F
Flames Galore
Guest
It's back again! For the umpteenth time (actually 3rd), The Other Side Of The Counter has returned. Why? Because I remembered that people liked it and wanted to bring it back. The other two times, I posted the prologue, it got good reviews, and I stopped, do to a lack of spare time and lack of inspiration. But this time it'll be different, because I already wrote the next chapter (close to finishing it, anyway). Therefore, please enjoy, back because I felt like it, The Other Side of The Counter.
The Other Side of the Counter
by Flames Galore
Prologue: Reflections of Life as I Know It
“Nurse, nurse, you have to heal my Caterpie!” A little boy rushed in, yelling these words. He had a buzz-cut, with a backwards blue cap. He probably thought he looked pretty cool. It looked to me like he was wearing the very popular "master-wannabe halloween costume."
I groaned, staring at the Pokemon Center's yellow interior. Wouldn’t anyone ever bring me something interesting to heal? “What happened?” I mumbled, not really caring.
“You’re Nurse Joy?” he asked. Almost everyone asked me this because I refused to wear the standard nursing outfit. Instead, I wore a striped sky blue and white t-shirt along with blue jeans. My medium-length light-brown hair was pulled back, held there with a scrunchy, and I wore sneakers.
“Yes, I’m Nurse Joy, now tell me what happened,” I stated dryly.
“We were out training nearby when suddenly, a Spearow came by and pecked my Caterpie.”
“Lemme guess," I said, twirling a string around my finger out of boredom. You retaliated, and so a whole flock of Spearow flew up to your Caterpie, ripping it to shreds with their beaks.”
“Nope. It just fainted from that one.”
This was outright pitiful. I laughed, imagining the boy yelling "I believe in you" to the bug as he was tortured by the bird. “Okay. I’ll heal your Caterpie," I finally said. "Pick it up in an hour, at which time I will tell you how to avoid this predicament in the future." "Just pick up your sorry poketraining ***, go home, and never quit your day job," I thought.
“Thank you so much!” the boy exclaimed.
“Whatever,” I said, taking his pokeball. I tried to frown, expressing my disliking of this kid. I couldn’t, though. No Nurse Joy could. It was almost like all of us had natural botox since the day we were born. I hated my life. I wanted to train pokemon, get out of this crapshack known as a pokemon center, and just explore. However, our clan leader, my grandma, forbade it. “You can never train pokemon, this family does not allow such frivolous and destructive things!” Her unkind voice echoed in my head. At first, I was okay with healing pokemon. I thought I would see some interesting pokemon while healing so many. Because of my views, though, my post became the Mt. Moon pokemon center. All of the pokemon I treat are Caterpie, Weedle, Spearow, Pidgey, and Rattata. I was so desperate, I was actually jubilant when I got to treat a Kakuna. The most unique pokemon here were the Chanseys, for crying out loud.
Speaking of them... “Chansey!” I called out. “Take this to room three, run a check up, heal it, and bring it back.” I glanced at my watch. It had been eleven minutes since that retard left, and I had promised his scrawny green worm in an hour, and it had taken a pretty bad beating. “Make it snappy,” I called out.
~Chansey~
I trotted down the corridor to room three, holding the pokeball just handed to me. God, I hate this place. I feel like a slave. “Chansey, heal this. Chansey, heal that. Chansey, run a checkup. And make it snappy.” What if I don’t want to? Nobody gives a ****. Believe it or not, Chansey can battle too. I doubleslapped a red couch as I walked by it. I think it hurt me more that the couch. So sad. I could have been a Machoke, or a Growlithe, but no, I’m a big pink fluffball with an egg in its pouch, stuck in a place where I never even get to attempt to harness my skills. As I walked along, I stared at the small pink cushions placed on top of wooden blocks. They were tattered and scorched in several places, and had discolerated splotches lined along one side as if from the spilled apple juice of a ten-year old. I pulled an egg out of my large and rather flabby pouch, hurling it at a couch cushion in disgust. It made a small explosion, leaving a charred black mark. I scooped out soot in the shapes of an f and a u.
“Chansey, I hope you aren’t fooling around. That Caterpie won’t heal itself,” came a voice from the main room.
"No, ma’am, I wasn’t," I mumbled, waddling to room three, where my patients were housed. I have to get out of here soon.
"Well, Chansey, you're late as usual," chimed a Weedle in a British accent.
"Shut up before I strangle you, you snobby little Weedle bug. You know, you still haven't recovered fully, so I'd watch my mouth if I were you," I replied, now disgruntled.
"First of all, my name's not Weedle, it's Montgomery, this food sucks, and I want my massage. Second of all, how do you expect to strangle me with those... those things," said the bug, pointing to where my hands should be. "Yes, squeeze me with your hands, oh, that's right, you don't have any."
"Well you don't have anything even remotely close to arms, so go to hell, you pompous little *******!" I retorted, now angry.
"Tsk, tsk, such language," replied the Weedle.
"You know," I said, formulating an idea, "I might not be able to hurt you very quickly, but the Spearow I'm treating doesn't like canned food and I'm sure he'd be quite happy too gain an enjoyable meal by disposing of you." The Weedle quickly shut up.
~Alexa~
I heard a small explosion coming from the corridor. I shook my head slowly. That Chansey had serious problems. It probably belonged in a mental institution, but I guess the Mount Moon Pokemon Center was the closest thing they could find to put it in. It really could use two weeks of vacation time, like I got. They were coming up in soon, and I looked forward to them. They were the one time when I could escape my fate, and live life a little. I was planning to take a small plane to Vermillion City, where I’d hang out at the seashore, try to get standby tickets on a cruise, and do what I like best.
By the way, my self-declared name is Alexa Greenberg, and I’m 19 years old. Unlike most other nurses, I’m not okay with the fact that I am like a clone, with no individuality. I think my grandma hates me for that, that lack of acceptance I have. That’s why I’m in the worst pokemon center, with the most psychotic Chansey, and the least interesting pokemon. My grandma may be a *****, but she’s a smart one. She is well aware of my interest in pokemon, and has done everything she can to dispel this craving until its permanent disappearance. My eyes wandered to the small TV screen that was nestled on a corner, for trainers to watch while they wait for their pokemon. It was about the only thing that let me survive in this hellhole. A large red octopus-type-thing was battling a brownish duck with a stick in its mouth. I picked up a small rectangular object known as a remote and turned on closed captioning. I started reading the medium-sized white letters, appearing against a black background, as a ball of ink rushed towards the duck, who was waving around the stick in his mouth, as if he was trying to cut something.
Octillery scores a direct hit with its ooktazooka, but Farfetch’d’s fury cutter is rapidly gaining power. I sighed. Why couldn’t I treat interesting pokemon like those? Ever since I saw my first pokemon battle, all I’ve ever wanted to do is escape. Leave all of the white and pink in my job behind, and do what I’ve always wanted to do. To train. I mean, why should I have to heal pokemon. I looked around the room at several people. “Why not him, or her, or them. Why me?” Another little boy rushed in.
“Nurse Joy, Nurse Joy! You’ve got to heal my Rattata,” he yelled. He looked about ten, and was wearing an ugly bowl-shaped haircut, which he tried to hide with his backwards red cap. I scoffed. What a cliché! I felt like yelling “why should I?,” to his healing request, after all, he was obviously just another amateur destined for failure, but instead, swiftly yanked his pokeball from him. He continued to ramble.
“I was fighting another trainer, who sent out a Pidgey. He was so strong. He used a sand attack, and then a strong gust, and Rattata was down and out. I was awestruck."
“Let me ask you a question, kid," I said. "Did it occur to you to stop watching your pokemon get pummeled and attack back?”
“Err... well... um... funny thing about that, I sort of didn’t get around to that.”
“Oh well, don’t worry about a thing. You’ll still win a bunch of fights by sitting as a spectator on the sidelines, watching your pokemons’ demise."
“Really? You really think so?”
I slapped my forehead. “Can’t you detect the incredibly obvious sarcasm?” I then began doing something I saw my older sisters do when I visited them. Maybe it was because of my anger and frustration at life, maybe I wanted some entertainment, but for whatever reason, I started chewing the novice out. “Are you like ****ing retarded or something?" I asked. "You have to help your pokemon by issuing battle commands to them. That’s the trainer’s purpose in a battle! Look at that TV screen.” I motioned towards the screen I had been staring at moments ago. “Read the closed captioning. Look! It says ‘Jill: Snubbull, use charm, then bite.’ See that, she’s issuing commands to her pokemon, a large part of the reason she made it to that tournament. Now get the hell out of here you newbie and don’t come back for an hour.”
He stormed out, crying. Delusional freak. He probably imagined training would be stress-free. It’s not like on Saturday morning cartoons where a pokemon will just stand there, watching its foe ready the attack that would bring its doom. “Chansey, you have another patient,” I yelled, tossing her the pokeball. It was around then that I finally realized that I was stuck healing major injuries of pokemon caused by their trainers’ overwhelming lightheadedness. All of the trainers who came rushing frantically through the center’s door had created false expectations about their journey, caused by watching too much TV. Little children who saw battles on television were too oblivious to understand how hard participating in a battle really was. They heard a trainer tell a Barboach to use a water gun followed by a mud slap. Anyone could do that. What they didn’t realize is the thousands of thoughts rushing through the trainer’s mind, about which attacks would be best, possible combo’s, and how to react to what the opposing trainer might do. I grimaced. “Kids can’t see strategy on TV,” I thought.
It was then that I suddenly developed thoughts of leaving the hellhole known as the Mount Moon Pokemon Healing and Care Center, more commonly called Mt. Moon Pokemon Center. Here I was, thinking of strategy and the flaws of others, and I was restricted to sitting behind the counter of a stuffy room. “I am leaving, and I am doing it soon. I want to find an individuality, a new purpose, a better life, and I wasn’t waiting ‘til vacation,” I vowed, hoping no one heard me. I was ready, I was willing, but would I be able? Only time would tell.
So, please R&R! I like compliments, people pointing out errors, and love constructive criticism. If you can tell me how to improve, that's great. If all you tell me is that my fic sucks, I consider that spam.
The Other Side of the Counter
by Flames Galore
Prologue: Reflections of Life as I Know It
“Nurse, nurse, you have to heal my Caterpie!” A little boy rushed in, yelling these words. He had a buzz-cut, with a backwards blue cap. He probably thought he looked pretty cool. It looked to me like he was wearing the very popular "master-wannabe halloween costume."
I groaned, staring at the Pokemon Center's yellow interior. Wouldn’t anyone ever bring me something interesting to heal? “What happened?” I mumbled, not really caring.
“You’re Nurse Joy?” he asked. Almost everyone asked me this because I refused to wear the standard nursing outfit. Instead, I wore a striped sky blue and white t-shirt along with blue jeans. My medium-length light-brown hair was pulled back, held there with a scrunchy, and I wore sneakers.
“Yes, I’m Nurse Joy, now tell me what happened,” I stated dryly.
“We were out training nearby when suddenly, a Spearow came by and pecked my Caterpie.”
“Lemme guess," I said, twirling a string around my finger out of boredom. You retaliated, and so a whole flock of Spearow flew up to your Caterpie, ripping it to shreds with their beaks.”
“Nope. It just fainted from that one.”
This was outright pitiful. I laughed, imagining the boy yelling "I believe in you" to the bug as he was tortured by the bird. “Okay. I’ll heal your Caterpie," I finally said. "Pick it up in an hour, at which time I will tell you how to avoid this predicament in the future." "Just pick up your sorry poketraining ***, go home, and never quit your day job," I thought.
“Thank you so much!” the boy exclaimed.
“Whatever,” I said, taking his pokeball. I tried to frown, expressing my disliking of this kid. I couldn’t, though. No Nurse Joy could. It was almost like all of us had natural botox since the day we were born. I hated my life. I wanted to train pokemon, get out of this crapshack known as a pokemon center, and just explore. However, our clan leader, my grandma, forbade it. “You can never train pokemon, this family does not allow such frivolous and destructive things!” Her unkind voice echoed in my head. At first, I was okay with healing pokemon. I thought I would see some interesting pokemon while healing so many. Because of my views, though, my post became the Mt. Moon pokemon center. All of the pokemon I treat are Caterpie, Weedle, Spearow, Pidgey, and Rattata. I was so desperate, I was actually jubilant when I got to treat a Kakuna. The most unique pokemon here were the Chanseys, for crying out loud.
Speaking of them... “Chansey!” I called out. “Take this to room three, run a check up, heal it, and bring it back.” I glanced at my watch. It had been eleven minutes since that retard left, and I had promised his scrawny green worm in an hour, and it had taken a pretty bad beating. “Make it snappy,” I called out.
~Chansey~
I trotted down the corridor to room three, holding the pokeball just handed to me. God, I hate this place. I feel like a slave. “Chansey, heal this. Chansey, heal that. Chansey, run a checkup. And make it snappy.” What if I don’t want to? Nobody gives a ****. Believe it or not, Chansey can battle too. I doubleslapped a red couch as I walked by it. I think it hurt me more that the couch. So sad. I could have been a Machoke, or a Growlithe, but no, I’m a big pink fluffball with an egg in its pouch, stuck in a place where I never even get to attempt to harness my skills. As I walked along, I stared at the small pink cushions placed on top of wooden blocks. They were tattered and scorched in several places, and had discolerated splotches lined along one side as if from the spilled apple juice of a ten-year old. I pulled an egg out of my large and rather flabby pouch, hurling it at a couch cushion in disgust. It made a small explosion, leaving a charred black mark. I scooped out soot in the shapes of an f and a u.
“Chansey, I hope you aren’t fooling around. That Caterpie won’t heal itself,” came a voice from the main room.
"No, ma’am, I wasn’t," I mumbled, waddling to room three, where my patients were housed. I have to get out of here soon.
"Well, Chansey, you're late as usual," chimed a Weedle in a British accent.
"Shut up before I strangle you, you snobby little Weedle bug. You know, you still haven't recovered fully, so I'd watch my mouth if I were you," I replied, now disgruntled.
"First of all, my name's not Weedle, it's Montgomery, this food sucks, and I want my massage. Second of all, how do you expect to strangle me with those... those things," said the bug, pointing to where my hands should be. "Yes, squeeze me with your hands, oh, that's right, you don't have any."
"Well you don't have anything even remotely close to arms, so go to hell, you pompous little *******!" I retorted, now angry.
"Tsk, tsk, such language," replied the Weedle.
"You know," I said, formulating an idea, "I might not be able to hurt you very quickly, but the Spearow I'm treating doesn't like canned food and I'm sure he'd be quite happy too gain an enjoyable meal by disposing of you." The Weedle quickly shut up.
~Alexa~
I heard a small explosion coming from the corridor. I shook my head slowly. That Chansey had serious problems. It probably belonged in a mental institution, but I guess the Mount Moon Pokemon Center was the closest thing they could find to put it in. It really could use two weeks of vacation time, like I got. They were coming up in soon, and I looked forward to them. They were the one time when I could escape my fate, and live life a little. I was planning to take a small plane to Vermillion City, where I’d hang out at the seashore, try to get standby tickets on a cruise, and do what I like best.
By the way, my self-declared name is Alexa Greenberg, and I’m 19 years old. Unlike most other nurses, I’m not okay with the fact that I am like a clone, with no individuality. I think my grandma hates me for that, that lack of acceptance I have. That’s why I’m in the worst pokemon center, with the most psychotic Chansey, and the least interesting pokemon. My grandma may be a *****, but she’s a smart one. She is well aware of my interest in pokemon, and has done everything she can to dispel this craving until its permanent disappearance. My eyes wandered to the small TV screen that was nestled on a corner, for trainers to watch while they wait for their pokemon. It was about the only thing that let me survive in this hellhole. A large red octopus-type-thing was battling a brownish duck with a stick in its mouth. I picked up a small rectangular object known as a remote and turned on closed captioning. I started reading the medium-sized white letters, appearing against a black background, as a ball of ink rushed towards the duck, who was waving around the stick in his mouth, as if he was trying to cut something.
Octillery scores a direct hit with its ooktazooka, but Farfetch’d’s fury cutter is rapidly gaining power. I sighed. Why couldn’t I treat interesting pokemon like those? Ever since I saw my first pokemon battle, all I’ve ever wanted to do is escape. Leave all of the white and pink in my job behind, and do what I’ve always wanted to do. To train. I mean, why should I have to heal pokemon. I looked around the room at several people. “Why not him, or her, or them. Why me?” Another little boy rushed in.
“Nurse Joy, Nurse Joy! You’ve got to heal my Rattata,” he yelled. He looked about ten, and was wearing an ugly bowl-shaped haircut, which he tried to hide with his backwards red cap. I scoffed. What a cliché! I felt like yelling “why should I?,” to his healing request, after all, he was obviously just another amateur destined for failure, but instead, swiftly yanked his pokeball from him. He continued to ramble.
“I was fighting another trainer, who sent out a Pidgey. He was so strong. He used a sand attack, and then a strong gust, and Rattata was down and out. I was awestruck."
“Let me ask you a question, kid," I said. "Did it occur to you to stop watching your pokemon get pummeled and attack back?”
“Err... well... um... funny thing about that, I sort of didn’t get around to that.”
“Oh well, don’t worry about a thing. You’ll still win a bunch of fights by sitting as a spectator on the sidelines, watching your pokemons’ demise."
“Really? You really think so?”
I slapped my forehead. “Can’t you detect the incredibly obvious sarcasm?” I then began doing something I saw my older sisters do when I visited them. Maybe it was because of my anger and frustration at life, maybe I wanted some entertainment, but for whatever reason, I started chewing the novice out. “Are you like ****ing retarded or something?" I asked. "You have to help your pokemon by issuing battle commands to them. That’s the trainer’s purpose in a battle! Look at that TV screen.” I motioned towards the screen I had been staring at moments ago. “Read the closed captioning. Look! It says ‘Jill: Snubbull, use charm, then bite.’ See that, she’s issuing commands to her pokemon, a large part of the reason she made it to that tournament. Now get the hell out of here you newbie and don’t come back for an hour.”
He stormed out, crying. Delusional freak. He probably imagined training would be stress-free. It’s not like on Saturday morning cartoons where a pokemon will just stand there, watching its foe ready the attack that would bring its doom. “Chansey, you have another patient,” I yelled, tossing her the pokeball. It was around then that I finally realized that I was stuck healing major injuries of pokemon caused by their trainers’ overwhelming lightheadedness. All of the trainers who came rushing frantically through the center’s door had created false expectations about their journey, caused by watching too much TV. Little children who saw battles on television were too oblivious to understand how hard participating in a battle really was. They heard a trainer tell a Barboach to use a water gun followed by a mud slap. Anyone could do that. What they didn’t realize is the thousands of thoughts rushing through the trainer’s mind, about which attacks would be best, possible combo’s, and how to react to what the opposing trainer might do. I grimaced. “Kids can’t see strategy on TV,” I thought.
It was then that I suddenly developed thoughts of leaving the hellhole known as the Mount Moon Pokemon Healing and Care Center, more commonly called Mt. Moon Pokemon Center. Here I was, thinking of strategy and the flaws of others, and I was restricted to sitting behind the counter of a stuffy room. “I am leaving, and I am doing it soon. I want to find an individuality, a new purpose, a better life, and I wasn’t waiting ‘til vacation,” I vowed, hoping no one heard me. I was ready, I was willing, but would I be able? Only time would tell.
So, please R&R! I like compliments, people pointing out errors, and love constructive criticism. If you can tell me how to improve, that's great. If all you tell me is that my fic sucks, I consider that spam.
