Before the PC Police absolutely launch themselves down my throat, let me be clear: I love my Grandpa. He’s the rock of our family and means that absolute world to me. Grandpa Nicolas is a brilliant man whose discovery of Nickelodeon Gak has afforded my family a privileged lifestyle; for that I love and thank him forever. But he is old. His time is through. And I want his Pokemon.

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Die.

I will cherish my memories of him for the rest of my life. Playing in his gardens, listening to his stories of turning in French resistance fighters during the war, learning to smoke — each moment holds a special place in my heart. But we must look to the future, always. I am attempting to establish myself as the foremost Pokemaster in New York City and his considerable collection would launch me far ahead of my closest competition.

I mean what kind of old man needs Pokemon anyway? He downloaded Pokemon Go and reached Level 20 overnight. I’m struggling to catch even one Charmander and he refuses to help. “You blew your inheritance on all those shares in MySpace, you’re not getting my Pokemon. You’re done, Jackie. Besides, this is a game these Pokemon are worthless. God, you’re an idiot.”


Ok, so MySpace didn’t come roaring back like EVERYONE was saying it would. And no, I am not currently using my masters degrees in Renaissance Pizza or Croatian History, two degrees he paid for. But I don’t think that should mean I’m cut off! I’ll need money to survive just like everyone else. And once Pokemon become currency as they inevitably WILL, I’ll be loaded.

So all I can do is wait with breath that is baited for my grandpa to finally die. It’s not how I want to live but it is, apparently how I must live. Luckily no one escapes the clutches of time, not even Nicolas duRey Suvage.

Die, grandpa, die.

Images vis Shutterstock

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