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Butch thought once he'd graduated to field agent within Team Rocket's honorable ranks he'd have exciting adventures: capture legendary Pokemon, fuck off with a gym leader's coveted team starter before it inevitably beats his ass into next month-- break out of prison every week. This is what he was looking forward to in his life of crime. A good, rotten life awaited him and he ran out to meet it.

What he should have expected was doing Cassidy's homework for her (still) at twenty eight years of age, hunched over a table in their modest (crumbling) apartment while she's out doing whatever it is she does all day [fuck with people but not fuck them too much because as gross as she is Cassidy remains delicate in his heart....pure like unused tp]. His back aches and as he splays his arms up above his head, spine arched, he hears it.


Their tv is in the, unless whatever ghosts or Ghost Pokemon circle the building have decided to play. Maybe he can entertain the idea of that ninja from downstairs-- no, no somehow the thought of him scheduling fucksessions is worse.

"Ul-ulllp..." Butch whimpers, fingers shoved against his mouth to block the onslaught of vomit that threatens to spew just at the thought. A few calming breaths later and the ominous thudding hasn't ceased. The tell-tale sound of a whip, perhaps of cloth or straps, striking wet flesh sounds.

Fingers in his ears won't help (oh ew they smell a little like puke..), Enya was never meant to be heard along to the beat of cock-- Butch all but tears his hair out of his head. [but then again how will he match Cassidy's impeccable style if he goes and does that? Travesty]

That's when he hears it. Knocking at the door. Dark eyes flicker to the clock on the table only for him to realize nope, there is still sunlight in the sky. Cassidy won't be back for some time.

Small miracles exist though: his neighbors haven't stopped fucking so with natural deduction it isn't them.

A red haired man with heavy scowl-lines and a baseball bat dangling from his fingers is not what he expects, nor is the other redhead with an eyepatch and his phone shoved just under Butch's nose.

"You the walking Moose abortion that's makin' that ruckus?" Says the first man with a pointed tap-tap-tap of the bat.

Butch is so floored for a moment he can't speak, not until the second man chimes in.

"What are you, fifty years old? No one says that anymore."

"Moose abortion?"

"No, numbnuts. Ruckus. God, who raised you..."

"Our mother, a very lovely lady with an even greater mustache, how dare you--"

The two men didn't have to start grabbing at the collars of each others shirts for Butch to figure they were going to fight [and that they're brothers], but they decided to anyway. Sure was nice of them.

"Whoa, whoa, hey-- I'm not a Moose anything. Or-- or an abortion either, I guess. That ain't me, whoever it is," he finally pipes in before blood is shed at his very own door. He waves his hands as if waving a white flag, a white pair of undies, and that's when the noises increase.

With dawning horror three sets of eyes flicker above to the ceiling where the landlady's office resides. They all know deep, deep down at the bottom of the building, perhaps in the foundation itself, there resides a secret sex dungeon.

The second redhead, the one with an eyepatch like some kind of really cool modern pirate, looks green around the gills. He harrumphs, and to further prove he's unmovable, stuffs his phone back into his pocket.

"You'd think the police would put a lockdown on that rusty pussy already. Can't even enjoy a beatdown for Youtube anymore," he mutters, utterly despondent. His pores are blocked, his skin is oily, his life is not rejuvenated.

The man who was going to knock Butch's dick back inside his body is of similar wilted spirits, slumped shoulders and what is definitely a manly pout on his face.

But then, then, he does something that makes Butch's heart quicken. He pushes back his hair, slicked back just so, and at the same time pops a cigarette into his mouth. Without a care, his world narrows down to Butch, his brother, and the cigarette.

Green eyes find his.

"Wanna have a smoke?"

It takes him a second or two because holy shit that was cool, man, MAN! Butch manages to say.

"Yeah, man. Let's get outta here before we go deaf from this."

And so that's how he finds himself stooped on the fire escape on the fifth floor with the Nails brothers talking about incredibly manly, important things.

"Dude she ain't a furry-- that suit doesn't have a tail on it. She's just a thief. And she's hot," Badou was saying. He's on his fourth cigarette, which Butch only knows because he's been rapt at attention.

Dave is the one soaking in all the attention though. The plume of smoke that slips from his mouth is shaped like a shitty, lopsided halo.

"I don't know the meaning of the word. All I care's about is her. Her feelings."

Holy fuck, Dave is such a cool guy. He must get so much pussy, it's outstanding!

"How's her ass feel in that? I mean does she have swamp ass? Can she breathe? She's gotta think about that no matter how many diamonds she's got shoved up her pussy."

Butch feels as though his mind, and his possibilities, have been blown wide open like doors. With this friendship he thinks he's cemented, he will soar above a Lot of Shit.