Pokemon Fan Fiction / Pokemon Fan Fiction ❯ Psycho - Chu ❯ Psycho - Chu ( Chapter 1 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

PSYCHO-CHU

By Michael O'Hare

(WARNING: For those of you who are expecting a %100 faithful
adaptation of Alfred Hitchcock's classic film, look elsewhere. For
those of you looking for a %100 faithful adaptation of Akira
Kurisawa's Seven Samurai, you're an idiot for looking here. What's
with you, man??)

It was a beautiful day for a walk. In fact, it had been a beautiful
day for a walk for the past six hours. This was the problem. Squirtle
had decided that a nice walk would be necessary as long as it was
appropriate, never even considering stopping for convenience's sake.
Now, after six hours of walking nonstop, he was lost. Granted, he
could have stopped after an hour, but he had never used common sense
in his life, and he was not about to start now.

"Hmmm," Squirtle said, noticing his surroundings. "I seem to be lost.
Since I'm in an unfamiliar location, the most logical thing to do is
ask a complete stranger for some measure of sympathy, or at least the
directions to the nearest motel."

After searching for a few minutes, none of which were eventful enough
for this story to mention, Squirtle came across a Togepi, standing
still by the side of the road, within the shadows.

At first, all Squirtle could see of the Togepi was his shadow, this
effect made more odd by the music playing from some unseen source.
Finally, the chubby Togepi exited the shadows, and faced Squirtle, his
face calm and unemotional to an unsettling extent.

"Hey, there!" Squirtle said to the Togepi.

"Good evening," Togepi replied, his tone very formal and monotone.

"Do you know where there is a motel room around here?" Squirtle asked.

"Well," Togepi said, "there is a small motel down the street owned by
a homicidal Pikachu. Chances are, he'll stab you to death first chance
he gets. My guess is, that place is crawling with motel rooms."

"Great," Squirtle said cheerfully, "I need to take a shower, anyway!"

"I don't think you understand," Togepi replied. "He will kill you.
Make you not alive anymore. Force you to not exist prematurely.
Understand?"

"I understand," the Squirtle said thoughtfully. "Down the road,
right?"

"Togepi sighed. "Yes, down the road. Don't say I didn't warn you,
because I did."

"Whatever," Squirtle replied uncaringly, and walked away toward the
motel and, yes, towards his destiny. Togepi stared at him for a few
seconds, shrugged, and walked off, once again accompanied by his theme
song.

Pikachu had been trying his best to cover up his growing impatience,
but it was becoming more and more difficult. This Ninetales had been
here for almost ten minutes, and all she had done was talk.

"So, anyway," she said, "I think that I left my oven on when I left my
Pokeball. That odd thing is, I don't have any sort of cash flow to buy
an oven, much less a plausible way to fit on inside a Pokeball. I
think I'm breaking the laws of Physics. Won't that get you ten years?
I can't go to..."

"Look!" Pikachu yelled suddenly. "Are you going to get a room here, or
should I just stab you to death here and now?"

"I don't need a room," Ninetales replied, seemingly unaffected by
Pikachu's statement. "I just wanted to talk about my problems."

"There's a fat Togepi down the road, lady!" Pikachu yelled angrily.
"Go torture him!"

Ninetales huffed, insulted. "Well, if that's your attitude, then I
guess I'll just leave!" She quickly and angrily left the motel,
walking past Squirtle as she did so. Squirtle, choosing to ignore the
angered Ninetales, approached the motel's owner.

"Excuse me..."

"You getting a room," Pikachu asked rudely, "or do you want to whine
about your personal problems?"

Squirtle fumbled, trying to find a correct answer. "Uuuh... both?"

Pikachu sighed and tossed him a key. "Fine. Okay, what's your
problem?"
Squirtle thought hard. He did not have any problems to speak of, so he
decided to make something up.

"My underwear's too tight."

"You're not wearing underwear," Pikachu replied.

"Damn," Squirtle said, and struggled to come up with another problem.

"My underwear doesn't exist."

"Okay, that works," Pikachu said. "For your problem, I recommend a
nice, hot..."

Pikachu paused dramatically, as the lighting lowered, and an evil
smile played across his lips.

"...SHOWER!"

Upon saying this, lighting flashed, thunder crashed, the horses
neighed in panic, and, somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

"Great idea!" Squirtle replied. "I really do need to take a SHOWER!"

Lightning flashed, thunder crashed, the horses neighed in panic, and,
somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

"Great," Pikachu said evilly, "go and take your... SHOWER!"

Lightning flashed, thunder crashed, the horses neighed in panic, and,
somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

As Squirtle went to inspect his room, Pikachu prepared himself for the
coming night. There was much to prepare for, and it had been too long
since he had been able to satisfy his lust for blood. Slowly, he
entered the back room, sneering evilly. Before he shut the door,
however, he stuck his head back outside.

"SHOWER!"

Lightning flashed, thunder crashed...

Squirtle liked the room. It had a shower, and some other assorted
things, like a bed, a few other things of notice but not worth a
mention, and a painting of Josef Stalin. He decided to take his shower
now. As he undressed, he noticed to things: First off, he had no
clothing to take off. Second, the painting's eyes were moving.

"Hey," he said, approaching the painting, "what's going on, here?"

"Nothing," Stalin said, "go shower."

Ignoring the flash of lightning, Squirtle poked Stalin in the eyes.

"OW!" Pikachu yelled. "Can you just shower, please? I want to kill
you, already!"

"Okay," Squirtle said, and entered the bathroom.

"Any way you want it, that's the way you need it, any way you want
it..."

Squirtle sang and danced in the shower, sadly unaware of his inability
to sing in a way that would not make small children cry. The sound of
the running water, coupled with his horrid singing, masked the sound
of the door slowly opening, and a figure entering.

"Long night! All night! Oh, every night..."

He reached for the shampoo, twisting off the cap.

"So, hold tight! Hold... Hold... Aw, damnit!"

As he was about to place some shampoo on his hands, he realized that
he had no hair to shampoo. Embarrassed, Squirtle returned the shampoo
back in its place, relieved that nobody was present to mock his
mistake or his lack of hair. Suddenly, the shower curtain was
violently pulled back, revealing Pikachu, a sadistic grin on his face,
holding a large knife.

"Oh, no!" Squirtle yelled. "You saw me almost use the shampoo, didn't
you?? Please, don't make fun of me for being bald! I'm a damned
amphibian, for God's sake!"

Pikachu did not say anything, simply raising the knife in his hand
above his head. It was at this point that Squirtle realized what
Pikachu was intending. At that point, it was more than apparant that
his birthday present would be HORROR!

(SPECIAL NOTE TO ALL PLAYING ALONG AT HOME: Now is the time to start
the famous Psycho shower scene music... if you want. Hell, you could
keep singing Journey's "Any Way You Want It" where Squirtle left off,
if you want. In fact, why don't you do that? Go on, I dare you...)

As Squirtle screamed in horror, Pikachu brought the knife down
repeatedly and mercilessly, a look of murderous glee in his eyes. Over
and over, Pikachu drove the cold, cruel blade into the helpless
Pokemon before him, the thrill of the pain and fear given off by his
victim filling him with an almost erotic glee. His head spun, and, as
Squirtle's blood sprayed onto his yellow fur, his heart raced.

"Wait a minute," he thought suddenly. "That's not blood, it's water!"

Slowly, this dark, visceral thrill was quickly replaced by confusion
upon realizing that his intended victim was not dead, or even dying.
In fact, he was not even wounded.

"Hey," Pikachu said, annoyed, "why aren't you dead?"

Squirtle stopped screaming, and checked his body for any openings.
There were many, but, since all of those were natural, he had little
to worry about.

"That's odd," he said, double-checking for any unnatural openings. "Is
that knife working okay?"

Pikachu did not answer. Instead, he had turned away, trying to fight
back the queasiness of seeing a tiny turtle Pokemon check his orifices
repeatedly. Despite his revulsion, there was something else, stirring
within his electrified soul. Could it be? Might it possibly be...
love?

No, it was hunger. He had not eaten all night.

"Hey, I think I know why I didn't die," Squirtle said suddenly.

"Yeah, why?" Pikachu asked, mistaking a nearby bar of soap for a chunk
of white chocolate, and realizing his mistake too late.

"Because of my shell!" Squirtle yelled proudly.

"Oh, good for you!" Pikachu responded bitterly. "Meanwhile, I've still
got an urge to kill, and a mouthful of soap! Plus, you're naked."

"So are you," Squirtle responded.

"Well, this sucks," Pikachu grumbled, "first, I try to kill that
Geodude, and now this. And I'm not even going to mention that Scizor
who was a big Highlander fan." As he winced from painful memories, he
rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment.

"Sorry I tried to kill you," he said half - heartedly.

"That's okay," Squirtle said.

"What?" Pikachu had not been expecting his intended victim to get over
his actions so quickly.

"You really don't mind?" Pikachu asked.

"Nah," Squirtle said, slapping Pikachu on the back. "Hey, you had to
take a... STAB at it!"

Both Pokemon laughed, and the screen froze on their laughing pose, as
the credits rolled.

A QUINN MARTIN PRODUCTION

DISCLAMERS

Nintendo owns Pokemon. The estate of Alfred Hitchcock owns Psycho. The
likeness of Josef Stalin is owned by his estate, as well... If he has
one, I'm pretty sure he does. All mentioned actors and productions are
owned by themselves. This fic is property of Michael O'Hare.

And, in case anyone got the wrong idea from this fic, I do not hate
Alfred Hitchcock or Josef Stalin. Both were great men, although for
entirely different reasons. It's much more socially acceptable to
respect Alfred Hitchcock, so let's just leave it at that. I don't
condone Stalin's actions, but I do condone Hitchcock's.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

Okay, I honestly don't know how to give this story a proper
commenting. I just decided to write a comedy fic one day, and this is
what came barreling blindly into my head, drunk and uncaring which
other ideas it rolled over. This fic is indicative of my odd, twisted
sense of humor, one which I am certain will get me kicked out of a
military academy of some sort one day. The Hell of it is, I wrote this
literary carpet-bombing run in less than two or so hours!

If you wish to comment on this pandemic disease masquerading as a
fanfic, keep in mind that I was in an extremely silly mood when I
wrote this. Coupled with the several shots of Irish Crème I had
swallowed prior to writing this, such a silly mood will produce such
writings. Such silly moods explain things like this fic and my wild
night in Amsterdam. But, perhaps I've said too much... Nah!