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Imagine. There you are, in your top-floor apartment, looking out at the view of the city at night. Relaxing after a long day at the stock exchange. Perhaps enjoying a well-earned glass of Chianti or a nice Bordeaux. You feel secure. Comfortable, even. You think of the fine things you own: the Rothko on the wall, the Rolls Royce in the basement garage with 24-hour security. You think of your investments, your first-class insurance packages, your platinum AmEx. You've got this. Your attractive young blonde wife lowers her quantum physics textbook and smiles at you from her place seated in a hanging egg chair. You smile back and raise your glass. A toast. To how good life can be.
Suddenly fucking Mewtwo bursts through the wall with a smash of masonry. Pulses of psychic energy and purple light blaze through the apartment. Your wife screams and recoils into her egg chair. Mewtwo thrusts his three-fingered hand forward, punching psychically through into your once-solid home with the ease of a knife through room-temperature margarine. The cold night wind high above the city streets rushes in, and you feel the pressure change sucking you forward, your hair and clothes rippling in the wind, and you are forced to step once, then twice, toward Mewtwo. As you reach the broken hole in the wall, fear floods your mind. All you can hear is screaming and the rushing of wind, and then Mewtwo grabs you, taking you by the collar of your Hugo Boss shirt and pulling you clean off your feet. He pulls you out over the city, where cars rush through the night hundreds of feet below. Your legs dangle in the open air. You feel his grip loosen. He moves his strange white head closer to yours, and in the moment before he drops you, he whispers in your ear: 'Gotta Catch 'em All'.