Chapter Eight Excerpts: Pokey Goes Monster-Shopping
When last we left Saori Kumi she had gotten Pokey so fat he’ll have to be airlifted out of this blog on one of those rescue helicopters they use when barnyard animals get trapped on floodplains. (Which, IMO—if they’re not willing to become sapient, I don’t know why they get to use the helicopters.)
Look, Kumi-san, I say—Kumi-san, you can’t get him any fatter. He’s been chubby, portly, plump, zaftig, fat, fatty-fat-fat, Maury fat, humongous, enormous, disgusting, gelatinous. He’s made the Wii Fit mascot throw up. He’s eaten halfway through Ness Burger’s outstanding debt. I’m just not sure you’ve paced yourself well enough; there’s no other way to insult Pokey.
L-Liar-kun, she says—I have it! I’ll turn him into an object. A meat-object.
I’m all, only Chewy gets to call me Liar-kun, but she’s already started painting me a picture with her imagination brush. Like so:
“Enough. I get it.” The meat lump waved its baseball glove of a hand and let out a frustrated sigh. “That was supposed to buy us time. Looks like it didn’t live up to its price. …Hey, Starman Super, you brought another catalog anyway, didn’t you? Fork it over.”
She had outdone herself again.
The catalogue, while we’re on the subject—it’s not for food, which in a way showcases Saori Kumi’s versatility. It’s the one out of which Pokey’s been ordering all his henchmen. Random encounters aren’t cheap.
“Oh yes—yes! Here—sir.” The mysterious figure grabbed a container out from behind its back. It untied the purple cloth it was wrapped in and pulled out something that looked like a photo album. The gold foil cover was labeled “MONSTER LIST.” The figure offered it with both hands and hurried down to its knees to edge closer to the lump of meat.
Each page had four entries, each which resembled a resume of sorts. There was a picture, a graph, stats, and a few notes.
“It says here this is—big sale. Prices so low they’re—losing their shirts.”
“…What’s this? Octobot? Fish Man? …Nothing’s standing out. Ain’t there anything stronger?”
“How about this Mook Senior? It has 8,390 HP—50 guts points. Special abilities are Life-Upα—PSI Magnet…”
“Alright. Get twenty of ‘em. What else?”
“Ah… May I recommend—mixed team of Fobby—Smilin’ Sphere—Electro Spector. An electric disposition will be—big help.”
What I want to know is where this Starman Super, who has clearly read the player’s guide, was earlier, when Pokey was buying all those useless Attack Slugs. Stick to the Rowdy Mice! Smash attack after smash attack—I hate to send myself into hard mode, but I know a good deal when I see it.
After the jump, Pokey, still described exclusively inanimately by our intrepid author, finds himself transfixed by some of the Lost Underworld’s finest baddies, and Starman Super realizes he’s going to be extra busy.
”If that’s the case, get ‘em all! Get me as many as you can! Don’t be a cheap-wad about it, either. If they need energy, I’ve got plenty…” As the Super Starman diligently turned the pages, the slovenly lump of meat stared at the catalogue in lazy irritation until suddenly it lurched forward ”Waitaminute, show me that page again!”
“Huh? Huh? Which—?” said Super Starman, fumbling backward.
“…This one. This monster.”
The meat wad pointed in satisfaction.
Wetnosaur. Chomposaurus. Each one took up an entire page, like a superstar. “I want those! Bring them here!”
“But, but Master—Giygas, that’s…” Super Starman rubbed its hands together. “I’m—terribly sorry, but the—mass of these is like no other. It cannot—fit—into our Dimension Transporter without chopping into—pieces.”
“So make a new transporter. Just have some of your robots set aside to work on it. Hurry up and make it, so those twits can grimace a smile at it and back up! Heheheh, I can’t wait.” The meat blob shook its sagging cheeks. It appears to have laughed.
“While we’ve got them, we’ve gotta put them to work. Put as many monsters as you can around those fools. I wanna see that imbecile Ness running around scared and getting stomped flat into the ground! Now that I’ve got to see! …Good. We’re done here. Leave.”
“Y—yes sir!”
The Super Starman pressed its hands and head to the ground in prostration and vanished with a flickering bzzzt, like a television with mixed signals zapping off. A burnt scent lingered in the air. All that was left was the small mountain of flesh sitting in the room.
Oh, yeah, don’t read all these descriptions of Pokey right before lunch.
I guess I should have led off with that.
Guess I’ll avoid this being one of the illustration selections.
if fat porky was in an illustration i think i would actually be sick..