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After twelve years of being rivals/besties (it was On from like, from the moment Red was born), Green was used to Red being a totally bogus freak. But he was thrown in a serious bout of buggin’ when Red walked up to him in the middle of Fuschia City and smelled him.
“What the fresh hell?!” Green shouted.
Red looked creepily thoughtful, the scrub. “Is that watermelon?”
Green’s face felt like totally hot. It was way wack.
Red went to smell him again.
“Dude, Red, stop it!” Green cried. “What are you, gay?!”
“Uh. Yeah.” Red raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you?”
“Yes! No! Maybe! I don’t know!”
“Want me to repeat the question?”
“I WANT YOU TO GET AWAY FROM ME!”
Instead, Red stepped closer. Green shoved him roughly against the wall.
“You think you’re all that, don’t’cha?” Green snarled.
“And a bag of chips,” Red solemnly concluded.
“Eat my shorts, fart-knocker!”
Red stared him up and down. “Nah, pass.” He turned to leave, waving. “Smell ya later.”
“Wait, is that — YOU’RE NOT MEANT TO LITERALLY DO IT, BUTT-MUNCH!”
“My bad,” Red said. “I’ll do what I want, though.”
Brutal. Green was seriously considering the value of trying to engage with the lexical preferences of his own subculture if it led to such humiliatingly public displays of Red being a complete jagweed.