In less than half an hour, David found himself stuffed into the back of a sketchy cab, rattling its way through the city like it was held together with duct tape and spite.
He had just completed the most questionable deal of the month—trading away the formula for his beloved mid-level energy cubes in exchange for two skill memory discs. But now, paranoia was creeping up on him like a cold sweat. To stay under the radar, he'd gone full incognito mode.
He wrapped himself up like a bargain-bin ninja: hoodie pulled tight, scarf wrapped around his face, sunglasses perched on his nose even though it was cloudy, and a baseball cap that screamed "Yes, I'm totally not hiding something."
A few taxis whizzed past without stopping—probably thinking he was either a criminal on the run or a rogue fashion disaster. Finally, one brave (or desperate) driver decided to risk it and pulled over.
If David had been ignored one more time, he might've actually considered walking all the way home—and given the way his legs were still sore from running from that shady deal, that wasn't ideal.
As the cab clunked along and the scenery blurred by, David's initial high from the trade started to fade. Replacing it was something less thrilling: sheer, creeping dread.
The system messages were still buzzing in his ears like annoying flies:
[Obtained +70 Negative Emotion from mob 1 …]
[Obtained +60 Negative Emotion from Munchlax…]
[Obtained +80 Negative Emotion from Alan…]
It just kept coming. A relentless stream of fury, frustration, and stomach cramps—all from unsuspecting victims who had just eaten his laxative-laced cubes.
David swallowed hard. What if they find out it was me? What if they come after me with Pokéballs and pitchforks?
He tugged at his scarf nervously and turned to Pikachu, who was perched calmly on his shoulder, chewing on something it absolutely shouldn't be chewing.
"Pikachu," David asked in a guilty whisper, "do you think… maybe this whole thing was a little wrong?"
"Pika?" Pikachu blinked innocently and tilted its head. Then it reached up and scratched its head with the same level of confusion as someone being asked to explain taxes.
If Pikachu could talk, it would probably say, You're just now thinking about that? Really?
David slumped further into the seat. The guilt was setting in—but it wasn't alone.
Suddenly, two tiny cartoon figures popped up on his shoulders like he was starring in a morally ambiguous sitcom. One wore a black cape and had tiny red horns, while the other was draped in white and sported a halo held up by duct tape.
The black one leaned in and whispered, "Dude. Chill. The cubes are delicious. Nutritious. Cheap! You're doing them a favor. A little explosive diarrhea builds character."
The white one chimed in enthusiastically, "Honestly? He's got a point!"
David blinked. "Wait, aren't you supposed to disagree with him?"
The angel shrugged. "I dunno, man, they are good cubes."
Just like that, the guilt began to fade as fast as it came. Was it a little shady? Sure. But the cubes really did help Pokémon grow stronger. Yeah, they might clear out a few intestines in the process, but who hasn't had a bad taco and come out stronger?
David nodded to himself, confidence returning.
"It's like a detox," he muttered aloud. "A very aggressive, bowel-shaking detox."
Pikachu rolled its eyes.
Deep down, David knew he wasn't a bad person. He'd never do anything to genuinely harm Pokémon. Every batch of cubes he made was designed with growth and improvement in mind. The digestive side effects were… well, a feature. Not a bug. A temporary inconvenience in the grand journey to strength.
So yeah, maybe he wasn't winning any humanitarian awards, but he certainly wasn't evil.
He slouched in the backseat, staring out the window, his scarf slowly sliding down his chin.
"Besides," he muttered, glancing at the skill memory discs he'd gotten from Alan, "they'll thank me one day… probably from the bathroom."
And with that, David leaned back and smiled faintly, ignoring the next wave of angry system notifications piling into his ear like Yelp reviews for a terrible restaurant.
It was just another normal day in the life of David: questionable ethics, high profit margins, and just enough guilt to keep things interesting.
David collapsed onto his couch like a soggy laundry pile, face buried in the cushions, limbs sprawled out in every direction like he'd just finished a triathlon made entirely of social anxiety and questionable decision-making.
He'd been listening to the system notifications chime in his ears like a broken microwave for so long, they were starting to feel like background noise. His brain had tuned them out completely. He was numb. Emotionally. Mentally. Possibly physically.
[Negative Emotion Value +60 from Li Liang…]
[Negative Emotion Value +80 from Munchlax…]
[Negative Emotion Value +40 from some poor soul stuck in a public restroom…]
It just kept going.
That was until—
[Negative Emotion Value +100 from Alan…]
[Negative Emotion Value +100 from Alan…]
[Negative Emotion Value +100 from Alan…]
David's eyes shot open.
He sat up like someone had poured a bucket of ice water over his dreams. "Wait. Alan?!"
He blinked at the system feed, mouth slightly open.
"Why is he losing it now? He only ever gave me 50 points max before! What's he doing, screaming into a blender?!"
Meanwhile, at Alan's house—a scene straight out of a culinary horror movie was unfolding.
Alan, positively buzzing with excitement, had returned home ready to cash in on the magical recipe David had given him. This was it. His golden ticket. His "early retirement by age 20" plan. The man didn't just go all in—he cannonballed into the deep end.
He'd ordered hundreds of ingredients in bulk, like he was opening a PokéMart franchise. He even cleaned out every pharmacy within five blocks of their stock of extra-strength laxatives, grinning like a man who knew exactly what he was doing and understood none of the consequences.
"Tomorrow, I'm gonna be richer than the Elite Four combined," Alan whispered to himself, dramatically posing next to his blender like it was some sacred altar.
Then began the manufacturing process.
And it was a disaster.
Ten failed batches later, the kitchen looked like a low-budget sci-fi lab experiment gone wrong. Flour-like powder coated the counter, suspicious green goo oozed from one corner of the blender, and one of the ingredients had caught fire… twice.
Finally, he managed to produce a batch that looked somewhat like what David had described—if you squinted and ignored the weird smell.
But something felt… off. There was no sweet scent, no subtle golden glow like David's cubes had. Instead, it looked like someone had pressed together leftover trail mix and a failed science project.
Still, Alan was determined. Maybe it just smells bad but works great, he reasoned.
And then—the moment of truth.
He cautiously picked one up, inspected it, then popped it into his mouth like a true guinea pig.
The cube hit his tongue with a slightly sour note, which quickly turned into soul-devouring bitterness. His face twisted. His eyes watered. And then came the aftertaste—a taste so horrific it could only be described as "fermented sadness mixed with expired regret."
His stomach lurched. His expression morphed into a shade of green that should not exist on human skin. And then…
"OH GOD. WHAT IS THIS?!"
He spat it out instantly, coughing and gagging as the ghost of the taste continued to haunt him.
"THIS ISN'T ENERGY CUBE! THIS IS A WAR CRIME!".
He sprinted to the sink, mouth open under the faucet, furiously gargling like he'd just licked a Snorlax's armpit. In the background, the faint scent of the cube still lingered like an uninvited guest who wouldn't leave.
Meanwhile, David sat comfortably on his couch, sipping soda and watching the numbers climb.
[Negative Emotion Value +100 from Alan…]
[Negative Emotion Value +100 from Alan… again…]
He chuckled.
"Guess someone just had a taste of his own medicine," David muttered.
Pikachu, curled up beside him, glanced at the screen, then at David, and then shook its head in silent judgment.
David leaned back, hands behind his head, grinning like a man who'd just pulled off the greatest petty heist of the week.
"Some people sell lies," he said aloud, "I sell diarrhea and dreams."
And somewhere, in the chaos of Alan's kitchen, a blender exploded.
****
Alan was not having a good day.
After the traumatic experience of taste-testing his homemade energy cube—which was somehow more painful than stepping on a Lego barefoot—he was desperate for answers. His mouth still tasted like expired chalk mixed with sewer water, and his digestive system had entered what scientists might call "DEFCON 1."
In a last-ditch effort to salvage whatever dignity remained of his digestive tract and business plan, Alan opened his laptop and pulled up the website for the Pokémon Alliance's official item appraisal department. These guys didn't mess around. Certified professionals. Lab coats. Glasses. Possibly a few with actual PhDs in Berries and Gastrointestinal Catastrophes.
He uploaded a photo of the recipe David had given him, complete with every ingredient, scribbled note, and—most critically—the mysterious and suspiciously bold addition of a powerful laxative.
Alan didn't hesitate. He typed out a frantic message like a man on the verge:
"Please help me identify this formula! Urgent! Life and... bathroom-related matter!"
He slammed the enter key like it owed him money.
Moments later, the appraisal office buzzed with confused energy. A veteran staffer squinted at the screen. This guy had seen thousands of energy cube recipes. But nothing prepared him for what he was seeing today.
"…What the hell is this?" the staffer muttered, pulling the document closer.
A few others gathered around. They exchanged looks. One of them actually cleaned his glasses and looked again, just to make sure this wasn't some elaborate prank.
"Yup," the lead appraiser finally said, straightening up. "This is an intermediate-grade energy cube recipe. Usable across multiple Pokémon types. Functional. Balanced."
"Then… why the hell is there a high-grade laxative in the ingredients list?" another asked, pointing at it like it was radioactive.
"Beats me," the lead muttered. "In all my 25 years doing this, I've never seen someone combine nutrient-rich Oran Berries with what's essentially a bottle of liquid panic."
Back on his end, Alan ignored their judgment. He just wanted results. His eyebags had eyebags, and his intestines were doing the Macarena.
"Is it possible," he typed again, desperate, "to make this formula smell amazing and taste like a gift from heaven?"
A very, very long pause followed.
The appraisers stared blankly at the screen.
They reread the list of berries. Each one more disgusting than the last—bitter, dry, pungent, and one that was banned in five regions for being "emotionally aggressive." The laxative alone was probably illegal in some countries.
One of them finally said, "He thinks this tastes good? Like, he actually ate it?"
"I think he loved it," another whispered, a hint of fear in their voice.
Alan kept going, undeterred by the silence. "Could it be that... some ingredients were hidden? Like secret flavor boosters? Hidden umami? Flavor cloaking?!"
The chat exploded with internal messages. Someone actually screamed. A junior appraiser passed out from second-hand embarrassment.
Finally, the lead couldn't take it anymore.
"Is he for real?! This ain't some magic trick! This is food science, not wizardry!"
Then, with the full force of someone who hadn't had lunch yet and was tired of stupid questions, he typed back:
"What, you think you're gonna win the Nobel Pokémon Prize with this crap? Why don't you just hand your stomach a resignation letter? YOU want us to recreate this?! Buddy, go eat a brick—it's probably safer!"
And with that, he rage-quit the chat, ending the appraisal session.
Alan sat there, pale, sweaty, and devastated. His eyes were wide open. His cursor blinked on the now-closed chat window, mocking him with every flash.
He slowly looked down at the recipe again.
Right there in big, bold, cheerful handwriting from David: "DO NOT forget: SUPER LAXATIVE — essential!"
"…Essential my ass!" Alan screamed. Literally.
Suddenly, his gut let out a sinister gurgle. A horrifying sound, like a Wailord gargling gravel.
"Oh no," Alan whispered.
He tried to make a run for the door. He got three steps.
Pfffft.
"…Oh no."
Cut to Alan, squatting on the toilet for what felt like a century, questioning every life choice that led him to this moment. He looked like a shell of the man he used to be, leaning on the bathroom wall like he'd just fought Mewtwo in hand-to-hand combat—and lost badly.
His face was drained, his body sore, but his mind? His mind was filled with one emotion: rage.
"I swear," he growled, weakly clenching a roll of toilet paper like a weapon, "if I ever see David again… I'M GOING TO KILL HIM!!!"
[Negative Emotion Value +200 from Alan…]
[Negative Emotion Value +200 from Alan…]
[Negative Emotion Value +200 from Alan…]