You’ve just returned home after wasting yet another afternoon killing time, prolonging your time outside of home as much as you can. It was an uncomfortable hot and damp summer night. The old CRT tv was the only light source in the room. From the busted speakers the excited voice of a commentator greets you.

<span class="mu-i"> “If you are just tuning in, we are returning to Aztlan’s yearly Challenger Cup semifinals! Tonight, we’ve got the rising superstar Maximilliam Blackstone and his Machamp facing off against an old favorite, General Orizaba and his trusty Garchomp”

“And here it is folks! It’s their signature strategy. Garchomp is rushing in for a quick finish. And… Oh damn! He gets countered with a Bullet Punch to the throat! Max’s mons are as brutal as always…”</span>

The only other sound in the room is your father loud snoring. He’s passed out on the couch again, which is always preferable to find him conscious, irritable, and violent. Empty bottles of liquor litter the already sticky floor. By his side is his trusty Zangoose who glares daggers at you the moment he notices your presence, as if it was threatening you before returning its eyes to the battle displayed on the screen.

Your stomach growls, you haven’t had a bite all day. You open up the fridge trying to find anything edible. There are only weeks-old takeout leftovers that your father was keeping to himself, warning you to “stay away from em, unless you want to start some shit” doesn’t matter anymore, they’ve spoiled by now, it’s rotten odor is enough to diminish your appetite.

Just another Friday in your lovely home.