Roxie, gym leader, bass player and punk/metal singer, sat in her gym with her band as she tuned her bass. “Got to get a sound like Jeremy Davis, Dee Dee Ramone, Rudy Sarzo and Geezer Butler.” She muttered, playing a solo. “Billie Jo, how goes yours?”
“Got that Townshend, Zakk Wylde, Jimi Hendrix-style down.” She said. The drummer began pounding as they performed “Do You Wanna Touch Me.” After that, they performed “N.I.B.” (with the bass solo), “Blitzkrieg Bop,” then “Crazy Train.”
“Nice job, I think we’re ready for the next Unova, then world, tour.” Said Roxie. She drank a bottle of water.
“Keep drinking those, we don’t want you to hurt your voice.” Said Billie Jo.
“I know that.” Said Roxie. She headed off stage and into her personal room in the gym. To her surprise it was unlocked. “I’ll have to have an Officer Jenny sweep this, make sure nothing got stolen.” She said. “Some dope paid $1,500 for a napkin I used last year on eBay.” She scanned the room, nothing valuable seemed missing. Instead, there was a thermos sitting on the table next to her mirror. She opened it, smelling peppermint hot chocolate. “Better have a toxicology on this.” She muttered. “But it smells so good, one sip couldn’t hurt…” She brought it to her lips and drank a small amount, which soon turned into a big chug of the drink. Roxie sighed, placing the drink back down on the table. After brushing her teeth, Roxie fell asleep on her bed, unaware the drink contained some potent chemicals. Not that a toxicology report would’ve helped, none were lethal, it was just a very specific fetishist in the Pokemon health industry wanted to try something risky out. A white labrador’s tail emerged from Roxie’s back as she slept as her fat cells grew and multiplied, increasing her weight. Soon, her baggy T-shirt was tight on her, raised above her deepening belly button as her panties-lacy and pink-sank into the flesh around them, her hips passing two feet wide, getting dwarfed by her stomach. Her arms and face were unaffected as her breasts plumped up to look like basketballs and her legs looked like Snorlax arms with knees. The tail grew to reach her feet, moving about in her sleep. Roxie awoke the next day, feeling out of it, when she looked down, she was snapped into awareness. “What in the name of Joey Ramone and John Bonham?!” she asked. She got to her feet, holding her hands out for fear of a shift in personal gravity. When she discovered it wasn’t so, she waddled to the gym. Billie Jo stared at her.
“Roxie, what the heck?” she asked.
“It was some damn drink that somebody broke into my room, MY PERSONAL ROOM, to deliver.” She growled. She put on her bass, it was tighter, but serviceable, and angrily churned out a riff that developed into a thunderous Michael Anthony-style noisefest, accompanied by shouts of “stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!”
“Well, Roxie, you know, you’re among friends.” Said Billie Jo.
“Yeah.” She sighed. “And I can do this, I can keep playing, gym leading and touring. So let’s hit it, ‘Good Times, Bad Times.’”
“Yeah.” Said Billie Jo. The three played the Zeppelin tune, then moved to “Not Going Away” by Ozzy Osbourne. Roxie felt confident, even as her ears changed to resemble a labrador’s as well, she knew she was a darn good performer and going to keep going.