Meanings of Words

"You've got to be kidding."

I looked at the plump, red-cheeked figure beneath me.
It tilted its head, its expansive eyes widening.
"Pika?"

The voice was high-pitched and all too familiar. I
looked around for Pikachu's "partner" but saw no sign
of Ash.

"Huh," I said. "I wonder if I'm in one of those
episodes where Pikachu and the rest of the gang are
solo."

Pikachu became excited. "Pikapika!" The electric rat
bolted past me into the tall grass. Surprised, I fell
flat on my back and, from the swirling of my sight,
knew my eyes had been replaced, temporarily, by black
swirls found on cartoon characters when they've been
either knocked out or nearly so.

For I was a cartoon character. My legs were too
square, my face too wide, and my arms and hands way
too two-dimensional. I didn't know how I got into the
show: all I knew I was in it.

So much for Tron, I thought as I picked myself up.

And found myself surrounded.

Pokemon of every time (and many I didn't recognize)
surrounded me. I recognized Jigglypuff, Charizard,
Squirtle, Nine Tails, and many, many, more. Even
Misty's Togapee was there, looking like a starfish
stuck in a too small chicken egg. I could barely see
the bright sky; the tallest Pokemon heads towering
like bars of jail cell.

My mouth dried. Unlike their TV demeanor, all the
pokemon wore that predatory grin that you usually only
saw on the major villains in the show. (Jesse and
James excluded, of course.) While it was scary, it was
a face that frightened little children.

Well, I wasn't a child but I was definitely friends.
My aching ass told me just how real this place was.
Gathering some remaining courage, I wet my lips.

"Uh, guys. Uh, what gives?"

My voice seemed to solidify whatever reason they had
gathered. I watched as, like a military band, they
turned to their right and began to circle me. As they
marched, they uttered a single word, "Pokemon" in a
low tone.

I stood. Or tried too. I felt a stab of pain as
something hit me. I yelped, more in surprise than
pain. It was a pokeball, one of those red-and-white
containers used to capture and contain pokemon. I
watched as it rolled back to one of the
pokemon--another pikachu--who grabbed it as it
continued to march. I suddenly realized they all had
pokeballs.

"Pokemon, pokemon, pokemon."

Before I could even begin to wonder about the
strangeness of pokemon holding their pokeball, I felt
the sting of another one thrown at me. Then another.
Then another. I tried to sit up but the pelting made
that impossible. I held my arms to shield my face
until they were numb. My entire body was numb from the
countless balls hitting me. I screamed until my voice
was hoarse, begging, pleading for them to stop.
Finally, I risked opening a bruised eye to take a look
at my captors.

The pokemon had changed. No longer were they the cute
little animals/partners fighting each other under
their masters' command. No, instead, their eyes were
feral, their teeth sharp like sharks, and their claws
like blades. Their bodies were not smooth but showed
muscle and sinew; their fur stood like needs. As I
watch them toss their bloodied pokeballs aside and
advance towards me, my last memory was what the word
"pokemon" meant:

Pocket Monster.