One of the players of Pet-Chop was Evelyn. It was all she could think about. She had the t-shirt, the gold plated collector’s guide book, the toys, even the bootleg stuff. She needed to raise her level 21 Lamb-Chopper as soon as possible, so she could kill the level 30 Hamtastic Pugilist, which was blocking the way to the next town, which surely contained higher level equipment or treasure or something of value. The game wasn’t available for phones, so she had to endure nine hours of bullshit (or more, if she didn’t get take-away for dinner), before getting to play. It was just about time to clock out. She made her final round and inspected the cages and containers to make sure every thing had water or food. What bugged her was while these critters were getting fed, some had the cheek to get moody and picky about it. Frozen rodents were not good enough for some, they needed chaseable, panicked, screaming livestock. She had to deal with the fact that there mice for sale as cute companions, while in the next heated and humid room, they were being introduced to the snakes, spiders and giant centipedes, for dinner. This was life, some would say it was beyond cruel, but for her it was no further than simple facts: eat and be eaten. As the amber light began to leak into the horizon, Evelyn looked over her family’s pet shop and wished her little farm goodnight. She did hope the gecko would die however, she was so sick of his noise.
On the subtrain, even the people watching videos with loud volume didn’t bother her. Her mind was on finding a good spot to kill smaller pets and level up. She used this time to discuss and research any shortcuts. Marvin, her good pal from her old job, also played the game. “Yeah,” he admitted, “it’s pretty tough (being friendzoned); the pre-order DLC seems a bit shit at these levels. I mean, damn, (I’m still not over you) the goldpink camo shotgun is like hitting for 40 hp a pop. Trash. I reckon there is still a chance (with you) of finding some secret pets somewhere.” This finally got her attention. “Secret pets?” she mused. “Probably a rare sort of creature, like…” he then wrote a line of emojis, from which she could ascertain were creature types categorized like rare metals, stones, gems, undead, mutant or an eggplant. Wait, an eggplant? Doesn’t that mean… “Sorry,” he wrote, “typo, htg”. He had fully intended to send the eggplant, as a flirty joke, but then immediately regretted it.
Her delay in response was killing him, more every second. He panicked and his breathing became rapid and shallow. She still didn’t reply. He ran through the trough looking for something useful to prove his utility, not to be cast aside. He finally found a screenshot of a rare creature. It was an evil mushroom that shot poisonous streams of thick liquid. Well, this was certainly rare. He sent it off with a message “apparently if we go out late at night into the woods with a fermented apple in your inventory, there’s a 10.2% chance of it jumping out.” There, he thought, that’ll show his sincerity.
While waiting anxiously, he took another look at the strange fungal fiend. Hold on a minute. This mushroom was somehow mechanised on two large rolling balls. What, how is that supposed to move in the forest? Oh no, he realised, as he zoomed in closer to inspect the monster’s speckled head and fibrous shaft… He groaned, there was no doubt, this was probably a fake pet, created by AI. What could he say now? He’d look like an idiot, a mucker, the type that would believe everything on the Internet. He panicked even further and started to scratch at his earlobe. Contemplating whether to send another message, he then noticed her chat icon was greyed out. He had been blocked.
Thanks for reading. More soon.