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Ernest was going to the meeting place, but apparently sneaky little Steven was faster than him. The chubby man had no intention of being in a room alone with a murderer. That'd be, well, that'd be crazy.
Ernest instinctively grabbed at the knife stashed away in his sock. It was still there. So were the two in his sleeves, the one in his pants' pocket, the five in his jacket, and the one attached to his suspenders. Carrying a tiny armory was the only way he felt safe when working for Team Rocket, even if most people just left him alone. Sure, that might sound insecure, but the blades were practical in the kitchen anyway, which is where Ernest would have preferred to spend the rest of his life.
The suspender-toting fool ran around the corner so he couldn't be seen, hiding from all of the other members. He couldn't trust these new people either. They show up late and suddenly “replace” all of the other people. They probably worked together to murder the other members, starting with the ugliest to the best-looking.
That means Steven is next.
He was tempted to warn Stevey-boy, but what would he get out of it? Another living rival. He better let the losers fight it out and then take the coveted position using his epic skillz. If he impressed the Warden by demonstrating his physical and mental prowess, then he was guaranteed the position.
Ernest tried to do a push-up (to prove to himself how strong he was), but ended up rolling off to the side. His belly was just getting in the way. He wiggled his arms, but found that it to be physically exhausting.
Well, maybe he'd have to win some other way. Perhaps a mosey over to Steve's room might give him some insight...
Steven looked around. Ernest was already gone. Most likely looking for something incriminating in his room. Steven didn't care though. There was nothing there for him to find-
Well. Except his diary. Steven hoped he would find that, and that the idiot wouldn't read it beforehand. Then everyone-
But him. Would be dead. Well, Steven knew exactly who had done it. Or had least he figured. Maybe now was the time to deal with his parents...
Steven walked down the hallway, and had caught no glimpse of Ernest. Reaching his parent's room, he walked inside. "Hello?" There was no response. Steven looked around and saw some trails of tomato sauce leading into the bathroom. Steven entered the bathroom and gasped. His parents were lying dead on the floor. It wasn't tomato sauce. It was blood. Well, someone had beaten him to his job, now he just needed to find out who.
Potato. Tomato. It all sounds the same to him. Confusion. Retribution. The whole situation just got a lot more complicated.
Ernest took an emergency spelunking mission into his bellybutton. He was dangerously low in his food supplies, down to the last bit of mashed potatoes. Sticking his index finger into the moist crevice of his stomach-hole, he pulled out a chunk of his secret potato supply. Delicious.
Hey wait a minute. Did ugly-boy-Stevey have psychic powers? The thought had never occurred to him, but it was all starting to make sense, the more he considered it. No wonder he won that battle without really trying, or was able to somehow know what he was trying to do before he did it. The bumbling fool had probably stolen some powers from Sabrina and was using them to murder people, including the Warden. If the Warden were still alive, then he would have stopped Steven from cheating. But he couldn't because he's dead, so there.
That means he needs to grab some evidence and run. No turning back. He didn't want to become one of the people that “disappeared”, any more than he wanted to be eaten by Steven the fatty. Everyone knows fat people eat other fat people; it's like the circular food chain or something.
There were splotches of grape juice all over the tile floor. Apparently one of Team Rocket's business meetings didn't go over too well. That usually happens when people suggest new marketing strategies. Usually the janitors cleaned that stuff up by the end of the day, but it always made the floor incredibly sticky. This time though, the dark liquid seemed to be coming from the bathrooms. Ernest didn't even want to consider the implications of that.
Ernest saw the door slowly open from the cafeteria. He ducked into a broom closet and was barely able to close the door after sucking in his gut, just in time to hear the maniac walk by. Using his belly to sense the vibrations through the door, he could hear the murderer mutter his darkest thoughts- things like “tomato juice” and “parents”. The crazy person was probably going to stuff his parents into a giant blender and make tomato juice.
Silly Steven. Grinding people doesn't make tomato juice- it makes brown, chicken nugget-like glop, as long as you have a blender powerful enough to grind bones.
Hold up a sec. Whose parents were they? Who ever heard of parents visiting their children in Team Rocket? That didn't make any sense. No, he must be referring to a parent organization, like Team Rocket owning Bobo's Balloons and Coco's Chocolate.
After he was certain that Steven was gone, he jumped out of the closet and ran toward the crazy boy's room. Twisting the handle and whipping open the door, he ran inside without a second thought, slamming the door behind him.
This post will be deleted after another post is made.
Ernest pulled out the knife slowly, enjoying the way soft skin sliced like butter.
“Looks like I was right all along... Steven just lost.”
He yanked the blade out with a satisfied grunt, unable to control himself any longer. Blood nearly sprayed his favorite pants and suspenders. The flesh made no loud sound effects, no dramatic spurting noises, just a quiet wet noise, like muffled splashes in a flooding basement.
Putting the blade back in his sock, he waddled out, laughing maniacally. It was too easy. Divide and conquer. If only the stupid team members weren't too busy trying to make it on their own, maybe they would have survived. No, all of them were too stuck-up to even try. It was all about them. What they wanted.
Their pride cost them their lives.
Ernest giggled again, sliding his feet along the ground to make annoying squeaking noises. The hallways echoed with his presence, and the ground beneath his feet blackened with streaks of rubber. Though he was less than average height, he had conquered the hallway with his large and formidable presence.
He strode into his room and jumped onto the bed, sighing as the comfort of familiarity washed over him. After staring that the ceiling for a while and patting his belly as seductively as he could, he reached over to the nightstand where his diary was. He had hardly touched the thing, but now felt like a good time to begin writing in it. He'd had a busy day, and it was about time to sleep anyway.
He grabbed a red fountain pen and began to scribble a hastily-forged message to himself on the first page of his journal.
Today I've murdered a bunch of people. Looks like Team Rocket has a new leader.
Sincerely, Juanito Ernest Gordito
PS. Will begin production on the first potato Pokémon.
Ernest closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. In the morning, he completely forgot about what he had done, but was pleasantly surprised to find that he had been given the honor of becoming the new leader.
One day, much later in his life, he found the journal in an old storeroom, abandoned and forgotten. He couldn't decipher the crazed writings, but he could see the ink looked strangely similar to blood. Believing the journal to be written by another, he threw it away.