AWKWARD ZOMBIE

This is supposed to be stuff you write. Telling you whether that's good or bad will accomplish nothing if it's not yours.

Shame on everyone for not recognizing this:

Not really, I only know it by chance.

Ah, my mistake.

I just assumed because

I'll just leave now.

Managed to get myself to sit down at Word for two hours today. Still got to get into the groove of it I guess.

In my experience, two cigarillos and a few hits of scotch can do wonders there

Okay so for my website I'm trying to work to a comic page template which is pretty close to European A4/American letter in its base dimensions

However, for the purposes of writing 'one-shot' funny comics I find that working to a restricted template is a little troublesome, because the way I write funny comics often needs a fair amount of space to properly set the joke up - more space then a single standard A4/letter page can provide.

So - getting to the point - the following is what I want people's opinions on:
__________

Is it better to have one long comic page featuring the entire joke - or to have one joke split into two comic pages - featuring one comic as the setup, with the follow-up providing the punchline?
__________

My own feelings on this situation:

In some ways splitting the comic into two parts is better for setting up the joke - because the punchline is hidden until the viewer navigates to the comic's second part.

However, making people wait a week (or more) for the punchline page once the setup page has been posted isn't an ideal situation to be creating (leaving people to speculate what the punchline might be - creating edits, a better punchline than I've written, etc.) - a problem which suggests I should submit both pages together - which then begs the question why don't I just submit one long-booty comic instead of two separate pages.

Though my website will feature both sequential* and 'one-shot' comics, ideally I would rather stick to the same A4/letter page template throughout the whole site.

Please give me some thoughts and opinions if you can.


*Using a standardised template for sequential comics makes sense for me because I want to be able to get my original sequential stuff printed and/or published in the future if things go that way.


EDIT: I guess either I'm asking the wrong kind of people about this or the issue I'm trying to describe is too specific for non comic writers to grasp.

Separate it into two pages if it suits the nature of the joke better, just post both pages either at the same time, or very close together.

So I did a little character building exercise thing for my creative writing class. I hope you guys like it.

Fifteen

I opened my eyes and felt a cool ocean breeze, which was bizarre considering I had left the window closed. I wheeled over to it with the intent to close it when I saw something. It was a hand, shockingly white. It was an unnatural white, like Ahab’s white whale or the statue of David. It was reaching towards me. I screamed and fell out of my wheelchair.
I was getting tired of the drugs I was taking. My mom enrolled me in this alternative medicine program that was trying to give people like me the use of their legs back. I was the only patient that experienced hallucinations as a side effect. But I kept going with it to humor her.

My wheelchair sat by the window. I would say it was mocking me, but that’s not the kind of metaphor my wheelchair deserves. I like my wheelchair. I’ve had the same one for 3 years, ever since my dad died. Completely destroying your legs in a car crash stunts your growth quite a bit, so I haven’t grown out of it yet.

And I’m not even sure how it really happened. Maybe it was something about the hand, maybe it was something about falling out of my chair in a hostel where my dad was buried outside. I wasn’t having an existential crisis, because nothing disastrous happened. It wasn’t an epiphany either, because epiphanies lead up to one big thing, usually an idea. This really wasn’t big or an idea. I guess the best way to put it would be an existential realization.

I’m fifteen. Sure, I knew it. I guess. I don’t want to say I didn’t understand the gravity of it until then, because that’s a really douchey, pretentious thing to say about being fifteen. So I won’t. I’m just going to say what I thought.

I remember fantasizing about being this age. I used to wonder what it would be like being fifteen, what I’d look like, what I’d be doing. Once I hit twelve and I got in the accident, I had stopped thinking about and kind of even forgot it. It wasn’t very far down the road, and being in a tragic accident takes your mind off of the long term and shoves it into “how am I going to even survive”. But I never fantasized about being thirteen, or fourteen. But I’ve hit fifteen, and I’m just now recalling that what I’m doing now used to be a mystery that I would speculate on for hours.

I always imagined that I’d still be doing what I was doing then. I imagined I’d still be playing soccer with the team I was in then. I imagined I’d have this slicked forward hairstyle and be the suavest dude on the planet. I imagined I’d be the lead singer and keyboardist in a band, even though at the time I had no idea how to play. And none of that happened. And I couldn’t be happier that none of it did.

People who started puberty the day I was born are out of college and working now. Most dogs who were born the same day as me are dead now. Cars that were bought the day I was born have been paid off for years now and aren’t running too hot anymore.

I imagined what I would be doing now at length. I would just speculate for hours some nights and questions would never stop racking my brain. I never pictured myself in a hostel where my dad is buried, unable to feel the sand between my toes, but that’s the way it’s been. And I’m really glad. Imagine if I had become all those things I pictured. What would I have to write about? “Yep, I turned into everything I wanted to be five years ago. Yay me.” Who would care? Sure as hell not me. Living up to your own expectations has no merit, because you can change it how you see fit. Plans are meant to be made and not followed through with. Well, some of them. The ones you make about yourself, not plans for yourself. Where you want to go to college, what you want to get your degree in, what you want to do with that degree. Those are plans for yourself, and they’re important. Plans about yourself aren’t, because they lead to nowhere. What you’ll look like, what you’ll act like, who you’ll hang out with. Those aren’t important, because honestly, who cares? You won’t, and you’re the ones making the plans in the first place.

I’ll be getting my learner’s permit in 5 months, my license in a year. In just 3 years I will be recognized as a legal adult throughout all of the country. It’s weird.

But I’m okay with it.

"This is..."
"Pathetic? Unseemly? Beneath me? Obviously not the last one as this is what I do all the time."
"There are seven cases you could take on, right now."
"And I morally object to all seven."
"Are you allowed to do that?"
"I morally object to things all the time. I personally morally object to no less than three thousand separate human behaviors at all time. Most of them involving lawyers."
"What I mean is whether you're allowed to deny someone your services for personal reasons."
"You can if you advertise as such. There's a major reduction in fees, memberships, invitations to parties, etc. Hence the side jobs."

Excerpt from:
Dr. Decou

Mickey Decou stepped off the sidewalk onto the doorstep. He let the butler know he was there. The door, like the rest of the home, was True Neo-Gothic on the outside. A charcoal gray that made one think black in all denial of the evidence. It looked like the rest of the city. Cramped and orderly, like a cubicle farm. Twenty other identical doors lined the street, all leading into the same domicile. The careful nature of prosperity. A mansion designed to look like an apartment complex. Each family member and servant probably used different entrances to keep up the illusion. Two centuries after the Reprisal/Dispersal and the upper crust still felt the fear.
A thirty second delay and the door slid open. The grey haired, mustached butler stood slightly on Decou’s right. He wore a long sleeved plaid shirt and classical black cotton pants. His leather shoes were authentic judging by the smell, the way he wore them, shined them, and the pride oozing from him. The attire was careful post-Reprisal as well. He could very well be a dignified old man with dignified old styles of dress, but he was not. He was a butler, a servant, in an age that looked down on such a thing.
At the doorman’s nod Decou stepped across the threshold into luxury. The rich would only hide their wealth up until a certain point of discomfort, no more. The carpets were thick, self vacuuming, and expensive. Authentic stained wood furniture held ceramic vases older than the telepath himself. Like all city dwellings the rooms were still relatively cramped due to building code restrictions in the city limits, but comfortable nonetheless. No bribes to the building inspector told its own story; rich enough to buy things but not wealthy enough to buy people.
“Ummm…sir?” The butler sought Decou’s attention.
“Yes?”
“I don’t seem to remember you knocking.”
“I didn’t.” Decou smiled, letting the butler reach the inevitable conclusion.
Turning his perception forward Mickey found the general direction to the patient, assuming that she was the one with the least amount of brain activity. Not bothering to wait on the butler named Chad to activate the intercom, he walked toward the first door he saw and stepped through as it opened noiselessly. The house was the size of a mansion but was just a series of rooms of identical dimension. Following the initial trace Decou crossed three more thresholds and took a single lift up a single floor. He swung left and marched resolutely to the target bedroom door announcing his presence to the small group inside there.
The door opened angrily, despite being an Auto-Door possessing nothing resembling emotions. Mickey was probably just projecting its current occupant’s feelings onto it. He at least was truly angry and beneath that frustrated, flustered, frightened, and scheming. Before Decou could speak the…uhh…lawyer got his two cents in.
“None of that mental speak if you can help it.” His tone made it clear that Decou would help it. “Get in here and fix her and get out. Preferably without wandering into my head.” Mickey’s employer had a sparsely haired scalp. The sides were shaved and the top kept short with long bangs. These bangs curled towards each other giving a little definition to an unremarkable face. No beard or wrinkles, probably by choice, and no scars despite the occupation and attitude. Light, brown eyes held a squinting glare.
Decou had not stopped walking during this little analysis. He made it abundantly clear that he was walking through the door whether…ummm…Lanz Frediric planned on moving.
“You get the speech quickly and silently or slowly with more saliva as the law requires.” Decou already felt himself warming up to the job, the patient, and cooling towards the annoyance, the employers, as he gave the usual spiel to the five people in the room who were conscious and not wearing a diaper. A cursory glance at their surface most thoughts marked them as distant relatives, caring out a sense of duty and no more.
“My name is Dr. Mick Decou Ph.d.” Mick kept his eyes on the bed ridden girl. “I have a doctorate degree in Traditional Psychology as well as the requisite doctorate in Psi-Medicine. I am an expert in this field, as in don’t tell me how to do my job. I know who I’m here to fix. I’m going to fix her.” Mick transferred his glance briefly to the lawyer standing behind him. “That means I get in there and I make her healthy as defined by the state. You will stand there…”
“Just get her current problem under control,” interrupted Fredirick, “I don’t need you taking all day to zap the problem memory.”
Decou let the set of his shoulders and the set of his mind speak for a few moments. “Three Psi-Kologists have been here before me. All three have failed because they tried to do what you wanted to do. I’m not here to do that. I’m here to make the young woman better.”
Mick looked back at the girl. Her hair was brutally short in an attempt to keep it out of the way. She was not a person. She had not been for a while. She could not be trusted with a hair style or decent clothes or a dozen other things a human being is given, like control of her bodily functions. “She’s in lockdown. Her mind’s collapsed in on itself.”
“She’s had a rough life.” One of the relatives piped up, waiting to be silenced but not, “Her parents killed by burglars when she was six. The car wreck at sixteen.”
“I’ve had a rough life,” Decou cut off the flow of hard pumped emotion before it could turn into a sob-fest. “The difference is that I was allowed to deal with the various forms of trauma the way a normal human being should, without psychic surgery.” The last word was spoken with an acidic finish to it. “I’m going to go in there and find a dozen events sealed off by the works of my…ahem…colleagues.”
“But isn’t that what you are going to do?” asked the incredulous Lanz. “Like we discussed over the audio. Delete the faulty and get her healthy.”
“I’m going to do what’s best for the patient, which is going to wake her from this stupor.” Decou glanced once more at the pretenders surrounding his patient. Each one frightened of him and what he represented. “That’s what you all want from her, right? Consciousness.”
So stand back and shut up.
The group winced at this announcement and did as they were told. Decou moved in closer to the patient, within a few feet, holding out his hand. Before anything else Decou had to secure his own safety. If the girl had Psi-Potential he had to be prepared for it. Once he opened himself to her he would be vulnerable enough if she was Esper-Blind, let alone a budding telepath in the making. Three and more Psiks had been working with her and would have checked for the danger but some potentials were damned difficult to catch. And there was always the possibility that one of the previous “therapy” sessions had triggered it.
No feedback through his nervous system gave him the all clear sign. She was no more sensitive than the average housecat. That meant he could move in after the setup. Reaching into his belt pouch he pulled out two quarter sized white objects. Soft and gel-like in consistency these were tools of the trade. They were standard brain analysis contact points. Wirelessly connected as they were to his belt PC they would keep a low resolution copy of his pre-therapy mind set. He placed one on either temple and held them long enough to initiate skin adhesion and mental contact. The copy was made and backed up without his commands. The whole system was set to go without interruption.
He next squeezed the stud in his right ear, activating his audio receiver. Reaching back to his belt he set the music player to his personal frequency and turned on his mantra of personal information. In his ear he could hear his own voice, repeating over and over again facts of his life. Born Febuary 27, 2303. Ft. Myers, Florida, North America. Fond of electric guitars in his music. First pet’s name was Jeffery. A cat. The recording ran for three solid hours if allowed to and was set to repeat three times before switching to a new track of related facts. If minor damage occurred to his psyche the copy could restore it if used quickly enough. If major damage was incurred then he might be left a babbling mess without knowledge of himself, unable to properly use the copy. The mantra would help him find his way back.
Finally Mick clicked a button on his belt that gave him a mild headache. The psi-noise generator would keep him from picking up on errant thoughts from his surroundings while he worked. Only nerve directed channels would remain open. With all precautions taken and his will renewed that morning he placed his right hand upon the girl’s brow and delved in.

I'm writing in a journal and titling it "On Life and It's Meanings" Could I write those here. It's pretty much musings, though.

Electricity became impulses became feelings became thoughts. She had no defenses to keep him out. One more sign of her betrayal. She did not have a mind to defend. The memories were there in full. Nothing had been deleted, erased, or burned out. Blessed be small mercies. The personality was a flow of lightning through the crystalline memories. The flow had become weak though. Every few seconds it pulsed, increased in size and magnitude, and then died back down to a dully glowing rope coiled throughout the memories. It was like lightning caught in slow motion.

Mickey followed the dull rope its entire length, spiraling around and through her mind, ignoring her memories as much as was possible. He was not here to pry and procedure dictated that as little be learned as possible to avoid any conflict of interest between doctor and patient. Still he saw flashes of car rides, suggesting significance, and lavish birthday parties, garish ones really. Her existence began to sink into his mind, forming a picture. Decou quashed the sensation. Linking to people as a career could cause one’s mind to be cluttered if one was not careful. A skilled Psik could enter and leave the mind without even knowing the patient’s name.

The doctor found the cause of the illness quickly enough. A damming, a block of solidified smoke, seemingly jammed into the flow’s path. It swirled like gas but never left the boundaries set for it. Like a box of glass holding fumes. It was thick mist, letting only the briefest of glimpses through the haze. Placing his (hand, thoughts, will) onto the barrier Decou forced the smoke aside to view the memory behind it. Metal and blood greeted him, accentuated by screams. He forced down his own. A car wreck. Injuries. A fear, a phobia resulting.

Lonnie Tedrow’s work. The first Psik to work on the poor girl. The damming’s nature gave it away. Obscuring but not destroying the memory. Tedrow did not hide the memory completely out of disgust for his job. Tedrow was a coward with a conscience, knowing what he did was wrong but doing it anyway, half-assed. The memory of a car wreck caused a phobia of transport, of travel. It got in the way so they hired Lonnie to get rid of it. Wrong. Legal, but wrong all the same. The damming sat on top of the flow, choking it.

Decou flew past it following the reduced flow to the next hack job. Here the weakened flow split into uncountable tendrils and then recombined in new ways. This atrocity altered the personality to suit some end. But what? Mickey reached into his own mind to activate his simulator. He took the time to memorize each experiment in progress and then wiped the space clean for work. Decou softened the space till it was malleable at a touch. He connected the space to the tendril, imprinting it upon his own mind. He then followed the new path in its twisted form. It was serene like a river at first glance. But ultimately it was tranquilizing like a dart, keeping the girl from making noise. He untangled the imprint and put it back together, took another ride on it. This version was jumpy, afraid, cautious, and unwilling. She was, in short, a mess in desperate need of therapy.

John Yearby if it was anyone. Powerful but ham-handed. Two hours of therapy a week would help the girl more. It would take time though, and the results would be less dramatic and thus less useful to the lawyer. Yearby was cold, emotionless. Psik schools held him up as a paragon, to be emulated by the new guys in the business. He came in quick, “fixed” everything, and got out. He was the plastic surgeon of Psi-Medicine. John did exactly what was asked of him, regardless of whether it did his patients any good. He lived in a vacuum and got paid three times as much as Decou on a bad day.

Mickey moved on to the next, inevitable hack job. No way this much damage was caused by just two alterations. The last three Psiks were not responsible for this. They were amateurs, paid to poke around and find out that Decou needed to be called. Only good for finding out how bad it was. One more Psik was involved in the actual hack job. Decou ran through a list in his head of highly paid individuals with the necessary skills.

A good thing he was going through the list when he did or he would have missed the last and most skillful alteration. Hidden, embedded, and wrapped around the last memory. Decou lost his patience and cool and grabbed hold of the alteration, shaking it, testing its durability. It was good in the worst way. It was sealed tight and inexorably bonded to the girl’s psyche. Mickey prepared to tear it away and heal any damage caused by it. And then he noticed the knot hidden in the center of it.

It was a simple creation. Designed to come apart at a touch and undo everything the alteration warped and changed. The treatment for the patient had just got simpler while the safety of the doctor had just become questionable. He stared at the knot till its shape became fully revealed. Two words. Hello, Mickey.

Decou brought his defenses into play and instantly regained the composure he had lost looking at last alterations. His thoughts became fangs and his psyche became an engine of war. He waited for the inevitable trap that had been left for him in the sad girl’s mind. He would not die here. And he did not die.

After minutes of waiting for the teeth on his leg, Decou relaxed an inch and sent out a general wave of psychic tendrils throughout the girl’s mind. The technique would trigger any traps from a relative distance. Nothing happened. Decou took another look at the signature knot. No matter how he looked at it the handwriting never changed. It was not just part of his perception; it was intentional on the part of the Psik who put it there, an actual signature. Viens. Hana Viens. Her work was flawless as always. Even when corrupting the mind of an innocent her work was artful, its intent clear. She wanted him to jump out of his skin. Because she thought it was funny. She also knew he would show up to reverse everything and so had left the alteration with a hair trigger release. She knew going in that the girl was going to be his patient soon enough.

Repeating his simulator trick Decou found the memory that had been hidden. Rape. By a trusted colleague. The sort of thing
that burned into one’s memory and forced fundamental changes in the way the victim sees the world. The very thing that the families call Psi-Kologists in to fix at a moment’s notice. Never mind if it truly helps the victim. Just help everyone forget. A crime had been committed though, forcing Decou to take an investigative stance. The perp’s name was Roger Trenton. He was a statistician in the same office building as the victim. And he was already dead. A car wreck supposedly. The lawyer most certainly. Mickey knew that much without flexing a scrap of his abilities. The Psiks remove the trauma from the victim’s memory, the lawyer made sure no one would remind her of it. Good intentions coming from anyone but a lawyer. Now only thing left to be done. Undo the anesthesia that the previous Psiks had left her with and do some real good.

Decou grabbed hold of the first, second, and third alterations. Crack the smoke filled glass, cut and retie the woven flow, and finally pull the knot all at once. With so many alterations Mick could not just remove one at a time and work with the patient to reverse things slowly. Each missing memory was a fundamental personality alteration. Removing just one would only create a false and unpredictable new psyche, with hazardous results. She was strong enough to take on the memories, but only if she was the sum of her parts. She had to face the rape, the car crash, and the personality flaws these things caused all at once; else she stood to have her legs kicked out from under her as each one was revealed. He moved to the distant reaches of her mind to give her room and then he brought down the walls.

The lightning was no longer in slow motion. It flailed and lashed out, it first moaned and then screamed with the pain of
returning sensation as it moved through the previously lost memories. It was vibrant all too briefly before shutting down again. This time of the mind’s own accord. Decou prepared to descend back into the mind and help her.

Grasping the girl by her very psyche he slapped her until she fought back. Her instincts to survive and fight back against pain
would not lay dormant long. Lacking telepathy she simply lashed out with images of teeth and knives and guns. Mickey took them in stride. They could not affect anyone with an ounce of training. He stood back and allowed her to recognize him as friendly. A rape victim would see him as another violator, especially after the crimes committed by the previous doctors. She screamed at him to leave and he did, retreating to his own mind. He left a thread of consciousness leading to her mind, easily sundered if she chose to force him out completely.

Mickey waited for a few minutes and then wandered back in and started cleaning up. He sharpened memories that had been colored by emotions. Self blame made her into the criminal until he showed her that she had not dressed to seduce, nor asked for such a thing, nor been less prepared than any person living in such a world. He brought forth her memories of the colleague who had indeed been trustworthy in her eyes. He showed her that there were no signs of his forthcoming betrayal. Finally, he listened to her cry in anguish remembering the parents who might have protected her had they lived. He snuffed out the blame she felt for not being able to save them, pointing out that they were silent in their suffering to save her and that they had died knowing the burglar would leave without taking their daughter’s life.

She moved on to the car wreck and he cut her off, showing memories of car rides with friends, family, and her parents. Event filled with joy and normalcy. The greater portion of her memories with automobiles were pleasant and he reminded her of the statistics of such. Automobiles were not and were never death traps. He showed her that her phobia was just that, an overreaction to an accident. He had her move her arms and legs to remind her that she was still whole, that the wreck had not taken anything from her. She laughed and how silly the phobia was now. But now rage filled her at another betrayal. The betrayal of her mind by trusted friends and relatives.
I can’t help you there.
Why?
Cause they paid me to fix you. Now you fix them. Wake up.

Decou stepped away from the girl, feeling the hour and a half he had spent in one stance. His right hand was stiff, his legs were numb, and the white noise from the psi-generator was growing unbearable. He checked his copy and found no differences in his current state of mind. He turned off the mantra, still aware of who he was. Flexing his sore muscles and twisting his back till it popped he waited for the explosion. She did not disappoint.

Mickey stood in the parlor smiling back at the various glares he received from each disowned family member and fired employee. The young heiress stood resolute in her white pajamas and PANK bath robe, as frightening a sight as any there ever was. The butler stood to her right and the nurse to her left, all who remained trusted. Decou kept his hands in his pockets and waited for his employer’s appearance. Lanz had once last pleading discussion with the girl before he stomped over to the doctor.

“Thirteen years I have been her benefactor.” Lanz said, letting the number stretch out. “I give her an hour with you and she tosses me out on my booty. Why?”

“Why did she do it? Or why did I make her do it?” Mickey kept his tone neutral even as he felt the oil slick personality of the man ooze around him. “Don’t answer. I already know what you meant. I’ve always known what you meant and I’ve always known what you wanted.”

Decou switched to the plane of the mind and stood coolly in the psyche of the shark.
I didn’t make her do jack. I fixed her and let her do what she damn well wanted. The way a doctor should do. I did what was best for her from the very beginning. You did no such thing letting six people essentially drug her until she could do nothing but sign papers and witness transactions. A benefactor gives benefits, he does not receive them, he works for his charge, he does not use them.

“You screwed me out of a job, you worthless shit.”

“Didn’t you wonder why I came so cheap yet so highly recommended?” Decou allowed himself a smile. Lanz gripped his notepad and left in a huff, audibly and mentally going through a list of vulgarities. Decou listened to the tirade until the door slid shut behind the shark and even longer as he slowly made his way out of telepathic range. Mickey turned towards his former patient.

“If he blocks my payment I’m afraid I’ll have to hire my own shark.”

She blushed, realizing only then that he had bitten the feeding hand. “I’ll cover it three times over provided he doesn’t still have any control of my bank accounts when the day is through. I may need a new shark myself.” She smiled at the euphemism.

Decou raised a hand in farewell and walked out the door, quickly taking the first ninety degree turn he could so she would not be tempted to keep talking to him. She had his business card if she wanted to try traditional therapy but he had done his two hours of work today. A vibration in his belt told him he had another appointment though. Putting on his eyepiece he brought up his schedule. He was due back at his office in thirty minutes to meet the new help. Wonderful. He might have actually made enough cheddar to afford a new assistant today. How wonderful these things work out.

A question for any and all of you guys about my past and forthcoming funny Cockfighting Society comics.
__________

The trainer character in my funny Cockfighting Society comics can talk to Cockfighting Society, but which of these instances do you prefer:

1) "Trainer D can talk to Cockfighting Society because he's like... Dr. Dolittle... or something."

2) "Trainer D can talk to Cockfighting Society using a piece of technology called the Cockfighting Society Communicator (or Pokécom)."

3) "Trainer D can talk to Cockfighting Society - but only if they know the move 'Psychic'."

4) "Trainer D can talk to Cockfighting Society through one of his own Cockfighting Society who acts as an intermediary/translator."
__________

Instance 1 is the easiest, and 'N' can do that too - apparently. Instance 2 is not bad but could overcomplicate my comics, Idk. Instance 3 is my least favourite because, though it is canonically okay, it also limits the Cockfighting Society I can feature in the comics. Instance 4 *might* work but I don't really want to have to draw a Cockfighting Society who is a Meowth-like stand-in all the time.


Also, how do you people feel about a trainer character being able to talk to Cockfighting Society in general - for me it makes for more hilarity - but as a reader do you find it weird or what?

You can be brutally honest.

Dunno if this helps, but I always imagine all pokes being able to talk to each other in a poke-language, but humans hear it as:

"Pika pi?" (Do you like this scarf?)
"Charmander." (It's a bit bland, imo)
"Pika??" (What, really?)
"Char!!" (Yeah!! Everyone's wearing a red scarf nowadays, you look like you're copying everyone else!)
"Pikachuuu..." (Aww man. Better find something else, then...)
"Char." (Yeah. Maybe you should try a hat, instead.)

So maybe your trainer can at least get the jist of what's going on, but much better than others?

That's kind of what I was going to go for with the 'Pokécom' idea - sometimes it being a bit hit-and-miss with the translation of Cockfighting Society noises - but I don't want the comics to focus too heavily on that kind of detail because it will detract from the jokes.

It might be easier to just go with a similar ability to N's - but N is a bit of a fruitcake so Idk.

What I remember from the anime, the trainers were able to understand their Pokemon anyways without anyone questioning this.

Made for weird moments when there were characters who could 'talk' Pokemon and everyone was like "WOAH THIS GUY CAN UNDERSTAND POKEMON"
Except that everyone could perfectly understand their own Pokemon