Hunter x Hunter + Pokemon, let's go!

Like I mentioned earlier, this is the brainchild of my friend, @doodle-storm, who has completed only the Hunter Exam and Zoldyck Family arcs but knows a lot about Pokemon, with me, who knows all of HxH but barely anything of Pokemon, giving occasional suggestions. Enjoy!

We decided to do three Pokemon for the main five and only one for each of the more minor characters. I'll break it up into parts. My friend's thoughts are in green, and mine in purple.

Gon:

Togepi - "Because he's a cute egg boy! And he's filled with joy and happiness and they share it with kind people." "Aww. The spikes look like his hair too!" "Oh yeah! Also they tend to start to act like their trainers, so I can see them kind of jumping into things together."

Ursaluna - I told her a bit about Kon, who was sadly not in the beginning as he was in the manga. "He's a foxbear." "Ooh. Well, there aren't any foxbears, but there are bears..." "Maybe one that looks intimidating? Just because that's funny, and also Kon wasn't supposed to be... befriendable." "Right. Then there's Ursaring, but there's also this one, which looks more intimidating."

Wooper - "I feel like he needs a water type, you know, because of his fishing pole?" She was debating on Wooper and a few others for a bit. "...it looks holdable." "...you're right, it does. Okay, that's cute."

Killua:

Absol - "He needs dark types, I think..." She catches me looking at Absol. "Oh, right, Absol's your favourite, isn't it?" "Yeah." "I think that works. Absol shows up when there's a disaster, but it's to warn people. It's kind of misunderstood."

Sneasel - It was Lucario for a time, but she switched it at the end. "It's got the claws... also it can ride on his skateboard with him."

Alolan Raichu - "It is very important that his pokemon be able to ride on his skateboard with him. ...or!!! It could surf right next to him!"

Kurapika:

Gallade - "Oh, that looks right." "Right? It even has the red eyes, and it's a fighting type."

Cubone - "Hey, wasn't there a pokemon that... lost its family or something?" "...Cubone???" "That's it." "...yeah it wears its mother's skull." "...sorry."

Corviknight - "It also has red eyes." "He seems like he'd have a bird too." "Yeah. Also, you could give the Phantom Troupe a Tinkaton." "..." "...they attack Corviknights with rocks and hammers." "...why?" "Just for fun, I think." "...you're kind of evil for this."

Leorio:

Audino - "There aren't that many medic pokemon and they're all kind of too adorable I think?" "Oh but that would be kind of funny if he hid it behind his back or something." "That's true!"

Gimmighoul - "He needs his money. It's a little ghost!" "...oh. That's kind of sad actually." "?" "He only started really wanting money after he couldn't save his friend so... having the money pokemon be a ghost type is kind of..." We both became sad.

Stoutland - "It warms up to people really quickly and is loyal. And it has a moustache to improve its social standing!" "Hey, Leorio's always wearing a suit probably for similar reasons." (Also I insisted after seeing it was called the Big-Hearted pokemon, though I couldn't elaborate on why to my friend.)

Hisoka:

Hypno - "It led a child into the woods. Canonically. A small child." "Ah." "Like there is no doubt that was a child." "...checks out."

Meowscarada - "I want to give him the evolved weed cat. Something about its smug face." "...'looks like this man's arms have turned into flower petals'..." "Also, since it's a grass type, it'd be strong against Gon's team." "You want our boy to be weak to Hisoka???" "Well, at first! Then it's more satisfying when he beats him!"

Gengar - "Look at that face. That grin." She said nothing more. It had already been decided.

5 -

Request: ‘Something about Van dating a journalist?”

I hope this is alright anon!! I just wanted to write something cute and heartwarming. Supportive boyfriend Van is an absolute dream am I right? (P.S I know nothing about journalism lol) xxxx

***********

“Fuck!” You shouted and threw your phone down beside you.

You stomped your legs like a child, putting your face in your hands and groaning in frustration.

Van walked through the door, curious about the sound and looked at you with a confused expression. You slumped back into the couch and sighed; you felt defeated.

“What’s wrong babe?” He asked, peeling his banana as he came to sit beside you.

“The publication rejected my story and all my ideas. They’re gonna fire me unless they get something they like within the next three days. I have nothing!” You threw yourself into his arms, starting to cry and he held you, one arm tightly around your body and the other stretched out to protect his snack.

“Hey it’s alright y/n, you’re a dead good writer and they’re just too fussy to appreciate you properly. I reckon just quit and do your own thing.”

You knew he was only trying to help but somehow those words made it worse. In journalism, you couldn’t just ‘do your own thing’ if you wanted to be successful; freelance was tough as shit. You’d been working with this publication for only a month now, it was your first job after university and you’d thought it had been going well. Suppose not. They loved you at the start but soon realised your talents and their requests didn’t seem to fit. But you couldn’t afford to quit, you needed a job. You wanted to write about art, music, and culture...about real people. They just wanted you to write gossip about Kylie Jenner’s tits.

“What the living fuck do I write about?” You questioned, not actually expecting an answer. You'd tried everything with them and they were never happy.

You sat up and wiped your face and Van finished his banana slowly, thinking.

“You could write about us? Like me and the lids, Catfish?” He suggested, a caring tone in his voice and pronouncing ‘us’ as if it had a ‘z’ on the end.

“They’ve hated all my music articles so far,” you sighed.

“Yeah but you’ve never interviewed me have you?” Van said cheekily and full of ego.

That was true. You thought about it for the rest of the night, trying to come up with something else and you just couldn’t. You began to imagine the story, starring Van McCann of Catfish and The Bottlemen...an insight into their lives that no one had captured before. No one at work knew you were dating Van, so while it was technically unprofessional (and cheating) there was no one who could catch you out. Usually, you had to jump through hoops to get an interview with celebrities and as for the publication you worked for, they simply didn't have the budget or resources to ever get someone like Van on their cover. It was kind of a genius plan actually. If they liked it, that is.

“Fine I'll do it, I'll interview you,” you whispered to Van as you melted into his side under the bed sheets.

“And it’ll be your best article ever babe,” Van promised just before he turned out the light and you both fell asleep.

......

You sat at the bar table across from Van. You had your arms crossed, notepad and pen beside you and you were staring at him trying not to laugh.

“This is for my work Van we gotta be serious!”

“Yeah love don’t worry I’ll be proper professional. I’ll even drink scotch so I seem more upper class,” Van laughed and you copied.

Composing yourself, you ordered some drinks, though no scotch was involved. It was probably good to get Van a little tipsy before you probed his brain in a way you never had before. You were kinda nervous really. You weren’t sure if you should be yourself and get a candid, playful interview with Van or turn on your work persona and get straight to the point. You weren’t even sure what stuff to talk about. You’d written up some rough questions but you felt it was all cliche crap that every other pop culture journalist would ask. This was all made worse by the big black cloud hanging over your head that was the possibility of losing your job if this didn’t turn out amazing.

Van sipped his drink messily, slurping on the straw. He also managed to knock over the bowl of peanuts that sat communally on the table, sending them flying into his lap and onto the floor. He was so clumsy yet no one really knew it. Except you.

After you'd cleaned up his mess and gotten a replacement serve of peanuts, you began to ask him casual questions about the band, how they started and where they got their name; stuff he’d been asked hundreds if not thousands of times. Yet he still answered with as much enthusiasm as he would have the first time he’d been interviewed. It was so heartwarming and your chest swelled with love.

You wrote down his answers and described the setting. You made sure to set the scene perfectly; the chatter around you, the couples kissing in the corner, the hazy sound of The Doors playing over the sound system. You took note of the cascading fairy lights that hung dimly behind the bar and how they reflected off the bottles of liquor...and off  Van's blue eyes. Maybe that was more a personal note for you.

He talked with sheer passion and moved his arms about wildly, almost knocking the fucking peanuts again. All of this you recorded in your notes to later craft into a feature article.

You ordered more drinks, whether that was a good idea or not and continued to discuss music, Catfish, and life with Van. This was not unusual, however, it felt different. You knew this was for your job and he knew your job was on the line. It was clearly more than your normal conversations with him. He really was treating you like a professional, not his girlfriend. But you still had that electric connection of course and it would definitely translate in the interview. He was giving you 110%.

"So, Mr. McCann...now that we have discussed your band and all the usual rock star bullshit...tell me...how do you feel about love?" You'd not include the swear word obviously.

He locked eyes with you intensely.

"Well, love is absolutely everything to me. I love my band, I love my family, I love my friends and I fucking love life," he began.

"But you see, I met this girl while I was on the road and she changed everything for me. She's like the all the fucking stars in the sky, I love her to death. I'm gonna marry her one day and we are gonna have like loads of babies because that's just how much I love her," Van's eyes became dreamy and you felt like you were going to explode.

"Any advice to young fans out there who are just looking for some lovin'? You asked, struggling to restrain yourself from reaching out and dragging him into you for a kiss.

You were really straying from your draft questions now. In fact, you were straying from any interview outline you'd ever drawn up.

"Come to our shows, grab some hot person's hand and if they're down, fucking kiss the shit out of them! Be brave and just say 'fuck it'. If that's one thing our music can do, teach kids to just say 'fuck it' and live, then I'm doing my job properly, you know what I mean?"

And you did, You knew exactly what he meant. He didn't get his thrills from the money or the sold out shows. He got it from the knowledge that people found happiness in what he did and that he'd somehow impacted actual human lives.

You finished off your drink and ate the last remaining peanuts. You had pages upon pages of notes that you couldn't wait to transcribe tomorrow.

Holding Van's hand you walked home. The cold air didn't bother either of you, the alcohol and love you felt for each other kept you warm; as cheesy as that sounds.

"You're like, really good at that interviewing thing," Van told you and you smiled, leaning over to ruffle his hair.

....

The following few days was stress filled and chaotic. You'd written up the article and were actually really proud of it. Van had kept out of your way so you could focus, but brought you cups of tea on a regular basis. You were so grateful to have someone as supportive of you as he was. He understood hard work and he was so proud to see you put everything into what you did.

You of course, had to exclude any drunken rambling but for the most part, it was amazing. The interview had great flow and it was really intimate. You'd captured Van in a way you'd never seen another interviewer do before, which said something. He was one of the most open and animated people you'd ever met. You poured your literal heart and soul into this feature, as did he, and you prayed to whoever was listening, that your bosses loved it too.

You sat on the couch shaking and sweating with nerves. You stared at your phone waiting for the call that would dictate whether or not you were unemployed. Van sat beside you, gently stroking your thigh in an attempt to show support and comfort. He knew you were best not to be smothered when you were this anxious.

Suddenly the phone buzzed and the publication HQ number flashed on the screen. Van gave you a quick kiss and you answered, taking the call to another room.

When you came back out, Van stood up with his eyebrows raised. He looked so anxious.

"So?" He questioned frantically.

You looked at the phone in your hand with a confusion,

"I got fucking promoted?"

Van cheered loudly, the same way he does when he's having a blast on stage. He ran over, picked you up and swung you around in his arms. You kissed him hard and smiled into his mouth. God, you loved this boy and his stupidly good band.

Roman Caprices

I A strange thing happened to me on the way to the forum today:             a man insulted me, saying that my throat was a sepulchre; that I had sown deceit; and that the poison of asps was under my lips. *** It is too much to begin with philosophy, the province of the wise;              and I will admit,– and to you alone,– that I am hardly wise              and any man that would pretend himself otherwise is not to be trusted.                                 Most things today are hardly worthy of trust; especially the promises of youth: what was assured to me             in days long past and strength long fled;– the world I once was heir to,– and that life,– is now overgrown: I see             old women, snipping with gnarled scissors at braided twine;             old men, sipping at sweet white wine made for sweeter days;– “Go home, senex!” I have called to them, “you are inebriated!”–             old lives travelling numbly towards their final terminus;             old loves won;–                                       but more often lost, for reasons unknown, as men know not why the gods would ever favour one over another. II I know not why I sit here, recounting to you an unremarkable life,             my life and the spectres of days that flit across my mind. I know not why you sit here, listening patiently to my rambling. *** I daily suffer slights,– far too often at the hands of the low,–             and my friend,– wolfish; slavering; rather crude;– from time to time offers me the token gift of reassuring words: the generosity of a transalpine prince!                                                            Cisalpine, he oft reminds me, as we go to watch the gladiators strike each other down in the pit. “I’d have stuck you easily if we were down there,” he said, laughing when he drew from me no reply.                                                    Were it a naumachia, a sea-battle, I would have cast him into the waves in a Sicilian gesture;             or placed my foot o’er his neck, my sword upon his neck,             and given the spectators an offer that they could not refuse. I would have watched the crowds give him two thumbs down. III I am too bitter, perhaps; but he oft heaps indignities onto my head:             he knows too well that I can do nothing to him; knows that I am too old, and my wrath is much like that of a toothless hound. *** Wandering the market, I observed, with scarce amusement the spectacle of a strange man                                                who seemed to live in a clay wine-vat, hurling insult onto all who passed him, especially those who hurried             as though in shame, with uneven gait on uneven cobbles,             as though they each had taken a pilum to the knee! The fierce look on his masterful age-worn face reminded me of the malformed pearl I pawned away three decades past in mythical Sinae,–                               ah! my heart grows warm with the thought of it,– I found again whilst travelling through sunny Lusitania,– or was it vacant Germania’s dreary marches?–                                                                          not two weeks ago! IV “Pearl ex India Orientali. Taken from robe of half-demon prince             who rules with iron rod from pleasure dome of cloud. Good price I give you, special for you. xxx denarii.” *** Laughing for some reason,– I still know not why,– I paid                                  my younger self what was owed him: a debt of thirty years                                  in coins, of silver and of bronze, and                                  in years, of my life’s last and iron age;–             but not all of them, for a man must keep             some regret with him to seem truly learned,–                                                                                     as for the pearl,                                  I had it sent off for safe keeping only just yesterday;– ��                                as the brutish genius who came to Rome                                  some eighty,– no,– ninety years ago had said: ‘long standing increases all things regardless of quality’. V Had he been a poet less profound, he might have added:                ‘…in certain cases, that increase is purely on the horizontal’. Poets,– even the least of them,– may say such things with impunity. *** But how wonderful it is that the whole world lives under              the auspices of a single crown, a single coinage, a single law, and a single mother tongue!                                             To this lady from Lesbos, I say, “Away with you!”                              and she is away; to the clean-shaven Lutetian, I call, “Come!”              and he gestures at me energetically with a hand that answers              something altogether too vulgar to transcribe;–                                                                                         and to this some say that we must make provision for barbarisms and riddles: this is why nice things cannot be had.                                                             A pearl to Crates, I suppose. VI I will sprinkle my scripts liberally with ‘v’s for such is              the Roman manner; and don’t you tell me to dispense with it! Or would you prefer to have the barbarians tri[v]mph? *** Not, triumph, perhaps, but corr[v]pt;                                                          but to that, I have an answer: we must to bring them into the fold; make them Roman and Romans and citizens,                    so that they may breed some continuation of our ways and become, with time and custom, stern outposts of dominion secure; we must them corrupt and in doing subvert                                                                     those who would make us no longer us!–                       such were the words of the orator in the forum, extolling proud distensions of empire; expounding upon the greatest truth I know:              all the world is Caesar’s for he runs it best! VII Now there’s a thought that warms one in this long season              of melancholic bile-black winter;– and it hardly helps that I’m not suited for the cold; not this kind of cold, at least. *** Lately too,                  I’ve been kept awake at night; outside my window,                  when the hour is late and the moon waxes gibbous to the stupid gibbering of the drunkards,-                                                              you know who you are,– raising bastard-wine and high heaven or whatever it is they worship             to the scurrilous whores of the barbican who bark obscenities between rough patches and wet sounds,–                                                                  O! O! O! O Iove!–                                outside my window, keeping me awake;– and keeping my neighbour awake, I’m sure,– and I’m sure I’d appreciate these moonlit Boreal nights the better              if Maximus [Imp.] Potentius would shut up! VIII I can see the dark forest outside my window, dark outside             my window,– but there is something there that unsettles me: I can see a distant light shining far and far away. *** There flames what seems a very extraordinary light             from across the marches in the east;–             across the marches new that lie beside the old             by barbarous tribes of ancient malcontent; the seeds of what we call today civilization may germinate into the crimson flowers of blazing war; supplanting Roman honour and Roman civility and Roman rule             with impoverished and mistaken facsimiles;             conflating wealth and stupid material things with             nobility and erudition and meaningful discourse;– that I could think I saw a strange eidolon slouching towards Rome from out the burning tracts of empty sands and hungry forests                            of nameless vast Teutonic lands. IX It is of no consequence; and several days later I rode out             to the castrum by the border inferior on an errand. Arriving at my destination, I delivered a missive to an aide. *** “Thank you,” said he, “but our praetor is in another castrum.             Will you stay the night or will you go directly?” With veneer of cold rebuke and lips of marble,             that like a shattered monument half-sunk             condemns the works of passing days with glory lost, I declined reply.                          Around, a number looked on me an interloper                          from a hostile home;                                                           some had choice words;–             I merely gave them a Lutetian gesture and remounted, turning my steed towards the gate,– urging my steed down the endless road leads me far from home,             for all roads lead from Rome. X

Who amongst us is a wise man, or a man of many seasons?             Who amongst us has yet to prove himself a charlatan? Who amongst us is endued with knowledge unadorned?

*** One man once exclaimed that I made him laugh, that my speech seemed somehow comic, as though I were a funny prop, an object             of laughter, as though I was there to somehow amuse him.             Comic! Is it my manner or my speech? How am I comic? I had choice words with another thereafter.                                                                      I heard this morning that that same man was executed yesterday for some petty crime. The state is the better for it.                                            “In any equation, I rather be Piso:             in dispensing sentence with a masterful hand,–             for the sorrows of others are not my concern,–             a dread judge heedless of care or consequence;– by blind Justice or idiot god, know that I am the law!” XI I am not Piso but merely pissed, and p. on, and p. off, I suppose. I suppose that you would like to be a Piso as well, you dog. I do wish that more people were not themselves but others. *** That woman, who we have called our mutual acquaintance, that patrician daughter of C. [or C. f. as per modern convention], has been detestably beautiful,–                                                  I’ve been told that men ought not refer to a beauty like her in so unspeakably uncouth a fashion,–             regardless, it does not become her.             Allow me to elaborate through an example: with one careless hand, one gesture, she discarded my gift onto the blazing hearth,–                                        where offerings should have been placed reverently and persistently and dutifully before,– and watched it burn with a smile…                                                        canis femineus. XII Dogs need no graves, nor long for orisons to send them off;             nor mind the half-baked doggerels of rough satiric pens;– well-remembrance is an idle ornament on a life well-lived. *** People have made funerals too grand, indeed too sentimental; or make too much of the show of mourning,– and it is all for show,– and hagiographies will always forget the most important details,             or omit the finest things in life:                                                               what one had for breakfast;             or speaking with a friend on stately matters and the weather;             or mocking that stolidus of a baker for selling poor bread;             or hearing one’s neighbour cursing loudly incoherent when he smashes his second amphora this week! I too have heard my neighbour say, in trite attempt at humour,             that his life is difficult:                                                   “I got xcix problems,” he said. I can tell that being a cretinous asinine scumbag is not one thereof. XIII

I do not think that he has spent much time looking at the stars,             watching the starlight foaming up from the endless falls of eventide that nightly bathe swift Diana’s tranquil arbour-bed. *** They will paganize my household gods, once I am gone. They will spin what gold they may from the works I leave behind,             supposedly in my name.                                                    I have often told people             that heavy coins have no place in an urn of brass. After all, someone, someday, will doubtless try to fish them out,             and I would rather not be disturbed.                                                                       An urn of white ash covered over with a grassless mound of earth is hardly splendid,– but I cannot find it in me to be unhappy at the prospect: the quiet, I am certain, will suffer me best.                                                                     It is time already?                                                   Must I go?

I found a notebook in an abandoned house, and now I've got a headache that won't go away by toomuchfog

I’m what you would call “between homes” right now. Without getting into details, let’s just say that my life hasn’t exactly panned out the way I’d like it to, and I’ve been drifting across this great country of ours for the better part of two years.

A few months ago, I found a notebook. It’s lonely being a wandering hermit. I love books, though, and I’ll read whatever I can get my hands on. I’ve been staying in abandoned houses for the most part -- in this economy, they aren’t hard to come across. I wouldn’t exactly say that I’ve been living the high life, but I’m usually able to find a roof to put over my head and a couch to sleep on.

You’d be surprised what people leave behind. Electronics don’t work without power, but people leave behind entire collections of books. I was staying at this one house, up in Washington, I think it was, and I found an entire private home library all about living off the land and such. I think that’s the house where I found the notebook. I just sort of grabbed it along with a few other books about camping and roughing it -- I figure if I can get my hands on a sleeping bag and a good tent, I can set up camp in the woods instead of in people’s abandoned living rooms.

The notebook is freaking me out. That’s why I’m posting it here. I’ve read and re-read it a dozen times or so, and it’s honestly starting to scare me.

I’ve transcribed the notebook here. I censored certain parts of it -- I don’t want anyone coming after me or anything. I don’t think the contents of this notebook are particularly dangerous, but I don’t want to take any chances. The guy’s handwriting deteriorates towards the end and is downright atrocious in places, but I think I’ve copied it correctly for the most part. I’ve been having some trouble with my hands cramping lately -- just a side-effect of living on the road. I was able to soak them in warm water a few nights ago, and that seemed to help. Hell, maybe I’m getting arthritis or something.

Shoot, I’ve been rambling. Like I said, I found the notebook somewhere in Washington. I can’t remember the name of the town where I was staying or anything like that. I just remember that every house looked like it had been abandoned, and there was no sign of anyone. It really freaked me out. I didn’t stay for more than a night, and even that felt like it was too long.

[DATE REDACTED]

5:15 - 6:03 a.m. -- So far, four large vehicles have passed. Cannot tell what they are. Think they are vans or trucks. Cannot make out license plates. They keep their lights off. Cannot tell who is driving or how many people are inside each vehicle.

7:26 a.m. -- Vans. They’re definitely vans. Have only seen one since the sun came up. It’s a white van with a red and blue logo on the side. Logo is of a large satellite dish. The words SATELLITE REPAIR COMPANY are printed below it in black letters. Cannot find logo anywhere on internet.

11:56 a.m. -- SATELLITE REPAIR COMPANY van is parked across the street. Has been there for over an hour. No one has gotten in or out of the van.

12:45 p.m. -- Developed a headache at approximately 12:10 p.m. Took [MEDICATION REDACTED] at 12:12 p.m. Headache has not improved, has only gotten worse. Cannot take more pills. Need to lie down. Van has not moved. No one has gotten in or out of van.

3:28 p.m. -- Woke up approximately 15 minutes ago. Headache gone. Van gone.

6:02 p.m. -- TV is not working properly. Static keeps cutting through Channel [REDACTED]. Ate dinner.

[DATE REDACTED]

3:33 a.m. -- Woke up approximately 30 minutes ago with violent stomach cramps. Attempted to take [MEDICATION REDACTED], was unable to keep it down. Vomited.

4:58 a.m. -- Abdominal cramping has subsided. Vomiting has stopped. Am unable to fall back asleep. Van is again parked across the street. Am unable to read license plate or see van’s occupants.

5:30 a.m. -- Am experiencing more abdominal cramping. Have consumed Saltines and ginger ale. So far, have been able to keep it down. Van is still parked across the street. Same van as yesterday.

11:46 a.m. -- Have watched van all morning. Van has not moved. No one has gotten in or out of van. Can see license plate number [REDACTED]. Have done Google search on SATELLITE REPAIR COMPANY and [REDACTED LICENSE PLATE NUMBER]. No results.

1:59 p.m. -- Man has gotten out of rear passenger’s side door of van. Am unable to see into van. Man is approximately 5’10”, 175 lbs, 30-40 years old. Caucasian. Dark brown hair. Blue eyes. Wearing dark gray coveralls and workboots. Appears to be wearing a mask. The lower half of his face is obscured. His mouth and nose are covered. There appears to be a tube connecting the mask on his face to a backpack-like apparatus. Most likely a respirator of some sort. Why would he be wearing a respirator? Man paced back and forth briefly before opening rear passenger’s side door and climbing back into van.

2:15 p.m. -- Am developing headache. Have taken [MEDICATION REDACTED].

2:46 p.m. -- [MEDICATION REDACTED] is not working. Headache growing worse.

3:15 p.m. -- head hurts so much. Can’t stay near window anymore. Need to lie down.

7:19 p.m. -- Woke up on floor next to bed. Cannot remember how I got here. I could’ve sworn I closed the curtains and lay down in my bed.

7:32 p.m. -- TV isn’t working.

8:57 p.m. -- Decided to ask [NEIGHBOR’S NAME REDACTED] about the van. Assumed that [NEIGHBOR REDACTED] has been having problems with his TV. Went to [NEIGHBOR REDACTED] and asked about TV problems. [NEIGHBOR REDACTED] has not been having trouble with TV and has not called any repair service. However, [NEIGHBOR REDACTED] has noticed the van. [NEIGHBOR REDACTED] saw the van’s driver and described an “average-looking Hispanic or Latino man.” [NEIGHBOR REDACTED] could not recall height, weight, or age. Described the man as having dark brown or black hair and brown eyes. Stated that man was wearing gray coveralls and that he appeared to be wearing a respirator. Man briefly exited the driver’s side door of the vehicle. Damn, I wish [NEIGHBOR REDACTED] was more observant.

[DATE REDACTED]

3:57 a.m. -- I don’t remember going to bed last night. I don’t remember anything that happened after speaking with [NEIGHBOR REDACTED]. I woke up on my couch. The TV was on, displaying bluish-white static. Am experiencing mild abdominal cramping and minor pain in hands and fingers.

4:36 a.m. -- I don’t remember writing that last journal entry. I woke up in my bed feeling perfectly fine. I looked out the window. There are no vans or suspicious persons about.

5:09 a.m. -- Woke up to the sound of someone moving around in my backyard. I checked out the window and saw a man digging through my garbage cans. I armed myself and went outside to check. When I got out there, the man was gone. The garbage cans were disturbed, one was overturned. I cannot tell if anything important is missing. Thank God I shred all my junk mail.

7:48 a.m. -- Am experiencing severe abdominal cramping. Have vomited twice. Have attempted to take [MEDICATION REDACTED], am unable to keep it down. Am considering calling a doctor.

10:58 a.m. -- Woke up in the bathtub. Was covered in vomit. Showered and cleaned the tub, felt perfectly fine. Ate saltines, ginger ale, and hard-boiled eggs.

12:09 p.m. -- The van is back. Armed myself and went to investigate. All windows are tinted, even the windshield. Was unable to see inside. Knocked on windows and tried to open door. No luck. Was unable to gain access to the van or determine who/what is inside of it.

2:32 p.m. -- Van still parked outside.

3:00 p.m. -- Am experiencing pain in hands. Am having trouble moving fingers and holding small objects. [UNINTELLIGIBLE]

5:47 p.m. -- Fell asleep in chair by window. Had nightmare about my fingers fusing together, turning my hands into lobster claws. Had trouble getting out of chair. It felt like the chair was stuck to the backs of my legs. Finally managed to get out of chair. Went to kitchen, consumed saltines, ginger ale, and hard-boiled eggs. Unable to stomach anything else.

5:57 p.m. -- Developing headache. Took [MEDICATION REDACTED].

6:14 p.m. -- Headache getting worse. Seeing spots on edges of vision. Feeling dizzy and nauseous. Unable to stand up. [UNINTELLIGIBLE] Experiencing abdominal cramping.

9:46 p.m. -- Woke up in bed. Left leg is swollen. There is no pain, but the leg is bruised and swollen to twice its normal size. Am unable to move it. Hands feel numb. Am having trouble moving fingers.

10:10 p.m. -- Left leg still swollen and bruised. Am unable to move it. Managed to drag self to window. Van no longer parked outside. Saw [NEIGHBOR REDACTED] taking his garbage out. Sight of [NEIGHBOR REDACTED] filled me with anger. I’ve always liked [NEIGHBOR REDACTED]. He’s a good man, very friendly and always helpful. I have no reason to hate him. I know I have no reason to hate him. Seeing him filled me with rage. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to wrap my hands around his throat and choke the life out of him. If my left leg hadn’t been so swollen and immobile, I think I would’ve run outside and killed him where he stood. God help me, I wanted to hurt him.

[DATE REDACTED]

1:17 a.m. -- Woke up with pain in left leg. Left leg still swollen and bruised. My foot is now facing the opposite direction. I am unable to move it. Have tried calling 911. Phones are not working. Am unable to put any weight on left leg. Right leg twitches and jitters, but refuses to cooperate or do what I tell it. Re-read yesterday’s entries. I have no memory of them. Am scared.

4:58 a.m. -- head hurts so bad. Seeing spots and stars in peripheral vision. Am afraid to go to sleep. Had nightmare about hands becoming lobster claws again, but this time, I killed [NEIGHBOR REDACTED]. In the dream, my legs were large fleshy tentacles and I slithered across the street. [UNINTELLIGIBLE] smashed lobster claw hands against [NEIGHBOR REDACTED]’s face. Ripped his eyes out and ate them. Woke up covered with sweat. Need help. Can’t move legs.

9:06 a.m. -- Heard [NEIGHBOR REDACTED] knocking on my door at approximately 7:00 a.m. Sound filled me with rage. I started screaming at [NEIGHBOR REDACTED], threatening to kill him. Was able to press my hand over my mouth to stifle the noise. I don’t think [NEIGHBOR REDACTED] heard, as he went away and has not come back. After [NEIGHBOR REDACTED] left, I discovered that I had shoved my entire hand into my mouth, up to the wrist. My fingertips were scraping against my tonsils, but this did not activate my gag reflex at all. When I finally pulled my hand out of my mouth, it was covered in blackish-brown sludge.

need to call police need doctor so much pain oh dear god so much pain go away [NEIGHBOR REDACTED] go away because i want to kill you want you dead want to rip your eyes out and eat them want to tear your tongue out want to bite your fingers off want to kill you want you dead dead dead want blood everywhere want it need it [NEIGHBOR REDACTED] run run run run run [NEIGHBOR REDACTED] run run run [UNINTELLIGIBLE] mother of god someone please help me pain everywhere legs can’t feel legs legs won’t cooperate won’t move hands lobster claws nowhere is safe nothing is safe oh god mother of god god almighty cramping so bad want to vomit can’t vomit teeth falling out my god my teeth are falling out they’re here now they’re pounding on the door it’s not [NEIGHBOR REDACTED] it’s the van men the van men are here something in the air there is something in the air they know they’ve done something to the air [UNINTELLIGIBLE] don’t let them in can’t let them in door won’t hold them forever [UNINTELLIGIBLE] what have they done oh dear god what have they done to me

The notebook ends here. I’m having trouble remembering the house I took it from. Like I said, I didn’t read it until I’d hitchhiked at least two to three hours away. I wasn’t in the house for long, just a night. This whole thing is probably someone’s creative writing exercise, right? I mean, it can’t be serious. I feel fine. I mean, I had a minor headache this morning, but it wasn’t anything serious. It wasn’t a migraine like the ones described in this notebook. I haven’t been sleeping well or eating particularly healthily. That’s probably it. I can’t remember the last time I had a piece of fresh fruit or a vegetable. That’s probably it. I’m sure that once I get some decent food in me and a good night’s sleep in a warm dry bed, I’ll feel better. This notebook’s probably a hoax. Some poor dope knew that he’d be evicted, so he left a prank behind for potential squatters.

I wish this headache would go away, though.