*throws orange fedora at Lysandre*
I need to read more. xD
Oh, just take your time. :) I'm very patient. More patience than Wobbuffet. Probably.
*throws orange fedora at Lysandre*
I need to read more. xD
Oh, just take your time. :) I'm very patient. More patience than Wobbuffet. Probably.
3DS FC: 0216-0841-7478
Y version's Friend Safari: Gyarados, Panpour & Azumarill
keep up the good work you sexy, heterosexual man, you.
Which came first: the Mew or the Arceus?
I am actually done with the awesomeness of this fan fiction. Oh my God. Just...the orange fedora. I eagerly await the next chapter!
Can someone PLEASE tell me why there is not more of this!?!??
I don't know how I got here, but I am glad I did
マフィン 鬆餅 মাফিন 머핀 кифла মাফিন
This has gotten me to laugh so hard I cried.
*Clap* Good show sir, good show. *Clap*
BEWARE, I LIVE
First of all, OH MY GOD I ABANDONED YOU ALL AND YOU KEPT COMMENTING AND KEEPING THIS ON THE FRONT PAGE ANYWAY I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH I DON'T DESERVE READERS LIKE YOU (no I seriously don't). So COMMENT REPLIES~!
Thank you so much, everyone who comments! You seriously are the reason I keep writing this, and it just makes me way too giddy every time I see a new response. I hope you continue to enjoy it, and to let me know that you do (or that I'm starting to suck and I need to get up my game, that's fair too)
But Lysandre, you say, you said it would be next week! Yes, yes I did. And technically, if we go by the calendar of the ancient... um... Longweekians, I'm EARLY. So THERE! No seriously though, sorry for the delay, here's an extra long chapter to make up for it (and one I rewrote three times to get it up to the consistent level of quality I strive for). I'm not enough of an egotistical douche to think that you care what I've been up to that's kept me from this beautiful task, so I won't force you to read it, but I am enough of egotistical douche to brag about it in a spoiler tag so you can read it if you want to.
...anyway... have a bit more to offer this time. Again, longer chapter, AND an intro VIDEO because I'm fancy as fuck
The humongous pyramidal skylight, elegantly whitewashed with a fuckton of birdshit, cast down its sexiest rays on a store that seemed like it was from another world, one where Bed, Bath and Beyond fucked the Apple Store and their unholy offspring rose from the depths like something that had been born of two mall store chains somehow slamming their sad, statuesque genitalia against one another and spawning something overpriced as shit. The very word, written in a pretentious hipster-ish modern font, sent chills from the top of Lysandre’s fiery mane through his fiery spinal chord down to his fiery ass: BROCKSTONE.
“Holy goddamned fuck on a cunt-stick,” Lysandre said as an old woman overheard and spat on his face. “This is like something from another world, one where Bed, Bath and Beyond fucked the Apple Store and their unholy offspring rose from the depths like something that had been born of two mall store chains somehow slamming their sad, statuesque genitalia against one another and spawning something overpriced as shit.” He scanned the inside of the store with his alluring gaze and was amazed to find that it was full of other rich bastards who had been brave enough to go shopping at a poor person store! “My people,” he whispered, hypnotically walking into the blue light.
“Hello, fellow rich bastard,” a man with ridiculous hair in a suit as white as a really white suit greeted him. “Welcome to Brockstone. My name is Wikstrom, manager of this location. We have hundreds of things that you’ve never heard of but can’t live without. Is there anything in particular I can help you find?”
“Yeah,” Lysandre said, stroking his godly beard and thinking back on the lessons he had learned in Eddie Bauer, “I’m looking for, like, something that can cause mass genocide, you know?”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, not for me. I’m looking for it for, uh, my friend, who wants to cause mass genocide. It’s a Bar Mitzvah gift for… for my friend Docter Xerosic. Xerosic is a Jewish name, right? Those crazy Asians. But yeah, anyway, like, I mean, I don’t want to kill EVERYBODY. I mean, Xerosic doesn’t. That’d just be crazy, he only wants to kill, like, I don’t know, the ugly people and the assholes, you know? And poor people. And interns. Fuck interns. And fuck Giovanni, that goddamned Bronyta hating cunt!”
“…sir, I’m really not sure where you’re going with this,” Wikstrom sighed, frantically pressing the “CALL SECURITY GODDAMN IT” button on his employee pager. “Can you be more specific or would you just like to browse?”
“Well, okay, let’s just set up a hypothetical scenario here. Let’s say that there’s a guy, let’s call him ‘Frysander,’ and he wanted oh, I don’t know, like, this totally swag orange fedora. And he couldn’t have it, because of the fucking hipsters. And so he—”
“Sir, I have other customers to tend to who are shooting us both dirty looks. One of them is urinating on the vibrating iPhone chargers display. Which, fortunately, has the added feature of turning urine into electricity, but still.”
“God, what are you, an intern?” Lysandre shouted, crossing his bulging man-arms in a lack of amusement. “Fine, do whatever, I don’t need you. I’m a strong independent ginger man don’t need no woman!” But Wikstrom had already walked away to get security, and missed Lysandre’s declaration of independence.
Lysandre thought very long and very hard (“goddamn it, Lysandre,” Sycamore said instinctively from his home, which he had retreated to in the ridiculous wait between chapters) about how he could go about his task and about what could help him achieve it. The Arceus-Face-Print-Toaster was an interesting prospect, as he could use it to fool his victims into believing he was a reincarnation of Arceus who could miraculously cast his visage onto bread… and it was only 399.99! But, Lysandre realized, Fran—er, Kalos wasn’t a big hub of Arceustians, so this option would fail in the long term. The Professor Oak-shaped ‘opera singing wine-bottle-opener/prostate massager 2-in-1 combo’ was an interesting option, and priced at a much more affordable 399.98, but opera music gave Lysandre’s beard a migraine, and migraines made him crave Nutella, and he had to keep his womanly man-figure, so he passed on that option as well.
“Goddamn it,” he shouted to the heavens, falling to his muscular knees and raising his well-manicured and recently painted nails (orange of course, but not because he was secretly the head of Team Flare or anything) to the heavens, “why the shitfuck is it so hard for a rich guy to kill everybody in the world!?”
“Excuse me, sir,” a blue-haired man with an equally heterosexual disposition asked, adjusting his sunglasses and amazing detachable mustache, “did I hear y’all say that yer’ lookin’ for a way to kill everybody in the world, and that yer’ rich?” His accent was thick and overdone Southern-Unovian, in case the fact that I fucking wrote “yer” with an apostrophe after it wasn’t enough of an indication.
“Y-yes,” Lysandre said, rising, like a Digglett rising to embrace a Cloyster. “Who said that?”
“Over here,” the man replied, extending a white-gloved hand from behind the janitor’s closet in the back. “They don’t carry the good stuff out front. Come back here and I’ll show y’all a whole new world. Get ready fer’ a magic carpet ride, motherfucker! Ooh-hee-hee-hoo!”
“O-okay,” Lysandre said, a bit nervous about going into a dark room with a stranger without adult supervision… but this was Brockstone, so whatever happened here had to be legit, right?
“Welcome,” the man said, “to Not-James’ Not-Not-Brockstone Emporium!” He posed seductively and added, “I’m Not-James.”
“I’m Not-Jesse,” a sexy redheaded chick with an amazing rack and an even more amazing legit-seeming mustache added. “And ve ah zee best French corporation zat you vill ever find, dummkoph.” She paused to strike a pose and added, “To protect ze mall from shitty deals!”
“To stop by that there food court for deep fried meals,” Not-James added, heroically lifting the broom over his head.
“To advertise our secret store!”
“To sell all of this here knock-off shit so we don’t have to keep it down in up under that attic anymore.”
“Team Not Rocket sell out at ze speed of light!”
“Buy our shit, or y’all is gonna’ regret it for the rest of your life.”
“Ya’ goddamned idiots,” a Meowth in a mustache ended, “French people don’t speak in Appalachian or German accents! Oh, by da way, red-man, my name’s Not-Meowth. We gots all kinds of fine wares for you to purchase for obscenely low prices. Or, well, obscene prices, at least.”
“This is a broom closet with nothing but McDonalds wrappers and a cardboard box in the corner,” Lysandre replied. “I’m not sure about this. And that’s coming from the guy who saw nothing wrong with following Bill to one of his Kanto theme parties.”
“That’s… that’s on account of how rare this stuff is,” Not-James replied. “Lookit’ this!” He pulled a box that appeared to have been opened before labeled “Happy Froating Ararm Cock!!” out of the big cardboard box and then removed a strange, pod-like device from it.
“This will help me destroy the world?” Lysandre asked, tilting his head moe-like to one side.
“Ja,” Not-Jesse replied. “Das gut. Mucho das gut.”
“…what does it do?” Lysandre asked, stroking his beard-shaft rhythmically with his silky-soft, well manicured man fingers.
“…huh?” she replied.
“What does it do?”
“Uh… watch this! BEHOLD, DA BATTLE EXTENDER ROBOT LASER ARMS!” Not-Meowth tied a shoelace around Lysandre’s bulging biceps and then pushed a button, as two wing-like appendages opened to reveal tiny propellers beneath. The device hovered into the air like that bitch Valerie after Gary fucking ran her the hell over, held back only by its make-shift tether and the fact that it was too shittily made to go higher than a few feet up, and projected “99:45” on the wall in bright red letters.
“OH MY GOD” Lysandre squealed in amazed terror like an adorable newborn Skitty being dropped into an adorable newborn volcano, “IT HAS MOTHERFUCKING LASERS SHAPED LIKE NUMBERS”
“Not-Meowth, that’s rii-iiight! And watch what happens when I press the red button.”
Suddenly the amazing hovering ararm cock began playing a distorted midi of the Team Rocket’s HQ theme from generation one as Lysandre jumped up and down with glee. “It can even use Supersonic!” he squealed. “But,” he asked, edging up close to Not-James and gazing dreamily into his mustache, “how will this help me commit mass genocide…?”
“Um… well,” not-James continued, wiping sweat from his neck, “there’s… um… well, you have to use it in conjunction with this here Augmented Reality Battle Extender Robot Laser Arms Control Glasses Headset.” He pulled out a box labeled “Oriental Trading Company—Useless Hipster Shades” and removed a pink pair of slotted sunglasses, tossing them to Lysandre. Lysandre gazed at them for a moment and then crushed them in his fist the way he crushed Sycamore’s virginit—er—potato chips last summer, as his hand bled again for the fifth time this day.
“Read my beautiful, orange-scented lips,” Lysandre said, seizing Not-James by the throat like David Carodine seizing David Carodine by the throat. “I. Only. Wear. Mother. Fucking. Orange.”
Not-James, unfazed, tossed a pair of orange slotted sunglasses to Lysandre. They were goddamned useless because they didn’t even have any lenses and were just a bunch of plastic slits that obscured his vision, but that’s the price one pays for special operating glasses. “OOH,” Lysandre said, “now THIS is ORANGE!” he put them on and heroically struck a Johnny Bravo pose. “I fucking love orange. But… how does this help me commit mass genocide, either!?”
“Um… y’all needs the special Augmented Reality Battle Extender Robot Laser Arms Control Glasses Headset Keyboard Arm-Mounted Glove Computerized Control Device attachment to make it work! It’s fabulous, stylish, and totally straight, just like you and me! Ooh-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!” He used his own masculine, slender, blue-painted-nail-containing fingers to pull a spray-painted-gold orange Power Glove™ from the box and slide it sensually over Lysandre’s masculine, slender, orange-painted-nail-containing fingers.
“Oh my god,” Lysandre said. “This is so bad. I’m a goddamned sexual Tyrantrum now.”
“I know, right?”
“…but how will this help me commit mass genocide?”
Not-James frantically rummaged through the box. There were only two things left. “Um,” he said, “y’all has to wear three of these flying number-laser shooters for it to work, and then also have the glove and operating glasses.”
“My body is ready,” Lysandre growled seductively to himself, as Not-James tied two more flying ararm cocks to him.
“Now, these, uh, these don’t actually work until you’re next to a legendary… um… tree… tree Pokemon. Then, um, the… uh… soul energy from… like… rocks… makes them… shoot… genocide lasers.”
“OOOOOH! How does that work?”
“TELL ME THE STORY UNCLE NOT-JAMES”
“Well, I… uh… once upon a time, there was this guy, who was, like, the king of France. And he got mad and put everyone’s souls in a rock. Because he had a magic tree. Tree Pokemon. So find the rock, and… uh… you can… do it again?”
“Wow, you sold me all this cool equipment AND gave me the next step of my ‘beautiful world of fedora wearing douchebags’ plan! How can I ever thank you?”
“First,” not-James said, grinning ear from ear and hopping about the closet so hard his fake mustache fell off, “you have to pay me fifteen million Pokedollars.”
“Damn,” Lysandre laughed, “Brockstone really isn’t that expensive!” He threw a wad of bills at Not-James and walked out, adding “Thank you so much, fellow heterosexual manly man!”
“You too, man!” Not-James replied, no longer in a Southern accent. “I can’t believe that worked!” Not-Meowth added as Mall security rushed in and cuffed both of them. They left Not-Jesse free because she was hot as fuck. Also because she abandoned the others because she’s a bitch.
Lysandre strolled casually out of Brockstone with a cardboard box full of awesome specialty combat equipment and SWAG (no glasses, though, he was still wearing them, because hot damn were they sexy as fuck), then paused to write “NOT SUSPICIOUS” on the box in red sharpie to make sure nobody caught on that he was a genocidal maniac. But, just as he emerged from the Not-James Emporium with the grace of a Digglett emerging post-battle from a Cloyster (a Cloyster after using clamp, you fucking pervert), he was stopped fabulously in his man-tracks by a familiar silhouette that stood illuminated dramatically by the Pidgey-shit covered skylight.
“Well, well, well…” the darkness-shrouded sexually appealing heterosexual figure said, his trenchcoat waving majestically with the air from his explosive post-Taco Weepinbell fart, “if it isn’t my old friend Lysandre.”
“Well, well, well,” Lysandre replied, crossing his arms like the badass Malvafucka he is, “if it isn’t my old friend Cuntface.”
“You heard me, Cuntface.”
“My fucking name is Looker, you bitch! I mean, it’s not actually Looker. That’s just a codename, because I’m so goddamned sexually appealing.”
“And what’s your real name then, Mr. Hooker?” Lysandre asked, sensually raising his bulging ginger man-brow.
“Uh… I can’t tell you that.”
“And why not?”
“Because…” Lysandre edging towards the beautiful man, “…it’s CUNTFACE.”
“You’d best think twice before insulting an official cuntface. Er, officer. I’m here on cuntficial business. Official. Official business. Goddamn it, Lysandre.”
“What kind of official business?” Lysandre asked, sensually rubbing his nipples in Looker’s face. Looker tried to respond but choked on Lysandre’s chesthair and had to get Lysandre to administer the Heimlich (in a totally heterosexual way, of course) before he could retort.
“Well,” Looker finally replied, pulling the last red sprig from between his brilliantly shining holy white man-teeth, “I heard a report of some…” he paused for emphasis, and to scratch his balls. “…Hardcore Criminal Activity.”
“Oh, hey,” Lysandre chuckled, “that was the name of Sycamore’s first porn flick! Not that I’d know. Since I’m straight. And since he went by the alias DickSumMore back then. Not that I’d know about that alias, either. I’ll shut the fuck up now.”
“You’d better,” Looker replied, looking him up and down suspiciously and suspiciously letting his eyes linger on that fine tight white-boy ginger ass, you know, in case he had a gun or something in there. “I heard that someone here had purchased some illegal semi-automatic weapons, and I don’t mean my penis. That’s fully automatic. Oh shit, that’s a bad thing, isn’t it? Don’t worry ladies, I meant to say my penis needs to be reloaded frequently. Shit. That’s even worse. Goddamn it, Lysandre, you scared the chicks away. Anyway, I need to see inside that cardboard box labeled ‘Not Suspicious’ you have there.”
“Hah,” Lysandre laughed, gingerly embracing the box as if it were his only begotten cardboard child, “why would you—why would you need to do that, if it’s not suspicious?”
“Lysandre, writing ‘Not Suspcious’ on a box just makes it more suspicious. It’s like labeling your Pokephilia folder ‘Not Pokephilia.’”
“…you have a Pokephilia fol—”
“DON’T QUESTION A CUNTFACE,” Looker shouted, bitch-slapping Lysandre with his pimpin police glove. “I mean, an officer. Goddamnit, Lysandre. Anyway, open your box for me, please.”
“Haha! That was the name of Sycamore’s SECOND porn flick! And no. What you think I am, bitch, some kind of… box… opener… person?”
“GIVE ME THE FUCKING BOX” Looker shouted, losing his professionalism. “AHA!” he shouted. “What have we here…”
“Oh, nothing,” Lysandre replied. “Just a couple of—”
“I KNEW IT! Battle Extender Robot Laser Arms, an Augmented Reality Battle Extender Robot Laser Arms Control Glasses Headset, and an Augmented Reality Battle Extender Robot Laser Arms Control Glasses Headset Keyboard Arm-Mounted Glove Computerized Control Device!”
“Would… would you believe they’re just Happy Froating Ararm Cocks, hipster shades, and a spray-painted power glove?”
“Only an idiot would believe that, Lysandre. I now have all the proof I need to convict you of… CONSIDERING SOME SORT OF VIOLENCE!”
“WHAT!?” Lysandre shouted, grabbing Looker’s fashionably popped collar seductively. “You listen here, Officer Look-at-my-Cuntface, you be pressin’ false charges on my ass. I’m only considering mass genocide.”
“…that’s worse than violence, Lysandre.”
“You’re coming with me!”
“That was the name of Sycamore’s third porn flick,” Lysandre added, as handcuffs were kinkily wrapped around his thick, throbbing wrists and he was escorted down the escalator, through the lingerie department at Macy’s, to the dressing room to help Looker find the right color to highlight his cuntface, to the checkout at Macy’s, to a creepy theme party at Looker’s friend’s basement, and finally to the cop car and then to the police station.
“You wouldn’t consider letting me go, would you, Cuntface?” Lysandre asked politely as he was crammed into a tiny cell and locked in.
“No I wouldn’t, Faghead,” Cuntface politely declined, reclining at his desk and lighting a cigar. “I can’t let you off the hook, no matter how much money or sex you bribe me with. They call me the iron fist for a reason.”
“AW HEY that was the name of Sycamore’s fourth—”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP”
“Aw. I was hoping we’d have some kind of police chase, especially after it took like two months for me to go from Eddie Bauer to Brookstone for some reason. I told Morey it’d only be a week, but you know how this shit goes, I had to perform in a musical, and I had to record radio ads, and finals week was coming up for me, and then I got Super Mario 3D World and forgot to log into Bulbagarden for a couple weeks and I had to travel across the land searching far and wide and—”
“What!? Stop breaking the fourth wall, you idiot. No amount of excuses, no matter how awesome, will make it okay that you kept your read—er, best friend waiting so long for the next chapt-er, store. Dramatic time is different from normal time, Lysandre.”
“That was a porn flick, too.”
“What the fuck kind of idiot names a porn flick ‘Dramatic time is different from normal time?’”
“I don’t know,” Lysandre replied. “People are into some weird shit. You ever look up Bannette on Google Images?”
“Lysandre, I fucking hate you. I hate you so fucking much. Imagine the person you hate the most, and then multiply that by the number of ginger hairs on your disgusting chest, and that’s how much I hate you. Someday I’ll reveal why I hate you so much, but I choose instead to leave this plot point dangling torturously in the air so people will keep reading this damn thing.”
“I love it when you talk dirty, baby,” Lysandre replied, trying to use seduction to escape by sensually licking the phallic bars of his cell. Unfortunately they were made out of wood so he got a splinter in his tongue and couldn’t pick it out because his hands were cuffed. And the splinter was actually a really long nail. And it got stuck. In his tongue/lip. And he hadn’t had his tetanus shots. It was all pretty damn sad.
“Stop sticking your tongue out at me,” Looker spat, “It’s rude to insult a cuntface.”
“I’m not thticking by dongue out at wew,” Lysandre muttered. “Ahm in pehn becas by dongue haz a thplintr.”
“Your dong has a splinter? What the fuck kind of sick habits do you have?”
“Nod by dong, by dongue.”
“You have two dongs!?”
“No, juft one. But id’s longeh dan you mom’s. Who totawy hab a dick, too. Because she’s a cuntfashe. Like you.”
“Alright, listen up, buddy. I’m a pretty reasonable kind of guy. Sort of. Okay, I’m not at all. I’m a stuck up handsome jerk. But still, I’m trying to be polite about this, and you’re not making it any easier.”
“I bant by one phone cah, bitch,” Lysandre asked kindly.
“I BANT BY ONE PHONE CAH, YOU CUNFAESH BITH,” Lysandre asked again, this times slightly less kindly.
“Right,” Looker sighed, putting his Sexy Scrafty magazine down (cover story—Sexy Scrafty Plays Guitar in Band!) and walking to the cell. “I forgot there’s legal shit like that to deal with. I was so close to not giving a fuck at all today, too. Yes, one holocaster call. Wait! Hah! That’s funny, because you invented the holocaster. Ahhh, life is funny sometimes, ain’t it? I may be a cuntface, but at least I can use my own inventions. Well, I mean, I never really invented anything. I tried to make up a sex position one time. But then it didn’t go so well. It went really badly, actually, I got charged for murder for it. Um. Yeah. Guess we have that in common, eh? Haha! Except you killed everyone. Well, tried to. Fuck, actually I guess I’m worse, because I actually killed someone and you were just considering it. But how was I supposed to know she—”
“GIB ME DA FUCKIG HOWOCASTAH, CUNTFAESH!”
“Alright, fine,” Looker sighed, grabbing his holocaster. “Who should I call? Your mom? Professor Oak? Satan?”
“Call Augushtine you cuntfaesh.”
“Yeah, alright. Here you go, it’s ringing.” He set the phone in front of the cell, and Lysandre fell to his knees to shout into it (he was still handcuffed in the cell, because he called Cuntface a looker. Or something like that). “You got two minutes, buddy. This is one of those pay-by-the-minute WalMart phones, because I’m broke as fuck after—”
The phone stopped ringing as a deep, breathy, husky voice wafted sensually from its dripping speaker holes. “Hello, this is Augustine Syc—”
“DYCAMOA, I NEED YOU HELP. I’M THTUCK IN PWISON AND LICK THE WOOD DO DOW DONGUE IS INFECTED THPLINTER AND CAN’T TALK RIGHT TO CUNTFACE—”
“Dickamore?” Sycamore was busy wearing his man apron and baking man gingerbread-man cookies and didn’t bother to look at the holographic part of the Holocaster. “Oh, I get it. What is it, Gary, you want a rematch in that Honda Shitvac of yours? And take your mom’s dick out of your mouth when you talk, I can hardly understand a word you’re saying. Sorry about your infected dong, though. Sounds like that’d hurt a little. But only a little. Because it’s so goddamned tiny—”
“NO DYCAMORE! BY DONG ITHN’T INFECTED, BY DONGUE HATH A THPLINTER AND NEEDTH MEDICAL ATTENTSHUN”
“Do you need me to call the police, Gary? I have Looker on speed-dial, here, I can have him send an ambulan—”
“NO! DON’T CALL CUNTFAESH, I’M WIGHT HEUH WIFTH HIM, HE LOCK ME IN A SHELL WITH PHALLIC WOODEN BAHS THAT HUHT ME WHEN I SEDUCTIVEL—”
“Now, Gary,” Sycamore scolded, shaping the gingerbread men on the pan into tiny little Lysandre heads, “it’s not nice to call someone who’s trying to help you a Cuntface. Didn’t your crazy old grandfather ever teach you manners?”
“No, you ahen’t a cuntfaesh, Dycamoah. I wash callig Offishuh Cuntfaesh a cuntfaesh. Because he hash a cunt for a faesh. And is an offishuh. Oh so he shaysh.”
“Now, Gary, I understand you’re still mad about that speeding ticket, but officers are NOT cuntfaces. They are public service agents who work day in and day out to keep us protected from criminals and Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
“Sorry,” Officer Cuntface interrupted, crushing the holocaster beneath his leather high-heels gogo boot, “your time is up.”
“WHAT!? How can you affoahd to bweak the phone? I thought you wash bwoke!?”
“Not too broke to savor your pain, Lysandre,” Looker said, his pupils dilating like a fat old man’s genitalia retreating after watching a commercial for a banana slicer on Lifetime. “Not too broke to savor your fucking pain.”
“And why ah you weawing women’s gogo boo—”
“WHAT I DO ON MY PRIVATE LAPTOP’S WEBCAM IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS,” Officer Cuntfaesh shouted, kicking Lysandre in the jaw with his kinky-ass gogo boot. Unfortunately for Officer Cuntfaesh, its heel became entwined in Lysandre’s beautiful autumn-colored beard forest, and he fell to the ground, breaking both of his legs and also one of his arms.
“Hah!” Lysandre laughed. “You bwoke you limbs. And I have moah bad newsh for you.”
“Oh, joy,” Looker replied, struggling to breathe through the searing pain. “Do tell.”
“I shecretly whishpered my shpeshal code into da horocastuh dat meansh, ‘Hey Xeroshic, come buhn down da polish stashun.”
“WHAT!? Lysandre, why the fuck do you have a secret code that tells your friend to burn down the police station!?”
“For timesh jusht like dis,” Lysandre replied smugly as the fire alarm went off and smoke began to creep under the door of the jailroom. “Now you have to releash me, becaush your legsh are broken and I’m the only one who can shtand up to drag you out of here!”
“Lysandre, you goddamned idiot, if my legs and arm are broken, HOW THE FUCKING HELL AM I GOING TO UNLOCK YOUR CELL TO GET US OUT OF HERE!?”
WILL LYSANDRE BE EXPOSED AS THE HEAD OF TEAM FLARE?
WILL OFFICER CUNTFACE BE EXPOSED INDECENTLY LIKE THE SICK FUCK HE IS?
WILL SYCAMORE’S MANLY-ASS COOKIES BURN?
WILL LYSANDRE AND OFFICER CUNTFACE BURN FIRST?
WILL IT TAKE ANOTHER TWO MONTHS FOR THESE QUESTIONS TO BE ANSWERED IN THE NEXT CHAPTER?
ALL THIS AND MORE… WHEN THIS BEAUTIFUL STORY IS CONTINUED!
CLICK TO GO TO THE NEXT CHAPTER, CUNTFACE!
Oh my God. *dies*
Seriously great work, as always. I'm quite glad you took your time and didn't rush to post it. The first draft wasn't terrible, per se, but it definitely wasn't up to Lysandre's majestic standards. (Incidentally, that's the name of Sycamore's 5th porn flic! Not that I would know or anything...)
Keep it up, this is really good stuff. :D
|I write fan fiction. Am I cool yet? |
|It's Electric: Cranking it to Eleven - Updated 02/16|
Well, this post had the same effect on me. This story only gets better and better, and that intro... words can't describe how great that was. Please, keep up the great work, this was worth the wait.
wow much beautiful manly chapter wow *inserts cute-looking Growlithe with Lysandre's hair pic here*
Can't wait for next chapter :D
3DS FC: 0216-0841-7478
Y version's Friend Safari: Gyarados, Panpour & Azumarill
*Clears throat* Ahem.... ABOUT DAMN TIME!!!!!!
By that I mean...uh...yay for the new chapter and all that jazz.....
YOUH GETSH OHVURR 9000sh FROSM MI!
I feel like there might be a plot hole because Lysandre was referred to as genocidal in previous chapters, but apparently only became genocidal after the Orange Fedora Incident? Perhaps he is so heterosexual that his genocidal thoughts travelled through time after the OFI to permeate all Lysandres, past and present. Anyway, this is still fucking hilarious, thumbs up.
Join the Bulbagarden Battle League!~~~Dark Type Elite 4~~~Claimed: Mega Absol
The new Champion of the Kalos Region contends with a terrorist cell, high-leveled rogue trainers, and politics, not necessarily in that order, as life at the top of the world proves to be more difficult than it would appear. Read Like No One Ever Was, a Pokémon fanfiction by Glory Blaze.
This chapter was so meta.
Which came first: the Mew or the Arceus?