MASSIVE X AND Y SPOILERS. IF YOU HAVEN'T BEAT THE GAME, GO AWAY.
LYSANDRE'S MAJESTIC DIRECTORY
PROLOGUE: LYSANDRE'S MAJESTIC AWAKENING (oh my god use your eyes it's literally two inches under this)
CHAPTER 1: THE TRAGIC GOODWILL COCKBLOCK
CHAPTER 2: THE JOURNEY ON THE WAY TO THE MALL: SYCAMORE THE STREET RACER
CHAPTER 3: PARADISE LOST (AT THE MALL)
HALLOWEEN SPECIAL, CHAPTER 666: LYSANDRE'S HORRIFYINGLY HETEROSEXUAL HALLOWEEN HOUSE PARTY
CHAPTER 4: MOTIVES AND MOHAWKS
CHAPTER 5: THE RETURN OF THAT ONE GUY FROM BEFORE
CHAPTER 6: THE CONFRONTATION
CHAPTER 7: YOUR MOVE, LYSANDRE
CHAPTER 8: THE CHAPTER ABOUT NOTHING
CHAPTER 9: THE RICH CUNTS CLUB (IN SEPIA VISION)
BONUS: INTRO PICTURE GALLERY (videos not included due to forum restrictions)
PROLOGUE: LYSANDRE'S MAJESTIC AWAKENING
The sun rose with great flair over Kalos like a croissant gently rising phallic-like to touch a fat man’s lips before being ripped in half by his yellowed dentures. Beyond the land of Pokemon Stonehenge, and beneath the super secret hidden base inside of a gigantic artificial boulder ten yards from a tourist trap with gigantic neon doors, slept Lysandre… eccentric billionaire, genocidal maniac, sexy beast and fashion genius. He was the closest thing to John McAfee the Pokemon world had, and John McAfee was the closest thing to Tony Stark the real world had, so by extension, Lysandre was an even sexier version of Robert Downey Junior, if he was a ginger and had awesome hair and was a genocidal maniac.
Lysandre was curled up like a Skitty in heat beneath his stylish white and blue Pokemon bedsheets, vintage-chic all the way from Generation 2, ordered online from Unova for over a million Pokedollars with an additional million poured into modifying them to fit the bed of someone over the age of eight. Being rich had its perks, and the ability to have Pokemon bedsheets and still get laid by Kanto supermodels was only one of many.
Anyhow, Lysandre was having his favorite dream about being a Pyroar inside of Pokemon Amie with Kate Upton as the player and Professor Sycamore as the stylus when his majestic Pillsbury Doughboy alarm clock awoke him from his slumber. “HEE HEE! HEE HEE!” it shouted, jiggling about like Santa Claus at a strip club. Lysandre yawned and opened his eyes as he watched Kate vanish into his subconscious, smashing the clock in anger with his manly fist. His manly fist bled slightly as he picked shards of manly plastic from it, and his manly clock was ruined, but it was worth it to show that fat laughing bastard who was boss. “Cecil,” he shouted to a bald man in the next room over, “please order me another clock, and send in one of the exotic dancers to lick my hand clean.”
“Mr. Lysandre,” he replied, “we don’t have any exotic dancers, that’s at your base in Brazil. And for hell’s sake, there are no more Doughboy clocks on ebay or craigslist or even, Arceus forbid, Etsy, you’ve gone through all of them. How about the rock and roll chicken alarm—”
Lysandre violently and sexily threw his covers aside, violently and sexily rolled out of his bed, threw on a burgundy robe in a sexy manner and grabbed Cecil sexily by the neck. “We’ve discussed this before, Cecil,” he growled violently (but not sexily), “I have bad memories with the goddamned chicken clock. Either you get me a doughboy clock or I’ll be putting you in the oven instead of the dough, boy. Now move.”
“Yes, my lord,” Cecil replied, sighing and trudging away.
This trial over with, Lysandre began to regain his usual chipperness. “Now then,” Lysandre said, regaining his usual chipperness, “It’s time to begin my morning routine.” To begin the start of his morning routine, he pulled his holocaster from inside the internal pocket of his robe and called his entire staff via the holocaster, being the sexy genius he was. “Attention, all Team Flare volunteers and employees,” he shouted into the holocaster (which was pulled from the inside pocket of his robe), “I’m ready to begin my morning routine.”
“Perhaps you should begin with tying the front of your robe,” one of his attractive female scientists’ voices rang in response. “Either that or start wearing pants when you sleep.”
“Silence,” Lysandre replied, silencing her, “I’m not ashamed of my body and you shouldn’t be ashamed of my body, either. You’ll get your turn, bitch. Now, cancel the order on the exotic dancers, my hand is healing just fine, no thanks to that rat bastard Cecil. Seriously, fuck interns. But anyway, I am heading for my shower now. I fully expect the path to be clear, or I will run you over without remorse.”
“Mr. Lysandre, with all due respect, sir, you aren’t that fast,” a stupid grunt intern replied. “I think we can just step out of the way when you run by.”
“You misunderstand me,” Lysandre explained as he climbed onto his brand new motorcycle next to his bed. “I’m literally going to run you over, as I have just climbed onto this brand new motorcycle next to my bed. And since I warned you, I won’t have to compensate your families. Maybe I’ll use your souls to fuel my toaster, if that shit works on Az’s stupid laser tag rock it should work to make waffles.” Lysandre revved the engine and tore through the hallway, his majestic morning-hair mane waving like a Pyroar’s in the breeze, a scene straight out of a L’Oreal commercial aimed at the homosexual population of Key West. Lysandre’s robe flew open again, and his second mane followed the wind-blowing breeze pattern, like a rather different sort of commercial aimed at the homosexual population of Key West. An admin who happened to glance in his direction fell to the floor and smashed his head open in sheer shock of Lysandre’s below the belt majesty. Or perhaps it was because Lysandre went out of his way to hit him with the Harley. One can never tell with these zany rich folks!
“Lysandre to all troops,” he called into his holocaster as he drove impressively with his feet, “I will arrive at the showering facility in t-minus twenty seconds.” He paused to enjoy Cecil’s final scream and brace himself for the brief turbulence to follow. “Ready my musical accompaniment, and prepare the towel maidens,” he finished, the turbulence past and Cecil unable to ever scream again.
“Goddamn it, Lysandre,” Professor Sycamore replied, “wear some goddamn pants when you’re on the camera. And I’m not one of your troops. What troops are you even talking about?”
“I’m not the leader of Team Flare, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Lysandre replied. “I just like to wear orange. Got it? Don’t question me or the majesty of Team Flare ever again. Not like I’m their leader or anything. Alright? God damn it, Sycamore, I said alright?”
Sycamore tried unsuccessfully to avert his eyes. “I’d be more alright if you wore some briefs when you video called me,” Sycamore replied, trying unsuccessfully to avert his eyes. “Also,” he continued, still trying to avert his eyes, and still suspiciously unsuccessful at the task, “when did you get a Harley?”
“It was a gift from Team Flare, for not being associated with them in any way,” Lysandre replied, noting that Sycamore, while attempting to avert his eyes, was suspiciously unsuccessful. “Now I’m sorry, but I must go. I need to call the people I meant to call. And I don’t mean Team Flare, so don’t even try to pull any bullshit allegations on me, you prick! Love you, Morey.” With this, he blew a totally heterosexual bromance kiss at Sycamore’s hologram, then hung up and leapt off of the bike into the shower. The bike kept going and smashed into the furthest wall of the secret base, exploding and killing three grunts.
“Mr. Lysandre, your Harley’s been totaled,” a scientist hollered from the next room over.
“It’s okay, dear, I’m rich. Did anyone die?”
“Yes, it’s terrible! Three interns, cut down in their prime.”
“A new record. I should be a professional bowler. Because I’m rich.” Lysandre closed the Yu-Gi-Oh shower curtain and threw his robe over the top of the mammoth tub, letting it fall majestically to the ground outside. “Please, ladies, don’t fight over my robe,” he shouted, flipping his majestic hair out of his eyes, but his robe remained mysteriously untouched.
Lysandre turned the water up to maximum heat and maximum pressure, because what kind of Team Flare member would bathe in cold water? “Lisa,” he shouted, “turn on my showering music!” His sound waves were launched over the curtain and across the building like the bullet that killed Kennedy, piercing Lisa’s ears like the bullet that killed Lincoln, only she didn’t die, no matter how much she wished she could.
“Of course, my lord,” she sighed, tinkering with the laptop he had purchased for this purpose and this purpose alone. “Animal” by Berlin began to crank out of the massive speakers mounted above the shower.
“When you see me in my tiny dreeeeess, does it make you wanna take me oooon?” Lysandre sang along seductively to himself, secretly hoping everyone else would hear and would see how much better his singing was than their pathetic plebian yelps. He reached for a shower poof but, in his state of eyes-closed-diva-ism, he grabbed a Flabebe that was passing by, and began scrubbing himself all over with its flower. “Can you feel the animaaaaaal, I feel it when you touch mah boooodyyyyyy,” Lysandre continued to croon, singing the song with such testosterone that he was three octives down. Flabebe, beginning to grow a bit angered and nauseated at being used like a sponge by a hairy ginger man, prayed for death, but due to an incident involving a 3000 foot tall man who lived for 9 years (or something like that, Lysandre was too rich to remember such trifling details), it was immortal and would have to endure the memory of Lysandre’s ginger backhair for all eternity. Realizing, in a terrible moment of realization, that it was immortal—and, therefore, would, for all eternity, have to endure the memory of Lysandre’s ginger backhair, Flabebe used Grass Knot, causing vines to burst through the shower’s floor, grip Lysandre’s ankle, and trip him. He fell through the Yu-Gi-Oh shower curtain, his own Winged Dragon of Ra slamming painfully into the floor, followed by everything else and ending with his face.
“I’m alright,” he shouted to the shocked room of grunts and admins, wrapping a towel quickly around himself from the blushing (or barfing? Hard to tell when you’re rich) towel maiden beside the tub. “I was just trying out a new dance craze. It’s called the drunken soap-dropper.” He slid to the left, shook his groove thang, then slid to the right and repeated, almost falling over each time he came to a stop. “Am I paying you to watch or to participate?” he shouted, and in moments the entire room was throwing their shirts off and sliding left and right like maniacs in beautiful unison. “Oh can you feel the animaaaaaal?” Lysandre boomed. His people’s faces were stone cold, sad, and some were teary or turning slightly green, but he knew they were just green with envy because he had invented this dance craze before them and would become ever richer while they would forever be his towel maids.
A Houndoom in the main chamber was growing annoyed at all of the noise and, due to the noise causing him to grow quite annoyed, vowed to destroy the source of the noise which was annoying him in an ever growing manner. He howled like an old man being stopped across the way to bless the rains down in Africa, and, hoping to stop the old forgotten words and ancient melodies, started burping up fireballs haphazardly all over the fucking place like Bowser at a taco eating contest. One blast came right for Lysandre, who bent backwards in slow motion, matrix style, as the fireball cruised over his head, and continued through the open door to his bedroom, to the open door to his closet, to the open door to the walk in closet in his closet… exploding at the end in an inferno, torching all of his clothes (except for the one pair being valiantly guarded by his nauseous towel maid) and leaving his fabulously stylish wardrobe in ashes.
“Oh my god,” the Houndoom’s owner, a young female grunt, cried, “I’m, like, so so so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Lysandre said, dusting himself off. “I forgive you. Haha, just kidding, you’re fired and I’ll see you in court tomorrow. But really, I like clothes shopping. It’s so fabulous. Maybe I’ll level up my style!” The room of grunts groaned audibly out of jealousy that such an ingenius Pokemon pun had not been thought up by them first, those plebian bastards. Lysandre pulled his shower holocaster from his towel and called his best friend, Professor Sycamore.
“Please tell me you’re wearing pants this time,” Sycamore groaned, trying to keep his eyes cautiously closed but suspiciously unable to keep his right eye from being hopefully opened just a sliver.
“I’m wearing a towel this time,” Lysandre replied heroically. “An orange towel, to be exact, but not because I’m the head of Team Flare or anything, I just like orange. Anyway, I’m going clothes shopping today and it’s going to be totally fabulous, and you’re the manliest, straightest man I know, so I thought I’d ask you to accompany me and give me fashion advice to make sure that the next time I use Attract, it’s super effective. I-I-I mean use attract on girls, of course, because I’m not gay, that’d be weird, since you’re a guy, too. And of course I don’t mean using attract on the girls at Team Flare, or on my army of oiled up muscley bald admins at Team Flare, because that would imply that I’m associated with Team Flare, or that I’m gay for the muscley bald admins there, which I’m not. I just—”
“You just really like the color orange, I know, I know. Well, X’s mom was just leaving, so I’m in. It’s been a long time since we’ve hung out. Well, I mean, since we’ve hung out together. You were hanging out of your robe earlier, but—oh god. I mean, I didn’t mean it that way when I said we hung out together, because that’s not something straight male friends do, hang out of their robes together, and, like, and we’re totally straight male friends, broseph. Uh… I… yeah. I’ll meet you at Goodwill.”
“At…what?” Lysandre asked, his jaw dropping to the floor, his fist killing something.
“Goodwill. It’s where people shop. For clothes.”
“Isn’t that where the homeless CEOs of companies I’ve bought up shop for clothes, though!?”
“Well, I mean, poor people do shop there I guess, but it’s got so many clothes from so many regions and time periods, and there’s stuff from the 90s, so, you know, if you like orange—”
“I fucking love orange. And not because I’m like, secretly the boss of Team Flare. Just because it’s so fucking manly, like me.”
“Exactly. Well, I’m glad you’re being so open minded about this. I was afraid you’d be like, ew, poor people store, and kill one of your interns or something.”
“Well,” Lysandre sheepishly replied, removing his fist from the skull of an intern he’d crushed upon initially hearing the word Goodwill, “I actually did kind of kill an intern or something when you mentioned it, but you’ve since convinced me. He wasn’t a Team Flare intern, though, that’s just silly. And it’s okay I killed him, because I’m rich. But I’m rich from inventing, not from being the descendent of an ancient king who’s been kidnapped by Team Flare or anything. Because that’d be silly, since I like oranges. Like, seriously, fuck grapefruit, oranges are where it’s at, right homie?”
“…whatever you say, Lysandre. I’ll meet you there in twenty.”
“Bitch, you better meet me there in twenty. Love you Morey. No homo.”
And thus begins our saga…
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