In the great conquest of Earth by Captain Olimar, and Louie - his patsy, there were a great many casualities. Of the purple Pikmin, the heaviest and strongest of the Pikmin, according to the beefometer, were of a different breed – in more ways than one.
They were a cut above the rest. 119 Pikmin strong, the Purple Brigade was built - or grown - for power and heavy lifting. But they were so extremely rare, that they were seldom called into battle.
There were four exceptions. Three died unceremoniously due to drowning, or fire, or possibly being eaten by a malicious bulborb.
But one strove for greater things.
One purple shined above the rest.
We called him Fatty.
He was a veteran of several caves, and had even helped to carry back some of the heavier treasures found in the Wistful Wild. He was a true patriot, and a Pikmin hero.
Everyone knew him. Whether he was helping Louie prepare some savoury smoked Dweevil, or was merely carrying ten times his fair share of the weight, Fatty was always around to help.
He was promoted to Lt. Col. for his services to the great Pikmin Nation. The Pikmin under his command fought and died valiantly for their great nation. But tragedy struck in the rank and mouldy depths of the Cavern of Chaos.
While battling a giant, one-clawed crayfish, Fatty - filled with rage at the loss of so much life - rushed headstrong into battle to attack. Unfortunately, without being skillfully thrown onto the overturned crayfish’s exposed underbelly, Fatty was unable to do any damage.
When the crayfish righted himself, he curled himself up and rolled over Fatty. I tried - in vain - to call him back to my with my whistle. But Fatty knew it was too late. He turned to us, and with a look of such inexpressible sadness and fear in his eyes, he yelled “Strike him down for me. For the Fatmin!”
And with that, he was crushed under the weight of the giant crayfish. His tormented screams echoed throughout the cavern. His body was a dried plant husk, and the entire army wept as his violet spirit floated into the sky.
His cohorts - 15 red Pikmin which he had hand-picked for the task - rushed to me. Seeking to avenge their fallen leader, we skillfully overturned the crayfish once more - and with a fiery hatred burning in their eyes - the red Pikmin berated and pummeled the fallen crayfish.
After Fatty, there were no more casualities in that cave. The Pikmin, solemn in their duties, carried the deceased crayfish and a severed doll’s head (our prize), back to the ship.
The victory was bittersweet. Even as we rode the geyser to the surface, I could hear utterances of prayers for their fallen, purple ally.
On the surface, the Pikmin marched back into their Onions as if the very life had been sapped out of them. And indeed, the camp was dark that evening. There was no kind figure helping Louie with the meals. Pikmin returning with animal carcasses had to triple their numbers to account for lost lifting power.
The loss of Fatty was omnipresent.
That night, Louie and I consoled the widow Fatty, and his two children, Lillian and Albert. While our Onions were forced to retreat into the sky for the night, we held a memorial banquet for Fatty the next day.
Fatty, you will always be remembered by myself, Louie, the President of Hocotate Freight, and your Pikmin brethren. May you live a life eternal, in that garden in the sky.
His noble sacrifices and his commitment to his fellow Pikmin will not be forgotten. His actions saved the lives of 14 red Pikmin, and 40 other Pikmin of assorted colours. He died alongside his comrades…like a soldier.
R.I.P. – Lt. Col. Fitzpatrick “Fatty” Widebottom