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There was this kid at my school we called “The Typhlosion Kid.” He was this greasy little goblin who smelled like a mix of old cheese and damp socks, and he always had dirt smeared around his mouth like he’d been snacking on mulch during recess. Every single day, he’d talk about Typhlosion like it was some kind of fire god. “Typhlosion represents ultimate power and destruction,” he’d say, dead serious, while cradling this mangled, crusty Pokémon card he probably found in a gutter.
He built “shrines” to Typhlosion out of sticks and rocks at the edge of the playground and would get unreasonably pissed if anyone stepped near them. One time he tried to set one on fire with a magnifying glass, and when the teacher dragged him off, he screamed, “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND THE FLAME!” like a lunatic.
The girls in school were terrified of him, which honestly wasn’t surprising. He’d just stare at them during class, this wide-eyed, creepy glare, like he was trying to summon some kind of forbidden power. One time, he told a girl in science class that Typhlosion would choose her to “rebuild humanity” after the world burned, and she cried. After that, no one sat near him.
He was full incel before any of us even knew what that meant, ranting about how “females” didn’t appreciate guys who understood “true strength.” Smelled like Kraft Singles and despair but acted like he was the prophet of a volcano god. Absolute menace.
