“Ah, sweet!”
Huddled with the cobwebs at the very back of the shelf, visible only to those willing to lay their face against the convenience store’s floor, the red and yellow of the metallic bag can’t be mistaken. It could be stale, of course, it could be just an empty wrapper left by some lazy schmoe who couldn’t be assed to walk it ten feet away to the nearest trash can, but it feels weighted and rustled when you drag it out from its little hidey-hole.
A one-dollar and fifty cent find in any other shop on the planet, and you’re dusting it off like it’s some ancient relic, fingers leaving a cleaned trail to better see the chef hat-wearing magikarp grinning at the customer. A subtle squeeze and no air leaks out of any holes, and after a few inversions you can see the expiration date is two months away.
Maggie’s Karp Rinds.
Nacho cheese.
And it’s in date.
After your expert verification, you shoot a glance or two around the aisle, no Pokémon nor any other humans in sight, then tuck it under...no. Paying or not, no store anywhere’s going to serve you again if you pulled anything like that on camera. Then the bell to the door rings, and with your ears perked you slowly, slowly rise on your feet at whoever’s entered, but it’s a human leaving, nobody but the cashier in sight.
Tucking the bag below the arm away from the window, you make a swift saunter over to the register, rolling your feet so the soles of your shoes don’t squeak against the floor. It’s only the movement that’s dead in front of him that a fat typhlosion manning the register shows a modicum of interest.
“Buying any gas...?” He lists so you know you’re his fiftieth customer of the day, but his dry-voiced demeanor gives way to genuine confusion when he sees your dirtied face, rumpled hair and a finger to your lips pleading for his silence, and when he doesn’t verbally react, you test your bravery and untuck the bag, setting it down for him to scan. That gets his eyes to lit up, and staring back at your undoubtedly pathetic pleas in silence for him to keep quiet, just scan the damn thing and pass you by like any other customer, he gets the picture.
A beep from his scanner, a swipe from your card and the whir of his receipt printer, he pushes the slip forward without another word, but just a nod of thanks from you ends the scene and you go. No more talking from here on out to the car rider not until you’ve locked every door in your house, barred every whistle and turned of every phone, not for anybody or anything until you’ve passed at least the first-
BWORP
Your grim determination aches as you’re stopped against your will, sinking one, maybe two feet into something soft, slipper and smooth that flings you right backward, ass first on the concrete.
“Oh, my! Sorry, I didn’t see...you...”
Was it racist that you knew, right from her voice? Did all of them have that warm, motherly cadence to her words? Maybe, maybe not, or maybe it was just dumb fucking luck.
When your mind catches up and see that you’re right, she’s already seen. Meeting her head past the curvature of her stomach, the massive, beige orb of sagging lard drooping onto concrete from the pitiful covering of a Seaville shirt with two lesser, yet still weighty female globes crammed into its dimensions, her eyes are wide and alert, tubby flippers smacked over her chub-infested muzzle before you’d swung it behind your back.
The lapras stutters a few stray consonants, then manages, “W-were those...K...Karp Rinds?”
“No.” You stamp into the air a speed and insistence that shoots YES into the sky with fireworks. “S’not.”
“Sir,” With a stretch and some finagling, she needles her aquatic hands into the back pockets of her pants, the jean shirts visibly tight even from the mere slips you can see along either side of her vast rear. “If you gave me those right now, no joke, I would give you fifty dollars.”
She thrusts her hands back out uncomfortable close to your face, several wads of crumpled bills in each of her mitts. Standing back up slowly, scared to provoke her in any way, the sea-mon still looms over at nine feet, and you pan your eyes at the parking lot, praying that nobody is watching over the cars. “N-No. Listen, I just-“
“Seventy dollars!” She snaps, yanking more money from her pants. When you back away, she stomps forward twice, her many, many jiggling tons rattling the very earth itself. “Seventy five! Ninety!”
“...did she say Karp Rinds?!”
Fuck. Damnit, piss, shit, ass, whore, dick, butts, and every nasty thing above and beyond. A voice with that similar twang speaks as another lapras is just getting out of her car. Green this time, and with a body of this one’s upside down: a corpulent middle submerged beneath a set of breasts that each alone would weigh in the tons, but that obsessed look matches up.
“DOUBLE!!!” She whoops, getting as perfect view of the bag at your back, and you swing it back out, then back in and just her up against the wall as she tries to corner you. “Whatever that hog is asking for, I’ll give you double!”
Bluey retorts by snapping a fin around Greenie’s neck. “Like fuck you are! I saw it first!”
A green knee kicks Bluey right in the gut, and if it hadn’t already gone wrong a few moments ago, it was now endtimes. Every punch, every punch, every vulgarity draws every eye in a block radius to the three of you, and searching for some kind of an escape route, you realize that that block-radius had apparently become the lapras capital of the island. Every gap of space you turn to, there’s one who’s stopped filling up their cars, paused in their jogs, or straight up accept being rear-ended and stop their cars right on the road when they realize why two lapras would be fighting with each other outside of a convenience store, somerifling through their belongings for offerings while others just run in, hands open to do Arceus only knows what.
Run. That’s it. Which way? Where to? Doesn’t matter. Anywhere but here, but upon moving three feet to the left with any hint of speed prompts Bluey to lash out and catch you by the ankle, making you taste blood and concrete. Screaming something at you and Greenie at the same time that just jumbles together into a string of nonsense, she crawls onto as you try and crawl away, and Greenie crawls onto her, Pinkie onto Greenie, Red onto Bluey, Yellow onto Red, so many colors, so much noise, so much violence...
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!”
The ‘you’ sweeps the entire crowd, that singular word directed at all of them at once. One more hand grabs onto you, but around the back of your shirt so she can slide you out from under Bluey, gently setting you back.
The most that Purple handles you is dusting you off, then she just sets her hands on her large...large...Arceus, large hips, leering unrefined hate at the crowd from some eleven feet in height. She holds every bit the authority of a lifeguard tank top over a stomach and breasts that, while still utterly massive, is still shy of wither Bluey or Greenie’s, puts no battle tot he scope of her ass, the twin zeppelin-like globes of adipose sitting in tandem with enough width to smother the green and blue variants of her own kin with ease, standing open to the air through the comfort of a swimsuit.
“Bunch of fucking degenerates.” She growls, straightening a braid of brown hair set on her shoulder. “Shame on you.”
Many of them falter, absorbing some of the spite that Purple injected into her words, while some just stare in hateful restraint, likely smart enough to not pick a fight. Purple then just sees you at her side, face going as soft as the lard in her feathers should make her look and gently guides you away from the crowd, but not without one last mean look behind her.
“You okay?” She asks in a much more kind, serene tone.
“Yeah.” You answer, wiggling your front teeth a little, and are satisfied that none of them have been knocked loose. “Thanks.”
“No prob. Here,” She bends over, and you allow her fin to come close enough to touch your other shoulder. “Sometimes falling like that can break nose, so lemme just check and GIVE ME THAT BAG!!!”
If your hand had been an inch to the left, she might’ve gotten the bag, maybe even your arm right out of its socket, but despite the odds that her size could put you against, for once they’re on your side. Ducking from her fin, you easily manage to slip out of her grasp when her fin pounces right over you and into the ground, and you run. Run ahead and never look back, from some cheesy motto to sheer survival instinct.
Okay, you did look back, just for a second. And in that second you see the quake from earlier give way to the tsunami as every lapras that’d been piling for the bag gives way to a mob.
You leap several stridefuls longer that you’d think possible of your body over the parking lot, towards that stupid little yellow car of yours at the very end, far from any doors that could open and dent up its paint, and you feel regret for not getting a car you could start up right from the fob, the horde of lapri, slow and weighty they may have been, compensating for their sheer, insatiable need...
Choice 1: You manage to get in the car and start it up. Hooray!...yet?
Choice 2: You manage into the car...but bluey manages to belly-flop right onto the roof.
Choice 3: With a water gun from behind, your car gets destroyed, forcing you to keep on foot!
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