Cigarettes in Kanto
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.