March282014
Cigarettes in Kanto
Synopsis:
There are some who say that the Gods are but mere teenagers pulling us like puppets through the hell that is this Poké-plane. They say that to these overseers, the Pokémon world is a whimsical land populated by strange and goofy-looking creatures one visits as a distraction from the inanity of their miserable lives.
If that be so, then the Gods are cruel bastards. I have seen no whimsy here. I know only numbness and endless repetition, such that my brothers and I have been reduced to shells of great men. We spend our days drinking, smoking, popping Rare Candies and Carbos tablets, loving women and Pokémon alike, all to stave off the existential, yet very real fear that we are props in a game for children.
My name is Remy. I am a scoundrel and, I admit, a murderer, but I am also a man, or at least what’s left of one. I wander this world in search of purpose, clarity, something to fill the holes acquired through a lifetime of wounds both self-inflicted and done unto me. This is the dream journal into which I record my living nightmares. This is Cigarettes in Kanto. 

Ex. 1
Ex. 2
Ex. 3

Cigarettes in Kanto

Synopsis:

There are some who say that the Gods are but mere teenagers pulling us like puppets through the hell that is this Poké-plane. They say that to these overseers, the Pokémon world is a whimsical land populated by strange and goofy-looking creatures one visits as a distraction from the inanity of their miserable lives.

If that be so, then the Gods are cruel bastards. I have seen no whimsy here. I know only numbness and endless repetition, such that my brothers and I have been reduced to shells of great men. We spend our days drinking, smoking, popping Rare Candies and Carbos tablets, loving women and Pokémon alike, all to stave off the existential, yet very real fear that we are props in a game for children.

My name is Remy. I am a scoundrel and, I admit, a murderer, but I am also a man, or at least what’s left of one. I wander this world in search of purpose, clarity, something to fill the holes acquired through a lifetime of wounds both self-inflicted and done unto me. This is the dream journal into which I record my living nightmares. This is Cigarettes in Kanto. 

Ex. 1

Ex. 2

Ex. 3

March112014
So this where it ends, with the wind struggling against my gelled-frozen, bleached hair, my eyes as glazed over as they’ve ever been. I am a Pokemon master at the entrance of the Elite Four, fulfilling a dead dream of a dead child. Yet my soul remains empty.
What has been gained? A paralyzing awareness of mortality, yes, an incalculable body count and hundreds of notches in bedposts dedicated to pokemon and trainers alike who all thought they could save me. I was beyond them all, a Gastly trapped in a material form, toeing the tightrope between life and death for the perverse amazement of my Kanto audience.
I hope you enjoyed it, patrons. But please, go home now, return to your families, return to the people who depend on you to bring light into their lives, for I radiate no more. I am a perpetual Night Shade, a Dream Eater of the Soul, and from my tightrope I shall fall, crashing with a thud so barely audible you’d think it but the ambient noise of your daily life. This is my bow.
It is over. 

So this where it ends, with the wind struggling against my gelled-frozen, bleached hair, my eyes as glazed over as they’ve ever been. I am a Pokemon master at the entrance of the Elite Four, fulfilling a dead dream of a dead child. Yet my soul remains empty.

What has been gained? A paralyzing awareness of mortality, yes, an incalculable body count and hundreds of notches in bedposts dedicated to pokemon and trainers alike who all thought they could save me. I was beyond them all, a Gastly trapped in a material form, toeing the tightrope between life and death for the perverse amazement of my Kanto audience.

I hope you enjoyed it, patrons. But please, go home now, return to your families, return to the people who depend on you to bring light into their lives, for I radiate no more. I am a perpetual Night Shade, a Dream Eater of the Soul, and from my tightrope I shall fall, crashing with a thud so barely audible you’d think it but the ambient noise of your daily life. This is my bow.

It is over. 

March102014
A dream, surely. I am old, my stubble having been allowed to wreak havoc on my tender, boyish face, so that the full, white beard on my chin appears to me as some sort of macabre replacement for the luscious locks that once sat atop my head. That alone would be nightmare enough, but I’ve never been lucky, even in dreams.
Behind me, I hear Scarlet’s breath, in long, airy sighs: “Piiiiiii… kaaaaaa…” I know this can’t be real, but all the same I feel an air swell within me. I wheel around, and sure enough there is her silhouette, her ears sharp as daggers, her jagged tail as powerful a lightning bolt to my heart as it’s ever been. I reach out for her, try to scream her name, but the words don’t come. We are frozen in space, the two of us doomed to never see each other eye-to-eye as we were in waking life. 
"Please," I think to myself. Let me see her but once more. And sure enough, she turns towards me. At first, I’m so elated, my eyes don’t register the horrible sham, but soon they see that the eyes of the Pikachu before me are not the round, loving, sultry oceans I love, but tiny, disgusting imitations—a Ditto.
I collapse, cry to the abyss, scream to anyone who’s listening “Why? Why must I endure this torture, even while I sleep?” But of course, there is no response. Weeping, I get to unbuckling my belt. What is to come may not be the reunion I crave, but it must be good enough.

A dream, surely. I am old, my stubble having been allowed to wreak havoc on my tender, boyish face, so that the full, white beard on my chin appears to me as some sort of macabre replacement for the luscious locks that once sat atop my head. That alone would be nightmare enough, but I’ve never been lucky, even in dreams.

Behind me, I hear Scarlet’s breath, in long, airy sighs: “Piiiiiii… kaaaaaa…” I know this can’t be real, but all the same I feel an air swell within me. I wheel around, and sure enough there is her silhouette, her ears sharp as daggers, her jagged tail as powerful a lightning bolt to my heart as it’s ever been. I reach out for her, try to scream her name, but the words don’t come. We are frozen in space, the two of us doomed to never see each other eye-to-eye as we were in waking life. 

"Please," I think to myself. Let me see her but once more. And sure enough, she turns towards me. At first, I’m so elated, my eyes don’t register the horrible sham, but soon they see that the eyes of the Pikachu before me are not the round, loving, sultry oceans I love, but tiny, disgusting imitations—a Ditto.

I collapse, cry to the abyss, scream to anyone who’s listening “Why? Why must I endure this torture, even while I sleep?” But of course, there is no response. Weeping, I get to unbuckling my belt. What is to come may not be the reunion I crave, but it must be good enough.

March52014
So, it’s come to this. My moral credit completely shot, I find myself staring dead-eyed out the tram from Lavaridge town to the top of Mt. Chimney, Peak of Sin and Vice, a hell populated with the worst sorts of Carbos heads, Rare Candy poppers, Rockets, Plasmas, Magmas, Aquas, all the refuse the booming pokeconomy left behind beckoning wayward trainers of the world with open arms, bright smiles, and quick fingers. As the song goes, "On top of Mount Chimney, all covered with ash/ I lost my direction, and all of my cash." 
When did I hit bottom (or reach peak, as it were)? When did what was left of my humanity leave me like the petals of a Bellossom during another harsh Hoenn winter? Who’s to say, really. My petals will never grow back. My body is a leafless stem, pulled ever closer to Arceus by tramwire or angels, and when we arrive at my heaven I am greeted by no less than three Jynx who offer to turn tricks for cheap or perform real magic if I have a Nugget. 75 virgins it ain’t, but who am I to quibble?

So, it’s come to this. My moral credit completely shot, I find myself staring dead-eyed out the tram from Lavaridge town to the top of Mt. Chimney, Peak of Sin and Vice, a hell populated with the worst sorts of Carbos heads, Rare Candy poppers, Rockets, Plasmas, Magmas, Aquas, all the refuse the booming pokeconomy left behind beckoning wayward trainers of the world with open arms, bright smiles, and quick fingers. As the song goes, "On top of Mount Chimney, all covered with ash/ I lost my direction, and all of my cash." 

When did I hit bottom (or reach peak, as it were)? When did what was left of my humanity leave me like the petals of a Bellossom during another harsh Hoenn winter? Who’s to say, really. My petals will never grow back. My body is a leafless stem, pulled ever closer to Arceus by tramwire or angels, and when we arrive at my heaven I am greeted by no less than three Jynx who offer to turn tricks for cheap or perform real magic if I have a Nugget. 75 virgins it ain’t, but who am I to quibble?

March22014
I’m released from the Cerulean City Pokemon Center after my 4th stomach pumping this year when, oh, shit, Cassandra. Fucking nothing going my way today.
"Myyyy goooooodnesssss is thaaaaat yooooooou, Remyyyy?" Christ, I forgot how much I hated her drawl. Why did I ever let myself sleep with a Slowpoke? I can’t even begin to tell you how horrible the breakup conversation was. "Buuuuut if the proooooblem’s with youuuuu, mayyyybeeee we cooooould work on it togeeeeeetherrrrrrrrrrr." Just Guillotine me and use my head for kickball. 
"Hello, Cass."
"Who is that, babe?" pipes in the green-haired floozy standing next to Cassandra. At first I’m repulsed but as my eyeline drops to the Fissure taking place in her blouse, that disgust begins working for me.
"Ohhhh wheeeeere arrrrre my maaaaaaanners, Gweeeeeeeen, this isssss—"
"Remy," I interject. "This’ll go much faster if I do the talking, Cass."
"Cassie, you never told me how handsome he was," says Gwen.
"Whyyyy, suuuure I diiiiid, reeememmberrrrr—"
"You know Gwen, there’s a gorgeous cave just north of here that’s filled with beautiful minerals that twinkle just like starlight. Mind, it can only be reached by surf, but I’ve got me a roomy Lapras. Would you like to see it?"
"Why, that sounds lovely, Remy." Her body language speaking soliloquies to my attentive audience. "Catch up with us later Cass, okay?"
"Oooooookeyyyy-doooookeyyyyyy, sweeeeeeeeeeetummmmmmms," Gwen and I barely hear Cassandra croak as we giggle and touch all the way to Cerulean Cave. 
Petrov the idiot paces ceaselessly over a nearby flowerbed.

I’m released from the Cerulean City Pokemon Center after my 4th stomach pumping this year when, oh, shit, Cassandra. Fucking nothing going my way today.

"Myyyy goooooodnesssss is thaaaaat yooooooou, Remyyyy?" Christ, I forgot how much I hated her drawl. Why did I ever let myself sleep with a Slowpoke? I can’t even begin to tell you how horrible the breakup conversation was. "Buuuuut if the proooooblem’s with youuuuu, mayyyybeeee we cooooould work on it togeeeeeetherrrrrrrrrrr." Just Guillotine me and use my head for kickball. 

"Hello, Cass."

"Who is that, babe?" pipes in the green-haired floozy standing next to Cassandra. At first I’m repulsed but as my eyeline drops to the Fissure taking place in her blouse, that disgust begins working for me.

"Ohhhh wheeeeere arrrrre my maaaaaaanners, Gweeeeeeeen, this isssss—"

"Remy," I interject. "This’ll go much faster if I do the talking, Cass."

"Cassie, you never told me how handsome he was," says Gwen.

"Whyyyy, suuuure I diiiiid, reeememmberrrrr—"

"You know Gwen, there’s a gorgeous cave just north of here that’s filled with beautiful minerals that twinkle just like starlight. Mind, it can only be reached by surf, but I’ve got me a roomy Lapras. Would you like to see it?"

"Why, that sounds lovely, Remy." Her body language speaking soliloquies to my attentive audience. "Catch up with us later Cass, okay?"

"Oooooookeyyyy-doooookeyyyyyy, sweeeeeeeeeeetummmmmmms," Gwen and I barely hear Cassandra croak as we giggle and touch all the way to Cerulean Cave. 

Petrov the idiot paces ceaselessly over a nearby flowerbed.

February192014
The middle-aged gentleman and I had made eye contact some twenty paces earlier, and after both of us accidentally acknowledged the other’s existence, we were bound social law to engage in some small talk. 
"Lovely weather, young man, is it not?" His tone perfectly perfunctory, the same one I’m sure he uses on special occasions when he tells his wife he loves her.  
"It’s warm." 
"Yes, I suppose it is! You know, with Cinnabar’s recent overpopulation in Fire Pokemon, I suppose it’s no surprise…" He went off rambling on some politically correct diatribe about the Hoenn government’s response (or lack thereof) to climate change, but my mind wandered, along with my eyes, to his Mightyena, tall, glaring at me intently.
His Mightyena looked more grave than any i’d ever seen. Its yellow eyes piercing and cold, like a Rocket’s when it makes a threat, only these eyes did not have comically weak Koffings and Ekanses behind them. No, these had true grit, eyes sharpened from years of despair, a lifetime of exceptionalism chained by the quotidian idiocy of a dimwitted master, a lifetime spent with the secret truth to the Pokemon universe so vibrantly clear in the mind when the vocal cords are so tragically lacking. Our eyes stayed locked long after the gentleman stopped rambling his asinine such-and-such.
"Bow! Bowwow!" the Mightyena pleaded.
"Bow. Bowwow," I replied in solidarity.
It smiled at me then and with a nod to it and it alone, I bid my company, “Good day.” 

The middle-aged gentleman and I had made eye contact some twenty paces earlier, and after both of us accidentally acknowledged the other’s existence, we were bound social law to engage in some small talk. 

"Lovely weather, young man, is it not?" His tone perfectly perfunctory, the same one I’m sure he uses on special occasions when he tells his wife he loves her.  

"It’s warm." 

"Yes, I suppose it is! You know, with Cinnabar’s recent overpopulation in Fire Pokemon, I suppose it’s no surprise…" He went off rambling on some politically correct diatribe about the Hoenn government’s response (or lack thereof) to climate change, but my mind wandered, along with my eyes, to his Mightyena, tall, glaring at me intently.

His Mightyena looked more grave than any i’d ever seen. Its yellow eyes piercing and cold, like a Rocket’s when it makes a threat, only these eyes did not have comically weak Koffings and Ekanses behind them. No, these had true grit, eyes sharpened from years of despair, a lifetime of exceptionalism chained by the quotidian idiocy of a dimwitted master, a lifetime spent with the secret truth to the Pokemon universe so vibrantly clear in the mind when the vocal cords are so tragically lacking. Our eyes stayed locked long after the gentleman stopped rambling his asinine such-and-such.

"Bow! Bowwow!" the Mightyena pleaded.

"Bow. Bowwow," I replied in solidarity.

It smiled at me then and with a nod to it and it alone, I bid my company, “Good day.” 

February172014
Not too long after entering Cerulean Cave, my nose picks up what it’s looking for: the rich, peppery smell of a cigar, burning somewhere deep within this labyrinth of Rhydons and Dittos trying desperately to be Rhydons, though they can never get the effortless cool of the Rhydon face quite right and end up residing hard in uncanny valley to these eyes.
A few left turns and a couple rides on my Dewgong later, the smell is overbearing and I’m greeted with a familiar forceful voice inside my head. 
“What mortal has the audacity to enter my lair? Who dares believe they are worthy to penetrate the fortress of my solitude—”
"Jesus, Kenny, dial it down a notch?"
“Oh, Remy! Sorry man, come on in. I just lit up a cigar.”
"Yeah, the whole fuckin’ cave is aware."
Kenny’s always been a shitball. Ever since his scientific conception, he’s had delusions of grandeur, and sure enough his physical power as a Pokemon goes unmatched in Kanto, but without guidance, his megalomania has been mixed with Snorlax levels of sloth, so the guy spends his days getting high and wasting his potential beating up the shlubs in Cerulean Cave.
"To what do I owe the pleasure, man?" he asks me, stogie still burning uninterrupted.
"I came to ask about your Mother."
"Mew? That fuckin’ Pokesocialite, tryna get buddy-buddy with Arceus and Celebii, when it’s the Johto birds she oughta be worrying about. I tell you, they’re about to make a power play for the Best Legendaries Trophy. Why do wanna talk about her?"
"I just need to talk to her, Kenny. Where can I find her?" The red at the end of Kenny’s cigar dulls for just a moment.
“Listen, man, my Mom and I don’t talk much. I don’t know where she is. She hasn’t checked in on me in years, which, you know, whatever, but I can’t help you man. I might as well be as stranger to her as you are, for the shits she gives…”
I can sense Kenny’s voice, in my head though it is, drift off, as though he were shoring up the psychic connection he’d opened between us. He spits out the cigar. The old alarm bells are going off in my head, though I can’t be sure if they’re from Kenny or myself.
"But fuck, who needs her anyway, right?" Kenny rising off the floor, a wind picking up the cigar ash and dirt around him. I try to talk him down, but it’s no use. I fucking knew this would happen. "I mean, I’m the most powerful Pokemon in existence! I don’t need Mew, the weak bitch!" 
On a dime, I turn out of there and hop on old Dewgong, speeding away on the waves as Kenny, for the twenty-fourth time, destroys his lair in a temper tantrum. What a fucking baby.

Not too long after entering Cerulean Cave, my nose picks up what it’s looking for: the rich, peppery smell of a cigar, burning somewhere deep within this labyrinth of Rhydons and Dittos trying desperately to be Rhydons, though they can never get the effortless cool of the Rhydon face quite right and end up residing hard in uncanny valley to these eyes.

A few left turns and a couple rides on my Dewgong later, the smell is overbearing and I’m greeted with a familiar forceful voice inside my head. 

What mortal has the audacity to enter my lair? Who dares believe they are worthy to penetrate the fortress of my solitude—”

"Jesus, Kenny, dial it down a notch?"

Oh, Remy! Sorry man, come on in. I just lit up a cigar.”

"Yeah, the whole fuckin’ cave is aware."

Kenny’s always been a shitball. Ever since his scientific conception, he’s had delusions of grandeur, and sure enough his physical power as a Pokemon goes unmatched in Kanto, but without guidance, his megalomania has been mixed with Snorlax levels of sloth, so the guy spends his days getting high and wasting his potential beating up the shlubs in Cerulean Cave.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, man?" he asks me, stogie still burning uninterrupted.

"I came to ask about your Mother."

"Mew? That fuckin’ Pokesocialite, tryna get buddy-buddy with Arceus and Celebii, when it’s the Johto birds she oughta be worrying about. I tell you, they’re about to make a power play for the Best Legendaries Trophy. Why do wanna talk about her?"

"I just need to talk to her, Kenny. Where can I find her?" The red at the end of Kenny’s cigar dulls for just a moment.

Listen, man, my Mom and I don’t talk much. I don’t know where she is. She hasn’t checked in on me in years, which, you know, whatever, but I can’t help you man. I might as well be as stranger to her as you are, for the shits she gives…”

I can sense Kenny’s voice, in my head though it is, drift off, as though he were shoring up the psychic connection he’d opened between us. He spits out the cigar. The old alarm bells are going off in my head, though I can’t be sure if they’re from Kenny or myself.

"But fuck, who needs her anyway, right?" Kenny rising off the floor, a wind picking up the cigar ash and dirt around him. I try to talk him down, but it’s no use. I fucking knew this would happen. "I mean, I’m the most powerful Pokemon in existence! I don’t need Mew, the weak bitch!" 

On a dime, I turn out of there and hop on old Dewgong, speeding away on the waves as Kenny, for the twenty-fourth time, destroys his lair in a temper tantrum. What a fucking baby.

February112014
"Heheh! This GYM is great! It’s full of women!" said the old man, his eyes alight with the glimmer of his scampish youth. 
"It sure is, grandfather," I said, patting his shoulder. After pausing to take a good look at him, I turned to exit the padded hospital cell.
"It’s getting worse, doc."
"I’m afraid so. The cancer’s spread to his brain, and his delusions are getting more elaborate. It’s as though he’s reliving old memories, recalling them in amazing detail, but he surely has no connection to this world."
"Like a ghost," I offered. The doctor stayed silent for a while. Then he continued,
"I’m sorry. We can make him comfortable for a few more months—"
"That won’t be necessary, Doc," I said as I loaded a single bullet into the ol’ Heckler and Koch P30L. The doctor averted his eyes but remained silent. 

"Heheh! This GYM is great! It’s full of women!" said the old man, his eyes alight with the glimmer of his scampish youth. 

"It sure is, grandfather," I said, patting his shoulder. After pausing to take a good look at him, I turned to exit the padded hospital cell.

"It’s getting worse, doc."

"I’m afraid so. The cancer’s spread to his brain, and his delusions are getting more elaborate. It’s as though he’s reliving old memories, recalling them in amazing detail, but he surely has no connection to this world."

"Like a ghost," I offered. The doctor stayed silent for a while. Then he continued,

"I’m sorry. We can make him comfortable for a few more months—"

"That won’t be necessary, Doc," I said as I loaded a single bullet into the ol’ Heckler and Koch P30L. The doctor averted his eyes but remained silent. 

February72014
Over rubble and charred statues of Kangaskahns, I descend another floor of Cinnabar’s abandoned science lab. It seems impossible that it could go down this far, and yet I am not surprised. Kanto is filled with secrets and impossibilities that we are all blind to, and should there be a gate to hell in this godforsaken region, it would be here. I continue downward, heeding the call of a shapeless, powerful force with hypnotized lust.
After what must be twenty floors of ruined machinery, I hear a small murmuring. Surely, I think, no one could possibly be down this far, but the sound only gets louder as I approach it. Guided by the light of my Rapidash, Rocky, I come upon a diminutive man—a scientist, judging from his lab coat— staring at a wall, mumbling incoherent nonsense to himself. 
"What are you doing down here?" I ask. He whirls around, his eyes alight in fiery intensity, and he grabs me by my collar. 
"MEW!" he screams, embracing me tight such that my ribs are liable to shatter. "MEW, you’ve returned!" In his grip, I have neither the air nor the heart to correct him.
"My child, why did we play God? Why did we think we could improve upon you, when you are perfect as you are! Oh MEW, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry…" and he begins to weep. We stand there embracing, he apologizing over and over while I stroke his hair and tell him it is alright. "I forgive you," I whisper.
He looks at me then, his eyes red and face puffy. It is as though a tremendous weight has been lifted from his body, creating both an empty shell of a man and the picture of sublime ecstasy. Understanding the moment, Rocky Horn Drills him without my prompting, and the former scientist crumples to the floor like a rag doll thrown aside by a bored child.
While searching his coat for loose change, I come across a a journal. It appears as though it is a diary of some sort. I leaf through it till I find the last entry.
"Feb. 6
MEW gave birth.” 

Over rubble and charred statues of Kangaskahns, I descend another floor of Cinnabar’s abandoned science lab. It seems impossible that it could go down this far, and yet I am not surprised. Kanto is filled with secrets and impossibilities that we are all blind to, and should there be a gate to hell in this godforsaken region, it would be here. I continue downward, heeding the call of a shapeless, powerful force with hypnotized lust.

After what must be twenty floors of ruined machinery, I hear a small murmuring. Surely, I think, no one could possibly be down this far, but the sound only gets louder as I approach it. Guided by the light of my Rapidash, Rocky, I come upon a diminutive man—a scientist, judging from his lab coat— staring at a wall, mumbling incoherent nonsense to himself. 

"What are you doing down here?" I ask. He whirls around, his eyes alight in fiery intensity, and he grabs me by my collar. 

"MEW!" he screams, embracing me tight such that my ribs are liable to shatter. "MEW, you’ve returned!" In his grip, I have neither the air nor the heart to correct him.

"My child, why did we play God? Why did we think we could improve upon you, when you are perfect as you are! Oh MEW, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry…" and he begins to weep. We stand there embracing, he apologizing over and over while I stroke his hair and tell him it is alright. "I forgive you," I whisper.

He looks at me then, his eyes red and face puffy. It is as though a tremendous weight has been lifted from his body, creating both an empty shell of a man and the picture of sublime ecstasy. Understanding the moment, Rocky Horn Drills him without my prompting, and the former scientist crumples to the floor like a rag doll thrown aside by a bored child.

While searching his coat for loose change, I come across a a journal. It appears as though it is a diary of some sort. I leaf through it till I find the last entry.

"Feb. 6

MEW gave birth.” 

January252014
I was visited in my bedchambers by a Haunter last night. It was not the first time a Pokemon had wandered into my room in the wee hours, and I was preparing myself for a night of anonymous pokepassion when the Haunter spoke.
"Remy," he began in a resonant baritone, "I am here to show you your past in the hopes that you will learn the error of your lecherous ways. Come with me to the past."
I thought lecherous was too strong a word for the misdeeds of my youth, but after considering the paranormal circumstance of my current situation, I thought it best not to quibble over semantics. Resigned, I redid the belt of my nightgown and grabbed his hand. 
He took me to a route in Kalos. There, I saw a young version of me, ruggedly handsome with the beginnings of the attractive aloofness I’d spent years cultivating. “Look, Remy,” said Haunter. “Look at the time you’ve wasted.” 
But I knew this scene very well. How many years have gone by like this? They are movements from a terrible dance choreographed by an angry modernist rebelling against all things romantic. Life is pain and eternal and I am his muse, a puppet of existential expression.
For an eternity I watched the seasons change and my face age, until it was as though I was looking at myself in the mirror. “Do you see, Remy?” said the Haunter, cocksure. I ignored him, and instead saw myself, wrinkled, hardened. My double saw me too. Simultaneously we outstretched our hands. Our fingers touched, softly at first, and in a rush, we fell into each other, embracing in mutual forgiveness. I gave the Haunter the universal sign for “get lost,” lest he see the supernatural blasphemy that was about to occur.  

I was visited in my bedchambers by a Haunter last night. It was not the first time a Pokemon had wandered into my room in the wee hours, and I was preparing myself for a night of anonymous pokepassion when the Haunter spoke.

"Remy," he began in a resonant baritone, "I am here to show you your past in the hopes that you will learn the error of your lecherous ways. Come with me to the past."

I thought lecherous was too strong a word for the misdeeds of my youth, but after considering the paranormal circumstance of my current situation, I thought it best not to quibble over semantics. Resigned, I redid the belt of my nightgown and grabbed his hand. 

He took me to a route in Kalos. There, I saw a young version of me, ruggedly handsome with the beginnings of the attractive aloofness I’d spent years cultivating. “Look, Remy,” said Haunter. “Look at the time you’ve wasted.” 

But I knew this scene very well. How many years have gone by like this? They are movements from a terrible dance choreographed by an angry modernist rebelling against all things romantic. Life is pain and eternal and I am his muse, a puppet of existential expression.

For an eternity I watched the seasons change and my face age, until it was as though I was looking at myself in the mirror. “Do you see, Remy?” said the Haunter, cocksure. I ignored him, and instead saw myself, wrinkled, hardened. My double saw me too. Simultaneously we outstretched our hands. Our fingers touched, softly at first, and in a rush, we fell into each other, embracing in mutual forgiveness. I gave the Haunter the universal sign for “get lost,” lest he see the supernatural blasphemy that was about to occur.  

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