it reads.
Well there did seem to be no aides around to help with this matter, no box of goodies or other help around in the form of a red and golden chest... With a mild shrug, Nick takes out a single coin from his magically produced pocket and then drops it into the box with a satisfying clunk.
‘Ah this’ll be going straight to my pension fund! Thank you good sir! Riiiight then HERO! What starter Pokemon would you like? I hear the Squirtle dish is simply divine!’ Chestnut’s shouts out with a little foot tap easily flooring the startled boy who hadn’t done anything more than putting 1p into the coin slot.
The Professor hardly seems to notice; his eyes and sudden spasms seeming more akin to sugar rush then human as he parades around clutching his little box.
‘Are you insane or just old?’ Nick grumbles rubbing his head a slight as he sits up, mildly cursing the odd man for making him jump like that when it was he who wasn’t moving before after all!
Not to mention, this guy is supposed to be a high-qualified Professor? All the while amongst the cursing he ponders while he trying to ignore the overly eager looking man standing before him with a too big a grin for his features now the dance was complete.
‘So which Pokemon started would you like then HERO? I’ve got a nice Chu and Berry dish for a delightful little mix, Bulb and Roots for those with a salad taste, Lizard Skin and Vegetables for those growing bones or a lovely warm Squirtle broth all waiting for you! So which you gonna have, hm? Hm?’ Chestnut jabbers with clasped hands before doing a little twirl at the thought of his special dishes on the way, all in his special pink apron.
No, that apron was not there before he started dancing.
Slapping his forehead before groaning with disgust at the images conveyed, Nick glances up at the pseudo dancer with the frank remark.
‘You do realise you’re not supposed to eat them right; you know cus they’re for TRAINERS not their stomachs? Plus my name is NICK!’
Chestnut looks utterly flabbergasted for a brief moment before hugging the little moneybox with tears almost in his tawny eyes.
‘But they are simply fabulous, HERO! Here! You sit yourself right down on this oh so shiny floor and I’ll make us some special SQUIRTLE Soup! How does that sound? Come, come, Mr. Pokeball let us make haste!’
Quickly discarding his shoes with a clatter, Professor Chestnut proceeds to slide his away across the floor in classic sock skidding fashion, aka sideways, while a floating Pokeball that just appears out of nowhere follows his eccentric stride by spinning as though it had been thrown.
All the while leaving a very baffled looking rookie behind.
‘Oh my, Mr. Pokeball, such an exciting day indeed! A penny for the poor, such a late starter deserves an extra special treat don’t you think? Hold still my dear little bathing SQUIRTLE, it’s bobbing time!’ Chestnut claps with a jitter.
The Squirtle in question looks a little puzzled as it munches on a fresh Lum berry, inwardly wondering why the Professor was talking to a floating Pokeball, not at all bothered by the large metal pot beside it bringing water to boil.
The last thing it manages to get out is an Squir? As it is scooped up before stuffed in the water and a lid placed on top.
‘Now Mr. Pokeball We must leave it be for five minutes while he bob, bob, bobs! Yes, yes I’m sure this will be a truly delightful treat too, I’m so happy you agree!’ Professor Chestnut gleams as he slides off to prepare some good vegetables, two bowls and a bendy straw.
As the dubbed Mr. Pokeball spins over the boiling broth, Nick decides better than to listen to the deranged man’s words. Ignoring the shoes that were now somehow fading from existence he is in far more favour of looking for one of the real starter Pokemon. He didn’t cook them surely, right?
Thinking better than to find out really what was going on where the old man had skidded to, Nick begins to look for at least a potential door that could be where the Pokemon are so he can get one, get out and be done with it well away from all the insane people.
Yeah, that seemed like the best idea.
‘Well Mr. Pokeball, would you also like some soup? The little shell bobber is looking a delightful treat despite I have not yet dared lift the lid! I’m sure his sunglasses are sitting firmly on its nose! With a bit of seasoning, and Oxo cube this will be the best one yet!’
Mr. Pokeball seems pleased with the matter, spinning its approval with a slight tilt on its axis.
‘Oh how delightful you agree! I trust you to stir as I put the vegetables in! Would you like a spoon to use?’
It does not appear that Mr. Pokeball is in need of said spoon; already somehow holding one as it floating spins it’s merry little way.
As the broth is stirred with a rabid sock puppet trying to gnaw at the Professor’s toes, Nick who should quite rightfully be hogging the camera time has finally found a door hopefully leading to where the hidden starter Pokemon is located. Unfortunately for him however, it is not a real door but something drawn in something little more than red wax crayon due to bad description.
Even the doorknob is a rather crude squatangle shape, ever so menacing with potential paper cuts in its might flatness.
‘If this is just as warped a the rest of here, hm, see no reason this shouldn’t work’
Thinking better to risk his hands, Nick narrows his eyes with a grin taking his backpack off. Grabbing one of the arm straps tight, Nick holds it near his feet eyeing the door.
‘MY NAME IS NOT HERO!’ he shrieks loudly in anger, suddenly throwing the backpack at the crayon drawing that dutifully scrunches to create a gaping papery hole at the sheer might of those scary capitalised words.
‘This place just gets weirder and weirder,’ Nick comments with a minor gesture with his hand for the sheer randomness before him. Hearing no alarm or war siren for his troubles, he hunches up a tad to push himself through the no longer scrawled upon wall.
‘Food glorious food! Hot Grumpig and mustard! While we're in the mood – Cold Ditto and custard!’
It is Nick’s turn to look flabbergasted from his mini charge and its result. Before him lay rows upon rows of Pokemon, sitting at a picnic bench style set up waving a bowl with plastic spoon each all the while singing together. None seemed bothered about being in a cold colour drained cell room nor the fact their own colour looks subdued from the lack of proper lighting.
No, singing is far more important when your tummy is rumbling than the lack of paintbrush artistics.
‘Pecha pudding and saveloys! What next is the question!’
Falling backwards and landing on his backside, Nick just blinks with his mouth a tad agape in utter, WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON HERE?! thought crawling. The Pokemon ignoring him entirely to continue the rhythmic tap of their spoons upon where they are seated.
With the gracious passing of a further ten minutes leaves a freaked out child chance to escape through the paper hole, away from the sing and dance spectacular now taking place upon the table, the broth is complete! The shell had been dry cleaned then handed back to the Squirtle with a small cup full of soup for it’s trouble, only fair you see.
Nick leans against the papery door panting heavily from the shock absurdity and exertion of pulling himself back through with his backpack is the now un-tearable door. He looks worn with paper cuts ravishing his pure skin and beyond the obvious heartbeat running six marathons at the same time, he seems otherwise all right as heroes over do mind.
‘Ah HERO! Thank goodness you are still here! I do so hope you enjoyed my dancers, they have been rehearsing for the Christmas to come since the past one came and went!’ Professor Chestnut proclaims with a swift gesture using his hair.
His pace is slower with a moderate walk over frantic skids, coming towards the new trainer holding a tray readily prepared with the food and a few Pikachu shaped biscuits as a dipable treat. His apron is still being worn in all its pink glory around his waist and there is a blue Mew on his shoulder looking quite content holding a spoon.
A blue Mew?!
Very understandably, this further shock is too much for Nick’s heart so he faints completely and utterly.