The Great War of Plaisir - Chapter Zero
Story by Runewuff on SoFurry
Introduction
Writing "practice sketch"
The Great War of Plaisir - Chapter Zero - AKA Teaser
by Runewuff
Original Story © Dark Violet
Neon Staccato the Jolteon © Coldstone
Café Plaisir © PaliBakufun
Pokémon © Nintendo/Game Freak
His knees were going to regret this.
He crouched at an uncomfortable angle behind a bed on its side - instead of being put to some productive use - the smooth barrel of his rifle resting across the varnished side of who-knew-what, peering into a black hallway. Like something out of a horror movie, the faint red light of his gun did not reach the end of that black tunnel - it only made the environment creepier.
The sounds were not any better - thumping of beds and "fuck!"s of the defeated, thumping of darts and "fuck!"s of the slain. War and rape. This was not making his dick any less shriveled.
And it stank - like floor cleaner and pokémon butt - smell of a pokémon center.
He just wanted a piece of pokémon ass. This was the place for it - they said. Especially if you were into cocks - they said. Best damn whorehouse for "pokéverts" in the country - they said.
How'd it come to this?
Now the furniture was in barricades - because Sam said so - and the lights off - because Sam thought it gave them a tactical advantage or some other military bullshit - and he was stationed here - because Sam had ordered it - more military bull talk.
Who was this Sam guy and did he actually have any military experience?
...and where was that damned woman?
The redhead he was stationed with - more military lingo - had gone off to the vending machines to grab them a couple cokes - or whatever they had around here - he wasn't particular at this point. ...or so she said.
She had been chatting amicably about a big black arcanine cock - or a big black mightyena one - with a big knot - she was firm about that -
"Pfff!" he snorted. She probably found one and forgot about him.
Thirsty, sore, gripping a rifle that didn't feel at all toylike in the horror movie dark. Nothing but war and rape for company. And the pokémon center stink.
Because Sam said so.
"Bet'cha Sam's a Call of Duty-playing little twink," he said to no one in particular.
"Weyll, THIS Call-a-Duty playing little twink," answered a female Texan accent behind him, "bet's you're a beer-breathed raedneck!"
Motors whirred.
"SHIT!" he ducked down, a burst of darts blap-blap-blapping so he felt them impact the furniture!
He rose up, knees firing up twin protests, rifle towards the darkness, and pulled - cheap plastic trigger dug into his finger and ached before it clicked - glow-in-the-dark-green bolts - tracers! - lighting up strobe-light flashes of a little spikeyfur, dark-visored and a worryingly large sci-fi blaster in each paw. Every shot went over the little jolteon's head, and she seemed the color of a ghost.
"DAMN!" he had expected an enemy soldier to be roughly man-shaped - but pokémon could be four-legged or winged or slither or - anything, really.
Her darts did not miss. Pop-pop they sailed in his red light and struck his t-shirt.
"Gotcha!"