So. Here I am — in this interrogation room. You sit there, eyes half-closed in disinterest, shoving doughnuts down your throat for a routine fix of sugar and fat to keep you going through your dreadfully difficult day. Your hands and face become even more disgustingly sticky with each sickening bite. I just sat here and smiled as I waited for you to stop cramming shit into your mouth and to actually do your job and ask for a story.
Why? Simple, really: your disgusting behavior proves a wonderful example of how I'm better than you, and I relish in its example. You're slime. You're filth. Nothing of value has ever come from you, nor will it ever. Even if I am the one that society, the media and the side of this table that I sit on deem the villain, the cancer destroying this city, remember this, if nothing else. The title of cancerous eraser of this once lovely place has and always will belong to you, both empirically and spiritually.
You didn't capture me. Your comrades did. Well, not exactly. But even with my exception aside, I've seen them on the news. They catch psychos — just like me, as you sheepishly say — and bring them to justice, working hard for their fellow Saffron citizens. And what did you do during all those heroic exploits? You sat here, with that same soulless look on your face, dicking around, eating more fattening products and doing what? Nothing… absolutely nothing. No contribution to society, no actual care for your fellow man as you've pledged to have in absolute solemnity. Hell, the only people you've ever 'contributed to' are most likely the people that sell those edible heart attacks. You're just the kind of pig I love to destroy — the kind that warms my heart whenever I see one die, especially when I'm responsible.
You most likely think I won't talk, at least anything worth reporting and about the raid. That I'll keep stalling and wait for the clean-cut lawyer wearing a dull, gray suit covered with an ugly brown coat to arrive — the one that I'll never see. I know he won't arrive because I told him not to come. More specifically, I told him to go fuck himself. I don't want a trial. I don't want to waste my fair city's funds on a petty clusterfuck of arguments and excuses, clinging to lies like a rat clings to a piece of garbage when he's on the brink of drowning in a flooded sewer. I know when I'm caught. Your men are at my house right now, I bet. You found my disguise, my documentation of all the people and Pokémon I've slaughtered in order to cleanse and better this town. And you've certainly found my identity.
So I don't care if you know the whole story and, to be honest, I'd prefer it. I want my deeds for this town recognized. So sit back and pull out a clipboard, you disgusting mass of shit. Here's the story of Jeffrey Orestes Baird. Here's the story of the Gray Zangoose.
But, you know… this room, I've noticed, reminds me of our city quite a bit. I can tell what an efficient and fantastic interrogation room this once was, I can tell. I can visualize what this place once was: the walls, now rusted and aged, were once steel and smooth, almost as though you're sitting in something that can withstand a Draco Meteor. The lightbulb, now dim and flickering, was once bright, shining a glare in the criminals' faces, making their interrogators probing shadows. The glare forced in their eye and their captors' anonymity would add quite the fearful disposition, leading to easier cracking of the crime-doing scum you fine gentlemen capture.
It reminds me of our city, Saffron, in the fact that it's a shell of what it once was. I remember when I was a child. Saffron was a glorious town, one that I was perfectly fine with being in. One could always live a simple life there, but it had the monolithic skyscrapers that gave it the beauty of a massive, complex city.
That was up until 17 years ago, when I was just a 10 year old… and when that damned law took effect. Pokémon and humans could commit sexual acts to one another legally. It was fine starting out. They kept it to themselves and did it in private, as all people with their fetishes and kinks ought to. But the cities' laws got more liberal as the years went on. 7 years after the law was passed, Pokémon marriage was allowed. I shook my head. I spit at the TV whenever I'd hear anything on the news regarding it. But I thought nothing of it in the end. Let them live their own disgusting lives, just as everyone does. It kept out of our town… mostly.
But then… oh then… then came the trafficking of Gardevoir, Kirlia, and Ralts. Our Gym Leader, Sabrina, a closet fetishist who became Saffron's Gym leader 5 years ago, helped fund a project to traffic Ralts into our neighboring Routes 5, 6, 7 and 8. After a year or so, they were a common sight in the wild, tall grass and EVERYONE within Saffron had one as a pet. Soon, Gardevoir were everywhere, and with Gardevoir, so too had many Poképhiles arrived. And within months, people flocked to the newest Poképhilia hotspot.
And with numbers… they gained confidence. They started getting their own clubs, started fucking in alleyways, sometimes in broad daylight. More varieties of Pokémon came to show up, from anthros such as Mawile, Lucario and Gardevoir, to ferals, such as the Eeveelutions, and even fucking Aerodactyls. Tall buildings housed neon signs that advertised dark places where you'd be cheered on and watched while fucking your Pokémon.
Saffron had changed. What was once a beautiful city, one I loved to death… became a wretched shithole, flooded with a filthy orgy of disgusting, Pokémon-on-human sex. The residents became Poképhiles, but these ones were different. They were pretentious, proud of their fetish, constantly bragging over their 'waifus' and 'husbandos', names given to their female and male Pokémon soulmates. Some of them even got angry at other Poképhiles that fucked the same kind of Pokémon as them. Do you know what it's like? Do you know how it feels to see and hear people talk about Pokémon, referring to them like pornstars or prostitutes and fighting over them like fucking toys? How it feels to realize how far down we as a race have fallen? I'll tell you if you don't… it's hell.
I could hardly walk the streets anymore. Whenever I'd go to work, I'd see them everywhere. Groping, fondling their Pokémon in public in the middle of the day. It's a ridiculous scenario, and even more ridiculous is that people fail to realize how absurd it once would have seemed only a decade ago. The people don't care, the policemen don't care, and I don't believe the politicians ever cared. We had let go of our morals so quickly and the result was public vulgarity, shamelessly called "expression of love" by the whiny, sweaty beasts performing it.
I was disgusted. I loathed what my town had become and the filthy vermin that had overrun it. I could hardly bear to open my eyes whenever walking outside. Poképhilia was a plague upon humanity in my eyes, and it still is. Pokémon are meant to be friends, battling companions, and pets… not sex toys only meant to be disdainfully used for self-satisfaction. If you claim to love a Pokémon, but haven't once commanded it to attack, or have barely spent over half a year with it, then I sincerely hope you rot in a ditch.
They don't know a DAMNED thing about the bond between humans and Pokémon, and the fact that they not only pretend to, but hide behind it to protect their sick fetish utterly disgusts me. And then there's the haughty, overzealous look each and every one of them has, at any given moment… I suppose the psychiatrists you have that analyze us criminals could say all that hate built up. And that's how I ended up killing not only a Poképhile, but a Pokémon as well. And by God, did I love it.
It was roughly a month ago. I was walking back to my home from a long day of work. It was approximately 6 o' clock at night. I was tired, but moderately happy at having a good day's work. I decided to take a shortcut home, through an alleyway. Not only would it half my trip, but I'd see less townsfolk on the way. They seem to start their club-hopping a little before the sun sets. I maneuvered through the dark, narrow passage and into a somewhat empty lot. It was about 10-by-10 feet square, with a concrete ground. I looked around for the adjacent passageway that would lead to me being home within minutes… and instead found a man and a Gardevoir, fucking on the floor.
The man was large. Not muscular, not big-boned, but fat. His chubby fingers wrapped around her waist and moved her entire body back and forth, ramming his cock into her pussy. He had long, unruly and brown hair that went over his face, the knotted mess bouncing along with his disgusting movements.
The Gardevoir was on her back and squealing with pleasure, her eyes closed and breasts bouncing to and fro with their rhythmic fucking. Her arms were giving her bearing on the floor, while her legs were wrapped around his fat back. The whole sight was nauseating. That graceful Pokémon meant to battle and befriend humans… being violated by some fat fuck. He was greasy. His skin was practically shining, and it covered the Gardevoir too. Her lips, her neck, any place on her body where that… thing… kissed or sucked on her, all of it was filthy and greasy. They stopped their dirty act when the human noticed me. TheGardevoir objected to the sudden pause, wiggling her entire body, as though she were a misbehaving dog being denied a treat. I almost retched.
But I must say that the act in itself wasn't really what drove me over the edge. I'd long since been jaded of the sight, and this was just another moment of it. However, on that night, I had noticed something that I had never noticed before, something that didn't evoke the usual loathing or disgust from me, but instead… disturbed me. Right down to my soul. It was their eyes, something I never paid attention to. The human's were glazed with a pretentious and unreal amount of content. He said some words, as I could see his lips moving, but it was naught but a dribbling auditory blur. My rage addled all the senses other than sight, so that I could absorb more information to feed it. No doubt, he was offering to 'share' his little whore with me. I've been told that I look lonely when I'm by myself and the act of sharing a Pokémon for sex is hardly eccentric in Saffron nowadays. It's about the same as lighting a cigarette for someone who has lost their matches. Only with emotional scarring and practical molestation. No big deal, of course.
And the Gardevoir… her eyes were the most disturbing of all. They almost caused me to grieve, for they were empty. They had nothing but listless lust in them. She was far gone, blankly staring at me. She didn't care about who I was, what I was, or what I might do to her. So long as I gave her an iota of pleasure, our encounter wouldn't be a waste of time for her. Her eyes also spoke for her. They cried out to me, telling me that she was sexually enslaved from the minute she was 'ripe', possibly as a Ralts, but absolutely as a Kirlia. They shamefully murmured that she thought only of sex. They told me pleasing her master, all the while pleasing herself, was all that mattered to her anymore. Maybe she had aspirations before; maybe she wanted to live a quiet life where she did as she pleased, but her pleasures were no longer her own. They were her master's. But what the crimson eyes told me, above all else, was that she was beyond saving.
I couldn't just kill her master and save her from a life of sexual slavery. Hell, if she thanked me at all, it would've most likely been with a blowjob. She was brainwashed already, probably has been for years. He was a beast, not even human. She was far gone. They both were worthless, you see. Shit. Garbage. Filth. Neither of them deserved to live, both of them were cancerous to my city. Killing them was all for the greater good, you know. And you do know. How can you deny? Of all the detail, of all the thought I've had up until this exact moment of my decision, could you possibly call me insane? Up until that moment, I only said that I wanted to kill them in jest, a turn of phrase used by any angry, sobbing adolescent, even continuing to adulthood. But as I mourned the death of their morals, I too had to mourn the death of mine.
I walked closer to the two, slowly at first, feigning it as nervousness at accepting his offer. His shit-eating grin only grew more vigorous as I came closer. As I walked to them, I fondled the knife I carried in my right pocket. It was a little memento from my military days, as I'm sure your cohorts will discover that I was stationed during the Tohjo Wars. I made sure that I had a good grip on it by the time I was a foot away from him and his little toy. I crouched down and stared at the man, looking through his eyes, searching for something. I didn't find it.
I pulled out my knife and stabbed him in his neck, making sure to slice the vital artery during the puncture. As blood poured into his throat and he choked on the very liquid that carries out so many functions to keep him alive, I couldn't help but find the gurgles and desperate gasps as sweet in their satisfaction.
I started laughing out loud and screaming nonsense, violent things that helped let out every bit of anger, frustration, and disgust I had. Sure, I sounded like a child, but I felt so much happiness destroying this miserable vermin's life, I ceased to care. He gave no reply, only shuddered and flailed at me to make me get off of him, but he was too weakened by the blows I had already inflicted on him to put up a fight. I stabbed him in his fattened chest more times than I could count and got bored.
I decided, for fun, to carve a little circle around his neck. I stabbed the right side of his throat then began rotating my switchblade around his neck via pulling it in and out slightly, like what one would do to a rough steak, until my cutting swath made its way to the puncture that began. The man's gurgling was quieting and a copious amount of blood trickled from both his neck and mouth as he limped over, dead.
The Gardevoir was frozen in fear during her Master's evisceration but when I unsheathed my knife from his neck and turned my attention to her, she screamed in fear and floated away. But she had fled far too late, as it was easy to sprint and catch up to her. Before she could even leave the lot, I had grabbed the hem of her dress and placed a quick stab in the back of her neck. She fell to the floor, turning to lay flat on her back on the concrete. I pinned her down by her neck with my left hand and began my handiwork with the right.
Screaming wasn't much of a problem for the master, as a stab to the throat quickly impedes the oratory. However, to kill the Pokémon with the same order of method would be a bit too bland, so I took a little different of an approach. I settled my knee on her lower stomach for leverage as she struggled, wiggling underneath me to get away. The best part about Pokémon that have been used for sex all of their lives is that they have next to no experience in battle. This lack of experience leads to hardly any muscle development and a large loss of focus and concentration, when it comes to using moves and powers. Therefore, the Gardevoir's struggle was like that of a child's, unable to even use a Confusion to push me off. The fact that the lifestyle I'm killing her for is exactly what's keeping her from defending herself says quite a bit, don't you think?
In any case, after making sure she couldn't struggle out of my grip, I punched her square in the throat, and then lower, above the chest. After which, I punched her even harder on both sides of the chest, attacking her lungs. It didn't take long for the assault to prove effective. Her screams were silenced and all that could be heard was her gasping and raspy cries.
After taking care of that, for ten minutes straight, I arbitrarily cut, stabbed and twisted any place on her body, going from one end of the body to the next. As I began, I concocted a clever little idea. I'd randomly shank her, but I'd made sure to have done it only on her right side. When I felt I was done, I mimicked the exact same cuts and stab wounds on her left side, making her shattered body beautifully symmetrical, a kind of masterpiece.
I looked at my handiwork in awed silence. I felt no guilt, no shame, no thought of the consequences of this bloodied soon-to-be corpse in front of me. I felt only accomplishment, as a sculptor does when he pulls away from his statue for the final time, to absorb what he's created. But it was time to finish thisI had a bit too much fun with this, I think. Though they were both worthless flesh, the master really deserved more suffering than this creature. She is, after all, still the victim. So I clenched my left hand around her throat, causing a suffocating noise to escape her as I lifted her up by her neck.
Her hands tried to loosen my grip, but I rammed her entire body against the brick wall, focusing the impact on the back of the head. She momentarily straightened her arms to push against the wall, but that was all I needed. With a quick slash, I sliced down her right arm, making sure to puncture the muscle. After repeating the process for the other arm, they both fell limply to her side, unusable, and the problem was solved. I smashed her body against the wall, this time keeping her pressed against it. She shivered and twitched and cried and sobbed. And I loved every little bit of reaction she had: every slight movement of her face, every little bead of sweat, every analytical movement in her eyes that showed her fear, sorrow, even acceptance; all of it had made me feel powerful.
I pressed my blade against her neck — her tiny, frail neck — and slid it across, ever so slowly. She gasped in shock, then gasped several times afterwards as a pathetic attempt to grab air, crimson blood slithering down her collar bone and to her mangled breasts and torso. She slowly slid down to the ground, her dress delicately parting, and she looked up at me the entire time. She finally died, arms still dangling beside her, legs sprawled in front of her, back against the wall and head leaning on her right shoulder. Though her eyes lacked any sign of thought or soul at that moment, I will never forget the look in her eyes before they emptied forever. Within them, during a slight spark before being burned out, I saw the feeling I wish I could make all of these insufferable fucking pigs feel before they died: regret.
All her life, she had accepted her fate, but in less than 20 minutes, I changed all of that. I made her look into herself, what she had done, what she had become. I knew, that as I slid my blade across her scrawny, white neck, she hated herself for what she'd done all of her life. She thought of what I had done as punishment, atonement for her filthy actions. She knew why I maimed her so ferociously, why I had such hatred. Why she had driven a soul to such madness and depravity, doing such an act by pure unleashed passion. I MADE her feel sorry for what she'd done. And that feeling, my friend… is God.