“The Great Nathaniel Morgan”

The next morning the great Nathaniel Morgan brings you a newspaper, because apparently the sight of an infernape reading is somehow entertaining. You do your best to ignore him as you skim along, morbidly curious, now, what the tournament coverage has to say.

“What are you even reading about in there?” the great Nathaniel Morgan asks. “Ain’t it just a bunch of shit you could see on TV anyway?”

“Right now I am reading what people thought of our battle yesterday. This person says you are a terrible trainer and the embodiment of everything wrong with youth today.” You feel a stab of acid anger whenever a column alludes to your loss, but at least people have some amusing things to say about the great Nathaniel Morgan. You smirk as he tries to hide a scowl by chugging his coffee. “They also think your name is stupid.”

The great Nathaniel Morgan inhales his drink and spends the next couple minutes coughing it back up all over everything. You gather the newspaper in close in a futile attempt to save it from spitty coffee droplets. At last the great Nathaniel Morgan recovers enough to set the take-out cup aside and face you again. “All right, that’s it. What the fuck is my name, motherfucker?”

“What?”

“You heard me. My name. What’s my fucking name?”

“The great Nathaniel Morgan,” you say, nervous despite yourself. Why’s he so serious all of a sudden?

“No! Fuck’s sake, no! Are you always fucking high? Where the hell did you even get that from?”

“What do you mean? One of the Rockets called you that.”

“Wha–who? When did that…?” The great Nathaniel Morgan shakes his head and seems to collect himself. “Okay, just listen. My name is Nate, you dumbfuck. Four letters. Ain’t that fucking hard.”

“No, it is not. Even your pokédex says your name is Nathaniel Morgan.”

The great Nathaniel Morgan closes his eyes and groans. “Okay, I guess technically–”

“Why do you even care? It is just a name.”

“Look, it’s cute when little kids register as ‘The Destroyer’ or ‘Master Trainer Joe’ or even ‘Orange’ like they’re already Champion or whatever, but that’s because they’re like fucking ten! I ain’t a fucking kid! When you put down ‘The Great Nathaniel Morgan’ it just makes me look like a huge asshole, get me?”

“No. That is your name. Why are you acting like it is my fault?”

“For the last fucking time, my name is Nate!”

“Why are you so mad? I thought you would be used to it by now.” You lean back in your chair, studying the great Nathaniel Morgan. “Or do you keep lying and saying it is something else when people ask?”

“Okay, so let me get this straight. One time you heard some fucking stupid joke or something–seriously, when the fuck did this even happen–and now you’re fucking convinced–”

Then it dawns on you. “You do not like it! You do not like your name, so you try to pretend it is something else instead.”

“That–what? I’m not–”

“Well, you cannot get me to stop that easily. I will keep calling you by your real name, and there is nothing you can do about it.” You grin and go back to flipping through the paper.

“Oh my God, are you serious? Oh, fuck, I should have seen that one coming.” The great Nathaniel Morgan puts his hand up to his face, appears to reconsider, and sets it down again, slowly. “Or, uh, what I mean is, that’s cool. The name’s growing on me, you know? Like I ain’t gonna complain none if you want to call me great. So go right ahead, I was just wondering where you got it is all.”

“It is too late now,” you say cheerfully. “Actually, I kind of like your name. ‘The great Nathaniel Morgan.’ It is funny because you are not even a little bit great. Like those times when you lie about something and call it a joke. Now I think I get it, kind of.”

“Good for fucking you.” The great Nathaniel Morgan takes another angry swig of coffee and sets the cup down empty. He grips it hard, like he’s trying to crumple it in his hand, but you imagine that would be difficult even if he hadn’t lost most of his muscles. After a couple seconds he gives up and sweeps the cup into the trash instead. “Well, enjoy your fucking words, I guess. Gotta go round everybody up so we can get to work.”

“I will, Great Nathaniel Morgan. That reminds me, do your pokémon know about your real name? Maybe I can tell them after training today,” you call after him as he stomps off. He flips you off without slowing, and you grin and settle back in your chair, turning your attention to the newspaper once more. It’s going to be a good day.