Character: Robert H. Ashton
Info: (Retired Professional Pokemon Killer, Currently a Celadon P.I , Realistic Pokemon AU)
October 16th, 1554 N.B, 08:00:51 PM Entry, Voice Recording, Duration: 10 minutes, 56 seconds
You know, today's that time of the year again.
The day where Arceus or whatever god the random Sinnohan priest of the day looks down upon that poor little sod walking in the street and thinks ' Fuck it. I need some entertainment, and I need it now.' Guess it goes to show you that the universe has one quirky sense of sadism. Right now? I think I'm starting to understand why I hated civvies when I wore the beret months ago. But, we'll get to that later.
Today, Lerhner called me up today. Just when I was enjoying a good ol' Unovan Petill Cigar., leaning on my office chair. All the P.I's in Kanto and he calls me. Could be a coincidence. Then, again, it can't be. 3rd time in a month. I'm starting to wonder if he has a fondness for me or if I'm just the only one who doesn't barf at the first sight of his grotesque oily, fat, plumper than a Emboar, face.
It's not that I'm fond of him as well, okay?
So, what was the case this time. Homicides. Again. 5th time this year in Celadon. So much for being the 'civilized' centre of the Indigo League. Wherever there's money and wherever's there's something to fight over, people will be stupid and stab each other to the death. Near the harbor, this time, which was a shake-up in location. I really need to write a note to all serial killers to not do this type of shit in a dark, damp, seedy area that smells worse than the backside of a Muk. Why not do it in bright daylight and in a clean, safe enviroment, say for example, in a restaurant. On the downside, people will witness you, you get arrested straight away and generally, it doesn't turn out good for you but hey!
Makes my life easier. Which is exactly what I need right now.
So, I hypothesized while I walked over in the afternoon, mocha in hand, when suddenly, I heard a commotion down by in the alley. Being the good Samaritan that I was, I rushed down to see what was happening.
And let me tell you, the burden that Indigo puts on ten year old children is disgusting.
It was a trainer fighting with another trainer in the alley. Two Novice's. One of them couldn't control their Charmander and the poor kid got roasted. Literally. Alive. Fun fact. Fire-Pokemon flames are not like regular flames. Instead, they're a caustic mixture of flammable chemicals that stick on your skin and burn at temperatures hot enough to make you never want to think about that temperature again. Thanks to a medic course that I took back in '48, my brain was popping little itty bits of information as I scooped him up in my hands and rushed him to the Poke-Centre.
Like the fact that the kid had 2nd degree burns on his arms.
Like the fact that the kid was probably gonna need a fake-eye.
Like the fact was probably going to be disfigured.
Not if I could fucking help it. So, I went to the pokemon centre. Kid was moaning about in my arms, something about his mommy. As expected. Got to the nurse. Everyone was staring at me, bug-eyed. Couldn't blame them. After all, what's more friggin' strange than seeing a grown bearded man who looks like he belongs in the gutter carrying a burnt boy in his arms?
Unfortunately, the only piece of identification I had was my Ranger I.D card that was on hand. And the Nurse Joy who was at the post today must have held a grudge against people like me. She thought that I'd burnt the kid to a smote, for god's sake! She started fussing up a storm, about mon killers, about how we were brutal savages that needed to go back to the outer forests of Viridian and a whole lot of other nasty things that a bubble-gum haired, genial, nurse wouldn't normally say.
I then started to make my leave. The kid was alright. He was going to feel mighty sore and I was going to go on my own merry business, ignoring the pink-haired bitch that was currently trying to get a rise out of me.
Then, I lost control. I lost control because of some stupid jibe. Some stupid 5 year old, immature jibe that I should have known better than to get pissed at. I still don't understand why it pissed me off as it did. I still don't understand why it made me go ape-shit on that poor nurse for 5 seconds until she looked as if she was ready to piss her pants.
That stupid insult was ' Rangers deserved to die.'
Am I still trying to hold onto some piece of you, Barrett? Am I still trying to defend the actions that we did for the Corps?
I don't know why I still possess some sense of loyalty to the Corps. I retired. I bled. I shed tears. And every veteran gives me a respectful look when I said that I retired.
I deserve retirement.
I can't say sorry to you, Barrett. I let you down. I don't deserve to be a Ranger.
I will never forget you, you old crotchety bastard.
This is Ashton. Out. Stop Recording.
Reminders
1. Check up on Sisyphus and Damascus. Remington says they're more prissy than usual.
2. Call plumbing to repair broken sink.
3. Get that jug of Moo-moo milk as soon as possible.