Disclaimer: I don’t own Pokemon, Blah, blah, blah. I do own Billy Weston and Agent (Annie) Masterson. Incidentally, I have absolutely nothing against the 1977 Mercury Marquis station wagon, In fact I own one myself, so any jabs are made in good humor. Enjoy!

’77 Heaven: A Love Story

By Allan North

I am a passionate man. I have a great many obsessions… fire Pokemon, women, adventure… all these come together to make me the incredible agent and lover that I am. But you may still wonder which of my passions truly completes me. Is it my incredible good looks? My perfectly sculpted physique? My sexy green hair? The way my bulging muscles draw the babes like… uhh, wait a minute, I lost track of what I was talking about…

Hmm, passions, passions, passions… women… fire… my hot and perfect bod… oh, right, my most treasured and loved passion of all. More than anything else, my love is… her.

’77. My sexy ’77. My trusty ’77. Good old ’77. Say what you will about her rust spots, her broken gearshift, the duct-taped quarter panel, the cracked… well, you get the idea. So she’s not perfect. Who is in this weird world? I mean, besides me, of course.

’77 has been there for me since I joined Team Rocket. While everyone else was tooling around in their pathetic little Jeeps and Humvees, I knew I deserved better. A car worthy of a player of my stature, a regal and majestic car, a car with a BIG backseat where I could really get acquainted with those agents of the hot chick variety. Only one thing held me back, the limited salary of a trainee. However, such an obstacle could never hope to stop me, and I began searching for the car that would be the true, motorized extension of myself. High and low I searched, but I never found her until I happened upon an assignment from my White Rocket mentors. Following orders to dispose of some sensitive materials, I drove to a small junkyard on the edge of Neon Town where we had cut a deal with the owner of the yard. With a quick nod to him, I tossed the materials into the trunk of an old car and watched it be loaded into the crusher and smashed into a small cube of steel. I then turned to leave without a second thought, and that was when I saw her, a 1977 Mercury Marquis Station Wagon. I had found her. ’77.

Cruelly abandoned between a Ford Pinto and a rusted Fiat, poor ’77 sat there like a dethroned king, a player left alone, a pimp without a stable. My eyes opened wide and I ran to her. One look at her front seat confirmed that she was indeed the car for me… someone had left an old issue of Pokemon Trainers XXXPosed sitting in the driver’s seat. Pure bliss.

“Youse need sum’tin, kid?” came a voice from behind me, I turned and saw the owner of the yard standing there.

I could hardly contain myself. “How much, how much, how much?!” I gushed.

The man’s eyes opened in surprise. “For dat piece of crap??? You’re kiddin’ right?”

I glared at him. He had insulted the honor of ’77. “I’m dead serious.” I growled.

The man looked at me as if I were insane. “What, you gonna strip her fer parts?”

The nerve! Strip this… this… this work of art for mere parts?! “How much?” I repeated with an icy glare.

“Ehh… Figger maybe… 300 bucks.” The man said, obviously sure I would refuse.

“Done!” I snapped. “Out of town, third party bad check OK?” I asked with a cunning grin. To be honest, though, I suppose that line will never work, really.

45 minutes later (after a speeding trip back to Headquarters and then back to the junkyard), ’77 was mine. How deliciously happy I felt as I brushed the dead rat off the passenger seat and pushed her out to tow her home. People sneered along the way, but a quick glance from my evil, albeit sexy, eyes silenced them. I had found her… my true love.

Oh, how they laughed over the next 5 months as I dutifully repaired her in my off time, fixing, rebuilding, modifying… I found just the right sizes of pliers to keep in the car in place of the missing switches, and knobs. I perfected hot-wiring her since I never did find keys, I taped over every crack, and when her front fender clattered off one day, I lovingly fixed it with wacky glue and duct tape.

I hunted for weeks to find the right bumper stickers to finish her off and give her the final pieces of her personality and status. Finally, I came across them, a red one and a green one, each with black block letters that said “PIMP!” and “PLAYER!”, respectively. Oh, the respect I would command, the booty I would get, when ‘77’s mighty eight-cylinder engine (with four of them working properly!) came roaring down the street! I finished my baby with personalized plates and a stenciled Red Rocket “R” on the tailgate, but I realized something was still missing… the element of danger. The touch that would make every chick around see ’77 and think, “Ooh, he’s hot, dangerous, and sexier than James Bond!”

Finally, I realized what that touch should be. Drawing my .38 special sidearm, I took aim at the back door. Now, I know it was for the greater good, but I just couldn’t do it myself. I couldn’t make myself hurt ’77. Sighing, I holstered my sidearm. I still needed that trace of danger! I looked around in frustration and leaned dejectedly on ‘77’s front bumper when I looked up and saw the solution walking out of headquarters right at that moment. Red Rocket Agent Masterson was standing there, talking to another Red Rocket. Now, let’s get one thing straight right here… I AM simply the hottest and most irresistible thing on God’s green earth, but Agent Masterson is… well, legendary for being untouchable. Frankly, I think she could be a lesbian, having spurned as many men as she has, but, hey, more on that another time.

Without hesitation, I jumped into ’77 and hot-wired her. Her mighty 4 working cylinders roared to life with a loud backfire that made five rockets nearby jump and duck for cover. I deftly circled around to just alongside Masterson, who was staring at ’77 with a look of disbelief on her face. She must have never encountered a car being driven by the player of the millennium before. I grinned lecherously at her as I drove up, leaned out the window, and yelled to her, “Great ass, babe! How much for a night in your sack, huh???”

Now, most times, that line would have a girl melting for me, but Masterson is Masterson, and her eyebrow began to twitch dangerously. “Whaaaaaaaaat?!” she screeched. I had done it. I slammed my foot down on the gas, and ’77 took off as Masterson whipped her .45 out and yelled, “You’re a dead boy, Weston!” Shots boomed around me as I ducked and drove like crazy to get away. I heard them hit the tailgate, and knew that the element of danger I had wanted was there. I could always say they were from Jennies who were chasing me, or maybe bullets I took for the boss, or maybe shots that had been fired at me as I stole valuable plans from our enemies… I could invent any number of stories as to their origin. I smiled blissfully. ’77 was complete at last.

That’s the story behind my true love. ’77 and I have been inseparable since then, despite comments made by the lesser fools I am forced to endure at times. I would never leave her or abandon her, even if we have had our rough times. These mean nothing to me, or change the way I love her. Even the time I installed a gas gun in her rumble seat and the tailgate window shorted out and she filled with knockout gas couldn’t make me hate her or think her unreliable, nor could the time a bunch of agents and myself got caught because her starter failed, nor could the time… well, you know what I mean.

I love her, and I’ll never stop. We have seen adventure, danger, and sex many times together, and we’re nowhere near stopping. Watch out, world, here we come!

:::Sputter, sputter, sputter, cough, cough, cough… BANG!!! Vrrroooommmm…… wheeze….::::

Uhh… don’t worry, she always dies about ten times before I get her on the road. I just like getting it over with in the parking lot.

:::Sputter, sputter, sputter..

THE END