A Snorlax Is Blocking Your Path

Originally published on April 25th, 2012 when I was 17 years old. I haven’t changed anything about it to suit my present self or my style because I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for this “piece” and it’s also nice to see where, why and how things started.

The skittering of the rain drowned out all sound around me as I trudged through the soft ground. Hoodie dragged over my head, broken, folded umbrella clutched desperately in one hand. The wind had torn through the fabric, shredding whatever hold the metal spokes used to keep me dry. The wind flared for a moment, halting me despite my urgency to move forward. It wasn’t one of those nice rainy days. Those peaceful, listen-to-the-rain-drops sort of days. It seemed more like monsoon season in a country notorious for its mild weather. As I stumbled over the horizon of the hill, I determined Fate was cruel and I would never forgive it for leaving me out in these dismal conditions. For the rest of my life I was going to be in a tiff with Fate. No longer would I be a slave to its invisible laws. No more, I tell you!

My little thoughts of defiance brought me no warmth as the damp, cold rain seeped through my hoodie. Should’ve brought a rain jacket I suppose. Now that I think about it, I don’t own a rain jacket, do I? That might have been an oversight on my part… but in my defence those things are bulky and uncomfortable; all things my hoodies are not. Blowing raspberries to the wind, I gazed out at the vast grassy expanse I still had to travel. “Oh kill me now, please kill me now” I mumbled to myself, foot begrudgingly following foot. I tilted my head down, pulling the hood tight down over my eyes to keep what little warmth I had left in my face.

I hit something solid yet squishy. My hands tentatively examined the surface, my face almost too afraid of exposure to the wind to look up. It was a person. Or, at least, I think it was. The bastard (or bitch – I didn’t quite know yet) was broad yet flabby. I cautiously started moving backwards, raising my head to finally look upon the snorlax of men. He really was a behemoth after Christmas. It wasn’t fair to say he was overweight but the muffin-top belly was enunciated by the tight fitting polo-shirt he had half-tucked into his pants. He was easily a foot taller than me with arms the thickness of my head – I was hoping they were of the same consistency of his stomach. Like me, he bore little to no weather-resistant clothing but, unlike me, he seemed to be withstanding the rain a little more.

“Watch where you go, fucktard.” He roared, his voice emanating through me like the call of a disgruntled brown bear. Ah, Ursus Arctos. Here we see it in its native state – angry and attempting to balance on its hind legs. Hmmm… I seem to have angered the poor creature. At this point I think even Steve Irwin would have advised caution but the rain was cold, I was wet and this raging monstrosity was transforming his anger into physically heating his body. It had gotten to the point where I could almost make out little trails of steam radiating out from his ears. I’d only bumped into the guy, jesus. “It was an accident, calm yo’ tits bitch.” I roared back. Well, roared may be exaggerating a little. It was more like a whisper but, judging by his violent chest-thumping, the wind had carried my words to kettle boiling between his shoulders.

Before long I fully understood the consequences of poking the bear. He charged at me. Head down, arms outstretched. He was obviously adopting the rugby scrum tactic. I quickly clambered out of his way, hoping he’d continue on down the field and over the cliff of the hill. It was probably too much to ask for. He u-turned and barrelled back towards me; this time he was upright with the intent to catch me by the neck. I started back-pedalling. Quickly. My urgency to escape lead to my feet tripping over one another and I faltered briefly before crashing to the ground. My pants were already soaked but that didn’t stop the squishy, coldness of the mud to sap the warmth from my arse cheeks.

He was on me now, hands around neck. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move. The bastard had me pinned down with his weight. I tried to scream, I tried to cry out for help but the words faded into the torrential storm around us. He started squirming about, the adrenaline making him restless and impatient for my last breath.

The mud proved unstable for him and his leg slipped, unbalancing him and I managed to lodge my foot deep into his chest, repelling him off me and onto his back. “Oh how the tables have turned.” Is probably what I would have said had I not staggered to my feet, clutching my throat and desperately grasping what little breaths I could. My little rebellion had obviously dazed Mr. Asshole as I was breathing regularly again before he even got to his feet. Looking about frantically, I realised he’d clearly outrun me if I fled. There was a good reason he went for the rugby tackle first as opposed to a fist to the face.

My neatly folded umbrella rolled out of my hoodie pocket, lodging itself head-first into the sludge. Maybe fate wasn’t such a cruel, heartless witch after all. I plucked it from its new home and straightened to my full height, hoping to at least make him a little fearful of me. It didn’t work. We stared each other down and I flicked out the collapsible umbrella, drawing it like a lightsaber. What I wouldn’t give for a ghostly mentor to appear and tell me I was the chosen one. Thank god my parents believed in quality. The feeling of the umbrella was heavy and sturdy, this would work well. He charged again but this time I side-stepped, drew back my weapon and unleashed it on his stomach.

The hard, steel cap seemed to momentarily lose itself in his squishy torso before he doubled over breathless. I took my moment to bring my fist down on his head. It didn’t have the desired down-and-out effect I was hoping for so, seizing the day and realising I’d have to go to a level I never wanted to explore, I positioned myself behind him with the tip of the umbrella on the ground. In one swift movement, I drew the blade up into his scrotum with such force that the vibrations from contact wriggled down my arms. I shuddered, only able to fantasise about what pain I must have caused. That was a fate I had never truly wished upon anyone before now. He deserved it though, right?

He was definitely down now, writhing in the filth from which he was born. I left him in pain in the downpour as I staggered off across the field to home. No longer a fucktard. But a victor.