The Destructivedisk Anthology/Sink to the Bottom

When I look at Sink to the Bottom now, it's something of a wonder that it was ever finished in the first place. It took several months to complete, as I wrote the story in conjunction with KidVegeta. We came up with the story on February 21, 2014, just over a year ago today. I wrote it mid-way through That Magic Feeling, and it took priority over That Magic Feeling for most of the time that I was writing it. Since then, it has won an award for Best Collaboration in the 2014 Dragon Ball Fanon Awards (yahoooo!).

Writing Sink to the Bottom was one of the most enjoyable experiences I've had on the site. If every story were as fun to write as Sink to the Bottom, I would surely have written more stories by now. I never felt particularly pressured while writing the story because I knew that KidVegeta could help me out when I faltered. It is also one of the funniest stories that I have written - while I have written a large number of funny and often nonsensical stories, this is one of my few stories that maintains a cogent plot while delivering a lot of laughs.

The chapter titles are named after the different stages in the Kubler-Ross Model of grief, and we tried to match the events in each chapter to those stages. I had learned about the model recently in Psychology class and thought that they would make for an interesting story outline. However, matching the events of the story to the names of the chapters was never really a big concern for me - it was something that happened mostly incidentally, even though I did take occasional measures to make sure that the story conformed.

Plot-wise, the story features a combination of two beloved Dragon Ball characters, The Tournament Announcer and Yamcha. Yamcha is undoubtedly the most important character here, but the Tournament Announcer aids and abets Yamcha throughout the story. His character arc is decidedly less important, however, and it is Yamcha's relationship with himself and with society that is given most of the focus.

In terms of writing, KidVegeta and I alternated writing the story in chunks of around 500-700 words, but we stepped outside of these boundaries as necessary. In the last chapter, particularly, most of our segments were more than 700 words, basically because the plot demanded it. A lot of the plot points contained within the story were also created during the writing process, such as the court scene being almost entirely improvised and the twist at the end of the story being created almost spontaneously.

I'm quite happy with how Sink to the Bottom ended up, ultimately. It is a great blend of humor and adventure and angst that manages to be fully entertaining and interesting the whole way through.

Chapter 1: Denial
"A friends a friend who knows what being a friend is

talking with a friend.

As friends we were always so close

but so far away

Friends in life are special

do you want me as your special friend?

Cause you're the friend that I've been searching for"

-Friends by Ween - An Ode from Destructivedisk to KidVegeta

It was over. It was all over.

Yamcha knew not where he was going. His old life was dead and gone - he remained, his heart was still beating, but everything else was dead and gone. He found himself in the desert. He did not know how long he had been there for, but he was sure it couldn’t have been for longer than half a day. He felt like he was on autopilot, his remote body operating apart from his mind. His body seemed to be looking for something: perhaps solace, perhaps revenge.

Bulma was gone. All the teenaged love, all the young, delirious fantasies, it was all gone. He hadn’t liked Vegeta from the second that he had set foot on Planet Earth. To Yamcha, the whole situation was surreal, Kafkaesque even, that the man who had once murdered his friends and attempted to destroy the Earth was now sleeping in the bed of his lover.

The prince had usurped Yamcha’s throne, stealing the crown from atop his head and burning down the bed of trees that Yamcha slept on. Before Yamcha had even smelt the smoke, the forest was no more than ashes and he was left lying on the ground. The old world was gone.

A small gust of wind, followed by a brief puff of sand, caught Yamcha’s attention. He looked to his right and noted that the sun had begun rising. Yamcha stopped, realizing that he had no idea where he was going. There he was, lost in the middle of the desert. In some ways he felt like he had, at last, come home - in other ways, he felt as though he were a young boy leaving home for the first time.

Yamcha knew that he should have seen it coming. Bulma had been acting disinterested for the better part of a year, showing him progressively less and less attention. Her absences had been unsettling - many a night were spent wondering where Bulma had gone, and when she would be coming back.

Yamcha might have been able to take it if she had left him for anyone else, but he could not handle Vegeta. Vegeta made Yamcha feel weak, like he didn’t matter. Vegeta was the antagonist who had become the hero, and Yamcha had essentially been set aside, shifted from a starring role to an ancillary one. Had Bulma forgotten about how Yamcha had bested the invisible man, how he had protected her throughout their many travels? Did she think that Vegeta would be around to protect her when trouble struck again?

Yamcha knew he could win her back if he just showed her the folly of her ways. All he had to do was reach out and she could become his again. She only wanted to try out Vegeta; she didn’t truly want to leave Yamcha. All Yamcha had to was prove to her again that he was worth, that he could fulfill her more than Vegeta ever could. It wouldn’t be so hard.

He walked back to his car, reaching for the half-empty bottle of Red Stag he knew lay on his seat. Finding it, he pressed the cold bottle to his lips and drank. Yamcha sighed and then awkwardly fell into his seat. Feeling the old scar which wore along his cheek, he sat there as the sun started to rise higher in the sky. How could Bulma fall for Vegeta? It sickened him every time he thought about it. He needed to show her that he could be strong too – that he had some small worth left in the world. His idea had to work. She only liked Vegeta because he was so strong. Well, Yamcha could be strong too. That he knew.

He took another drink and slammed the pedal to the floor.

The desert turned into a nebulous streak of colors as he sped on. He didn’t care how fast he was going, how reckless he was driving. Yamcha was racing to get Bulma back. His first order of business was to show her how strong he was, how much his training had done for him. He knew it was when Vegeta had first come to Earth when he lost her. It was the moment the Saibaman had jumped on him, the moment it had killed him – before he could do anything– that Bulma had turned away. And how could he blame her? He had been absolutely pathetic in that moment. But he was better than that now. Yamcha took another gulp from his bottle just as he saw the city come into view. He blinked his moist eyes furiously to maintain his position on the road as he got nearer. He didn’t want any police on him. But as soon as he thought that thought, he forgot.

The former bandit dodged cars like he dodged punches, weaving in and out of spots of traffic, sometimes driving on the wrong side of the road, sometimes flying over the roofs of parked vehicles. As he went careening through a red light, making a sharp left turn around a group of awe-struck teenage girls (whom he did take a peek at, if but for a moment), Yamcha saw it. Slamming his foot onto the brakes, he stopped the car in the middle of the road and jumped out, racing towards the building ahead of him.

It wasn’t truly a building so much as a construction site. The entire thing was surrounded by yellow and orange barrier signs, heavy equipment, and a multitude of construction workers. They were milling about, smoking cigarettes and laughing at jokes when Yamcha came screaming in like a wind from the north. But he was not here for them. A small banner draped over the edge of the nearest fence, which read “World Tournament COMING SOON” was what had drawn him. He had seen it before, whilst traveling through the city the past few weeks. But now, it held great interest to him, for Yamcha would need the World Tournament to get Bulma back.

“H-hey guyysss…” Yamcha slurred as best he could, “w-whhersda tourney’ffical?”

He received no replies. Indeed, some of the workers had already turned their shoulders to Yamcha so that they could return to their precious jokes and nicotine. Yamcha’s blood boiled. He hated construction workers. All they did was play god all day by closing down traffic lanes and making his life more inconvenient. Well, not this time!

“H-hey motherfuckas… lookatdis!” Yamcha spit, wobbling a bit. In his hand was a blue energy ball.

The crowd of construction workers turned and looked at him. They glanced him up and down, noticing nothing terribly peculiar or unusual about him. Then, with a great collective gasp, they noticed the wobbling energy ball in his hand. In unison, the workers stumbled backwards like a wave of people, several of them fleeing the scene and few others remaining put out of shock.

Yamcha chuckled, and tossed the energy ball into the air. He caught it once more and then he rolled it around on his palm, soon transitioning it to his finger and spinning it about. The crowd of people was perplexed – nobody moved, but many came to believe him to be a street performer. Not but a second later, Yamcha lost control of the ball and it flew several feet. It hit the ground and made a small crater, blowing puffs of smoke in every direction.

The crowd soon lost interest in Yamcha, who continued to make new energy balls and play with them for several consecutive minutes. In his drunken stupor, Yamcha lost track of his objective, and instead stumbled around for a couple minutes and played with his energy balls. Before long, Yamcha too lost interest in this game, and he performed a full rotation about himself.

Several hundred yards away, Yamcha spotted a great large advertisement, supported by a monolithic column. The letters on the sign were illuminated in neon, pink and green, and could likely be spotted for miles. Next to the letters there was a light-up martini glass, so enticing and so glorious. The words read “On the Rocks”, words to which Yamcha was no stranger. He was no novice to the drinking game – he knew a bar when he saw one.

In a flash, Yamcha took off toward the bar, evidently disappearing. He entered the bar with great glee, for he thought that his buzz was soon to wear off (in reality, he would have blown a .27). Yamcha took a seat at the barstool, gesturing for the bartender.

Faintly, then, from the furthest reaches of the bar, Yamcha heard a voice echo out. It was a strong voice, one meant for news stations and for telebroadcasting, a voice filled with bravado and greatness. The voice was faintly familiar to Yamcha, one that he knew he had heard before but one that he couldn’t quite place.

The voice rang out: “I… I need annathadrink”.

Yamcha turned his head and craned over. He recognized the source of the voice, below the grime and the vomit, and knew it to be the Tournament Announcer Guy. Yamcha, in a brief moment of clarity, knew that this was a figure central to his primary objective. He gestured away the bartender who had finally come to Yamcha’s side, and walked over to take a seat next to the Announcer.

“Hee-eeey! Rememmer me?” Yamcha shouted to him. The Announcer looked Yamcha over, and soon his eyes filled with glee. In drunken joy, the Announcer reached out and hugged Yamcha.

“O’course I member you! Yoou’re th’arterfinalist!” Yamcha, shocked that anybody would remember his few accomplishments, hugged back with great vigor and strength.

“Wha brings y’here?” Yamcha asked after the two had parted each other’s arms. Yamcha had never quite viewed the Announcer as someone who had a life independent of the World Martial Arts Tournament, let alone someone who would patronize a bar in his spare time.

“Fuckin Secretarrry, blamin me fer all her problems...” the Announcer responded.

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Well, ferst, I go’n’hire the broad, ‘n’ she works fer me fer a couple o’ years… then, next thang ya know, I’m bein litigated against for sessual ‘arassment, ‘n’ the tourn’ment’s threatenin to take away my ann’ncing priv’ledges, and I ain’t quite sure where I’m at.”

Yamcha was taken aback. All this new knowledge was astounding to him – first it turns out that his favorite announcer might have alcohol problems, and then it becomes known to him that he was falsely framed for sexual harassment!

Yamcha could strike a parallel between the Announcer and himself. They had both been wronged by a woman, and now they had nothing left to live for. Of course, Yamcha didn’t see that quite yet – all he knew was that bitches were crazy, and that it was time to right the wrongs they had committed.

“Well, hoo needs any tourn’ments anneeways?”

Chapter 2: Anger
"You are my best friend in the world.

And I hope that you know,

when we hangout together,

it's freakin' awesome."

-BFFF by Bowling For Soup - An Ode from KidVegeta to Destructivedisk

“Fuck ‘em”

The alcohol had amplified and encased Yamcha in a single emotion – revenge. He wanted and he craved so desperately to get back at Vegeta. But that was no small task. Vegeta could merely look at him and kill him. No, Yamcha wasn’t going to challenge the prince. He was going to do the next best thing. With an air of importance far beyond his years and temperament, Yamcha stood up and slammed his glass on the table, sending drops of sweet, sweet whiskey flying in every direction. Fuck it.

“Lessgetter back, bro!” he managed to wheeze out of his momentarily alcohol-deprived throat.

“Whaddya mean, Yumcher?” the Announcer asked before coughing furiously into his sleeve.

“Ain’t gonna ssstand fora bisch like that! Come on, bud! Wee g-got this!”

The Tournament Announcer, kami rest his soul, looked utterly perplexed, like he had just been slapped in the face with a finely preserved coelacanth and lived to taste the cider. But nevertheless, he got up and followed Yamcha, as the once-proud martial artist stumbled out of the bar. The light pierced their eyes like Bulma pierced through Yamcha’s soul, and he hated it more than anything for that moment. Then, his eyes adjusted and he forgot all about it.

“Where’s her car, man?”

The Tournament Announcer shrugged. “I dunno, iss ‘round here somewhere… look in the parking lot. I think iss a baby blue sedan or something.”

“Only a lying bitch would drive that piece of shit!” Yamcha declared to the pigeons watching him from the top of the buildings.

The Announcer agreed. So the two of them crossed the street and ran through the traffic with a carefree, wild disconnect with the world that could only be compared to that of an expert Frogger player’s skill. They dodged hovercars and hoverbikes like they were nothing. And upon reaching the other side, they both threw up in unison. It was a beautiful moment of bonding.

The two spent the better part of the day looking through the parking lot for a baby blue sedan. It must have been their drunken stupor that kept them from seeing it parked in a VIP space right in front of the building. As the alcohol wore off, their tunnel vision started to dissipate like fog in the mid-afternoon. And they beheld that baby blue sedan. Yamcha felt anger well up in his throat just looking at it. He’d never met the woman. He didn’t even know if the Tournament Announcer was telling the truth about her, but she was his mortal enemy. This secretary would get what she had coming to her.

The Tournament Announcer took out his keys and, with a grin on his face, keyed the sedan. Yamcha took out his knife, which he always kept in his trusty left sock, and slit all of the tires. The emotional release at being able to do something, being able to enact revenge on a bitch was a moment of bliss in the bandit’s cold, depressed life. After they were done, Yamcha stood up and looked at what else he could do. After elbowing the windows out, he didn’t see much else. But this put him into a panic, a sort of hysteria. He needed to feel good. He couldn’t go back to that depression he felt creeping up in his heart. So Yamcha created an energy ball of so fine a strain that even Goku would have been proud. He held that ball between his hands, feeling its warmth, its bright light reflecting off of his sallow skin.

“Heyyyy, watch this!”

And he threw that ball, he did. It hit the sedan and exploded, creating a whirlwind of fire and metal and asphalt. The Tournament Announcer fell back, shrieking like one of Myrrah’s shriekers. But even he had a gleam in his eye, a little spark of rebellion. Yamcha saw this and felt like he could open up even more to his newfound friend.

“Ssso wwhereser ‘ouse? Less burn it down, ok?” he mumbled, wobbling in place a bit.

“Ya know wwhere 5th street is? Iss just ‘bout a mile down thataways...” the Tournament Announcer responded.

“It’ll take no time at’ll ta get therrre,” Yamcha replied, grabbing hold of the Announcer. “Check dis out, mann,” he exclaimed, taking flight.

The two went flying through the air, the Tournament Announcer the Lois Lane to Yamcha’s Superman. Yamcha flew unusually low to the ground, having to dodge a variety of trees and buildings on the way. He performed a great number of back-flips and barrel rolls, much to the delight of the Announcer. The dynamic duo laughed and chuckled while in flight, before they soon came to the woman’s house.

“Dis iss itt!” the Announcer announced when they came to the secretary’s house. It was a home fit for a bitch – the curtains were a hot pink and the window panes were a marvelous blue color. In short, the designer was evidently from Whoville, for no normal human could have designed a house so absolutely tacky.

“Braacee yerself!” commanded Yamcha, who, faster than a speeding bullet, sent the two of them spiraling through the bitch’s window. Shards of glass exploded in every direction, and the duo came barreling into her bed, shattering the bed frame on impact.

“So, how’re wee gonna burn this bitch down? I dun havany gasoline,” asked the Tournament Announcer. He stood up with a small pool of blood forming in his mouth.

“Lemme take care o’ that, sir,” Yamcha replied. “But firsttt,” he began, before trailing off and making his way downstairs, the Announcer right behind him. He came across the kitchen and began scouring the cabinets. He acquired several bottles of hard liquor along with a box of matches. “Holdd these,” he requested of the Announcer, handing him several bottles of the liquid. “Less go outside.”

The two of them went outside, bottles of liquor and the box of matches in tow. Yamcha lit a match and proceeded to throw it at the house. It burnt for a moment, before fizzling out against the hard bricks. “Whyyy ain’t it workin?” he asked, perplexed. The Announcer, too, shrugged in confusion. Yamcha lit another match and threw it against a different brick in the wall, hoping that this one would be flammable. To his dismay, he had no luck.

“Well, maybeee thesse matches are just duds,” Yamcha concluded, throwing the box away. Yamcha rose into the air, straight up, and began to form a great energy ball. He tossed it at the house, watching it collide with the wall and make a small dent. It wasn’t enough. Yamcha momentarily considered making one of those big balls with all the energy of galaxy that Goku always made, but figured that there weren’t enough people to contribute to it. As a compromise, he instead molded his hands into the proper formation for a Kamehameha, and went with that instead. He spent moments upon moments accumulating the energy for it, and, with a fantastic grunt, released it onto the house. The building came crumbling down, till naught but a few bricks remained.

“Woohoo! Aaawwright!” the Tournament Announcer shouted, clearly pleased. “Now, whaddawe do with all this liquor?”

“Haha, siddown mayne, siddown! Less watchit go!” Yamcha said before falling backwards onto the ground.

He sat up a moment later and uncorked one of the bottles. Whilst drinking fiercely from the bottle, he threw another one to the Announcer. The man in black caught the bottle with the hands of a god and then started drinking as well. He sat down, marveling at what Yamcha had done so easily. I mean, it’s not every day a regular human sees a house explode.

The two pyrofanatics sat there, drinking and watching the ruined house burn. For some time, they sat in silence, ignoring the panicked screams and shouts from neighbors, people in the background petting cats, and pedestrians alike. Yamcha loved it. They had got that bitch good. He half-wanted to stay there until she got home just to see the look on her face, but their booze ran out far before that could happen. When their bottles ran dry, the two stood up and walked off down the sidewalk. With every step Yamcha took, his mind became clearer, more focused. And soon he remembered what he had come to the World Tournament in the first place. He wanted to win back Bulma.

“‘ey man, we gotta make a tourney y’know?” Yamcha said, he voice rising so high that even Thom Yorke would be proud.

The Announcer was fiddling with his sunglasses and then threw up. He didn’t even hear Yamcha. He didn’t give a fuck.

“Yo, tourney!” Yamcha bellowed, shaking the very trees that dotted the sidewalk around them.

“I can announce onnados!” The sunglass-faced man shouted with glee, his face shining scarlet from his intoxication. “Buuuuut we haven’t had one since Goko and Pickaloo! They ddestroy’d the place, you ‘member?”

Yamcha stopped. When he spoke again, he hunched over and swung his arms like he was talking at a bonfire. “Nah, man, nah! Fuck all that noise! We’ll juss make ou’own!”

“Iono, man, that’ll be alotta work!”

“Hey, shut up!” Yamcha screamed before throwing up. “I gotta get Bulma back. Thissis the only way! You gotta help me, man! I helped you get your bitch back now you gotta help me get mine.”

The Tournament Announcer looked down, sighed, and threw up a little in his mouth. Yamcha watched him stumble about as he was trying to formulate thoughts in his self-induced narcosis. Finally, as fire trucks came roaring by, their sirens blaring and hurting the two men’s ears (which Yamcha briefly thought about destroying before forgetting that fire trucks even exist), he was roused.

“Alright, Yumucha, I’ll helpyu. Lemme call my peeps and set dis up, kay? You better find some competititititors cause you know everybody, kay??”

Yamcha nodded and threw up. He’d get some competitors. But he wouldn’t invite Goku, or Krillin, or Tien, or any of the others. He needed to win the tournament, so his opponents had to be weak. He wanted some of those buff guys who went to every tournament but were really weak as shit. They would do nicely. Seeing Yamcha triumph over perfectly toned muscles would make Bulma so wet and impressed, that she would fall for him at once.

Yamcha threw up and then walked off, leaving the Announcer to his phone and empty bottles.

Chapter 3: Bargaining
"You are such a blessing and I won't be messing with the one thing that brings light to all of my darkness You are my best friend <p style="text-align:center;">and I love you, and I love you <p style="text-align:center;">Yes I do" <p style="text-align:center;">-My Best Friend By Weezer - An Ode From Destructivedisk to KidVegeta

Soon after the two had resolved to create a new tournament, the bandit and the announcer found themselves aimlessly wandering around the neighborhood. “We needa base o’ operations,” Yamcha declared, scanning around to get a view of his surroundings.

“Oh right.” The Tournament Announcer silently contemplated the options for a moment, spinning around on one foot. “Wee can use my house,” the Announcer replied.

Yamcha nodded. “Wheresit at?” The Announcer pointed to a far off location, and the two took off in the air with great haste.

Within minutes, the two had arrived at the Tournament Announcer’s home, and Yamcha was amazed at how elegant and spacious the house was. Even more shocking to Yamcha was the abundance of alcohol found within the many cabinets of the kitchen, along with 6-9 dragon dildos. He was pleased, and he found himself ready to get to work at last.

“I’ll doo the fightas, and you cen take carre of the tourn’ment?” Yamcha asked of the Tournament Announcer.

“You betcha.” The Tournament Announcer began walking away, ready to get to work on his half of the deal. After a moment, though, he turned back and exclaimed, “I’m going to get the bad-assest stage the world’s eva seen!” Yamcha responded to this with the most enthusiastic fist pump he had ever mustered.

Yamcha pulled out his cellular telephone and began to search through his list of contacts. He knew that the tournament could only feature the most pathetic fighters the world had to offer, for otherwise there was a chance that one of them could best the desert bandit. Yamcha glanced through the list.

It took some time before Yamcha could settle on who to invite. His first thought was Master Roshi, but he was a bit afraid of Master Roshi’s 100% power form and concluded that he was a bit too fearsome to invite. He momentarily considered inviting Puar, but decided that Puar’s ability to transform added too great an element of uncertainty for Yamcha to risk it. The same went for Oolong. He was unable to make up his mind about Yajirobe, and ultimately decided to wait until later to make a final decision.

However, before too long, Yamcha’s eyes settled upon the perfect fighter to invite. He would be the first of many, but Yamcha knew that he was just pathetic enough to invite to his tournament. There was literally nobody that Yamcha was more confident of his superiority over. He clicked the contact and eagerly pressed down on the call button, swooping the phone up to his ear with great haste.

A few moments later, the phone was finally answered. A small, meek voice from the other end said, “Hello?”

Yamcha was elated. “Chaozu, old buddy-o boy! Whass goin’ on?”

Chiaotzu was silent for a moment. “Yamcha, are you drunk again?”

Yamcha barely even noticed the mime’s jabs. He yelled out, “Chaozu! I need you to partacapate in my tourn’ment! I think ya can win it!”

“Yamcha, please stop. Go take a nap.”

“Now, now, Chaozu, I know that ev’ryone else thinks you’re a weak-ass, weird little mime guy, but I’ve always sorta thought ya were cool. I know you’re stronger than ya look, and I’m sure thar are people out thar you can beat!”

Chiaotzu’s only response was silence. Before too long, Yamcha came to realize that Chiaotzu had hung up. Yamcha was dismayed that his little mime friend had hung up on him, and he poured himself a glass of wine to calm himself down. Before long, Yamcha forgot about his first conversation with Chiaotzu, and decided it was high time to call him again.

“Chaozu! Buddy ol’ boy! Willya be in my tourn’ment?”

“Yamcha, I think you need help,” Chiaotzu replied softly. “Tien and me can come over-”

“No! No no no no no no no!” Yamcha bellowed.

There was silence for a moment.

“A-are you sure, Yamcha?”

“Lookee, man, I juss needya ta be aparta my tourn’ment!” Yamcha said. He could hear the silence coming on once again, so he decided, as desperate as he was, to employ the most famous tactic of the common bitch. He cried. “P-p-please m-man!” he stuttered, tears flowing down his cheeks as he spoke. They tasted like alcohol. “Y-y-you gotta h-help m-me! I’ll even make sure wee got some tenshindong fer you to eat! I need someone and you’re my bessfriend and… and…”

His voice devolved into a bunch of cries and sniffles.

For a moment, he didn’t know if it had worked. So he kept up the crying; and he found that, in his drunken state, it came to him quite easily. Perhaps Chiaoztu was consulting with Tien. That wouldn’t surprise him. The two were inseparable, like an old married couple (and he imagined their sex to be just as disgusting, though he couldn’t stop thinking about it and how it would work). There was also the awkward notion that Yamcha hadn’t invited Tien – really, that was because Tien would beat the living shit out of him should they ever duel in the tournament. So could Chiaotzu manage to come alone? He sure hoped so. Getting back Bulma depended on it. Then, he heard a sigh. Yamcha’s heart leapt into his throat, giving him a sensation close to that of an orgasm. Of course, he would never admit to Chiaotzu that the little clown had just made him feel that good. He hiccupped and then threw up.

Even as Yamcha was ridding his body of poisonous alcohol, Chiaotzu spoke again, and his voice was much more compassionate than before:

“All right, Yamcha. I’ll be there. Where’s it at?”

“I’ll sendya the address in a text, buddy-o,” Yamcha replied with remarkable calm, considering he was spitting bile and vomit from his teeth.

They said their goodbyes, and Yamcha hung up. As soon as he did, he wiped his eyes and nose, and glanced around for the nearest bottle of alcohol. Upon finding it, he threw it at the wall and let out a long, extended ‘whooooooooooooooooooo!!’. From the other room, he heard a follow-up ‘whoooooooooooo!’ come from the Tournament Announcer. Yamcha nodded in approval. Through begging like a woman would, he had gotten his first entrant into the tournament. Fuck yeah.

Yamcha didn’t have to resort to such emotional prostitution for any of the others he called up. For King Chappa, Bacterian, Heroic Hambone, Ranfan, Beaver Cleavage, Giran, Gregor, Man-Wolf, Sergeant Pepper, Pamput, Laughing Boy, Beric Dondarrion, Master Bruce, and Kiss of Meth, he only needed to tell them it was a tournament and that there were going to be cameras there. The prize would be a billion zeni and a six pack of beer. Of course, since Yamcha was going to win, he wasn’t actually going to pay anyone that kind of money or give them his precious alcohol. They could keep them dreaming, though. Including Chiaotzu and himself, there were now sixteen entrants into his super awesome tournament. Yamcha was ecstatic. It was all coming together.

“Yamcha! Yamcha!” The Tournament Announcer came rushing into the room, partially slipping in a puddle of vomit on the way in. “I’ve gottus a stage to fight awn!”

“Awright! I’ve gottus sixteen partacapents!” The duo embraced each other, squeezing one another tightly and wholesomely. Yamcha asked, “Wheresit at?”

“I gottus a gig in West City. I talked ta the press, ‘n’ they’ll be thar too!” The two jumped around like giddy school girls, and the new movement made both of them vomit up a little bit of alcohol. “The fuckin’ stage has dragons on it, man!”

“This calls fer a drink!” Yamcha declared, to the excited yelps of the Tournament Announcer. He entered the kitchen and got a bottle of vodka, smashing it against the side of his head and drinking the trails that fell down his face. He was going to win Bulma back after all.

It was then, though, that Yamcha noticed a small pair of handcuffs, padded with purple leather, lying on the Announcer’s kitchen counter.

“Hey, mr. Announcer, whattare these fer?” Yamcha asked, holding up the pair of handcuffs.

The Announcer entered the room and took a good look at the device. He thought about it for a moment, and then, in a great flash of insight, it came to him. After checking the clock, he declared, “Oh shit! I gotta court meeting ‘bout the sessual ‘arassment lawsuit in half a’ hour!”

“Relax! We can getcha thar in ten minutes!”

“Yamcher, you dun understand! I dun have a lawyer!”

Yamcha and the Announcer stood there for several minutes. This was a seemingly inescapable predicament.

It was then that Yamcha realized what he had to do. He had an obligation to his good friend, who had given him a tournament. It was time to repay him for that.

“I’ll repr’sent ya. I’ll be ya lawyer,” Yamcha stated, turning around to face the door.

“Ya mean it? You’ll do that fer me?” the Announcer asked. Yamcha turned around and gave the Announcer a reassuring thumbs up and a smile.

Yamcha leaned over and instructed the Announcer to grab on to his back. It was gonna be a rough flight.

The two shot through the air with great speed. Yamcha’s flight was not steady, and he wavered wildly through the air. He dodged a great number of trees and buildings and only crashed into a few. The Tournament Announcer, a man who was excellent with directions, showed them the way to the court house with great accuracy. He even knew all the shortcuts. They made it there with time to spare, meaning that they stopped at the gas station beforehand and bought (and consumed) a six-pack first. After that detour, though, they finished their flight.

The duo entered the courthouse. The press had flocked to the courthouse, and the two were barraged with photos and questions as they entered. It did not occur to them that they were the only two people in the building who were not wearing suit, and they also forgot to clean the bile off of their clothes. Regardless, their cause was noble, and it was time to exact justice upon the whorish secretary who had brought up the charge.

The two found their seats before long. Across the aisle sat the Tournament Announcer’s former secretary, with her legal staff and variety of supporters. Yamcha spat vaguely in her direction as a show of disrespect, which she responded to with a confused and inquisitive look.

The judge began the formal proceedings. “On this here day, the Tournament Announcer has been charged with class three sexual harassment, quid pro pro sexual favors, a class C felony…”

“Objection!” the Tournament Announcer yelled out.

“What?” the Judge replied, stunned.

“I didn’t do that!” the Tournament Announcer explained.

The Judge stopped for a moment, and then continued. He would explain courts to the Announcer later – first, the indictment had to occur. Yamcha’s attention soon waned, and he stopped paying attention to the list of charges. He had forgotten where he was until he was asked to make opening statement, to which he, startled, stood up and took the podium.

He looked out over the crowd in the courtroom. Boy, there sure were a lot of people! Yamcha hiccupped nervously, but then decided he could handle it.

Yamcha, after several minutes of nervous coughing, finally began. “My client, the Tournament Announcer, is a good fuckin’ man. Uh, me and him, we go way back, and he, uh, he…”

It was then that the desert bandit stumbled off on a several minute rant composed primarily of prepositions and conjunctions. Some people, fearing that he was delivering a hate speech, fled the building. After a couple minutes, he left the podium and sat back down.

He and the Tournament Announcer fist pounded as he took his seat.

Chapter 4: Depression
<p style="text-align:center;">"But of all these friends and lovers

<p style="text-align:center;">There is no one compares with you

<p style="text-align:center;">And these memories lose their meaning

<p style="text-align:center;">When I think of love as something new

<p style="text-align:center;">Though I know I'll never lose affection

<p style="text-align:center;">For people and things that went before

<p style="text-align:center;">I know I'll often stop and think about them

<p style="text-align:center;">In my life, I love you more"

<p style="text-align:center;">-In My Life by The Beatles - An Ode from KidVegeta to Destructivedisk

The judge, who was a respectable-looking man in his sixties, raised his brow and stared down at the duo sitting before him. Yamcha had a slack-smile on his face, and the Tournament Announcer was sleeping (though no one could tell, since he was wearing some fine shades).

“What is the meaning of this?!” the Judge boomed. “You two are acting completely inappropriate in my courtroom! I could have you arrested for-”

“Heeeey fucknugget, we gotta go, dereza tourn’ment ta ‘rganize…” Yamcha slurred.

“Yeah, this ain’t no sessual ‘arassment. Bish ain’t got no witnesses!” the Tournament Announcer followed up. Apparently, he was awake.

The Judge stood up in manner that made it look like he had just tried to sit down on a molten dragon dildo. His face was as red as the color red. “Enough! Approach the bench, both of you!”

Yamcha stood up and stumbled forward. The Announcer followed his heels and he walked on all fours. Upon reaching the bench, the two looked up at the robed Judge and beamed widely.

“Less go! Less go! We win, right?” the Tournament Announcer whooped.

“Is this man really your attorney, Tournament Announcer?” the Judge asked, waving an old shriveled hand to Yamcha’s vicinity.

“Yeah, ‘e’s cool, ‘e’s cool.”

“You both appear to be extremely drunk! Public intoxication is a crime in and of itself that will carry an additional-”

“Duuude, shutta fuckup! Dis is bullshit man… bitchis makin’ shit up, y’know? Sheee should get more punishment than us burnin’ up her house.”

The two fist-pumped again.

“You did what?! Whaaaaaaaat?!!?!” a raspy, painfully shrill voice, imbued with the force of a thousand bitches, screeched out. She had the comedic timing of any female comedian; suffice to say, no one laughed. The woman who had accused the good Tournament Announcer stood up behind them and looked as if she was in the middle of a convulsion. People around rushed to her aid, except for Yamcha and the Announcer. They looked back up at the Judge, who was staring them down with eyes which looked like a bull’s.

At once, there was silence. It was the sound of a cricket riding a tumbleweed. And they stared each other down. Yamcha didn’t blink. The Tournament Announcer probably didn’t either. The Judge quivered with rage and anger, his forehead perspiring and his ears gently moving back and forth, as if his mind had been overloaded. Finally, Yamcha broke the silence by accidentally throwing up on him.

The Judge screamed in a way that reminded Yamcha of the bitch who had just yelled out moments prior. They sounded quite a bit alike. Before the Judge could say anything, before the bailiff could come over and what happened, before even the onlookers sitting on the benches in the back of the room could process what had happened, the Tournament Announcer spoke.

“Y’know, you aren’t half the man your mother was!”

Then, he scrounged out an empty beer can from his pants’ pocket and threw it at the judge. Yamcha thought that was pretty rad.

This was literally the single lowest moment of the Tournament Announcer’s entire life. He was on charge for sexual harassment, assault of a judge, felony arson, and public intoxication. Had his list gone on any longer, it would have begun to rival George Bluth Sr.’s list of felonies too – alas, it ended there, for it was then that the miracle of capitalism occurred.

Into the court room strode a man in a three-thousand dollar suit. In his hand he carried a black leather suitcase, one with so many locks and switches that it was practically a wetsuit for a sadomasochist. His hair was salt and pepper colored and combed excellently upward, held in place by a fine gel. He was, in short, a man of very professional décor.

He glided up to the front of the courtroom and let himself into the area with Yamcha and the Announcer. With great authority, he hollered out, “I am the lawyer!” (It was then, and only then, that the Tournament Announcer remembered he had spent millions of dollars to hire a lawyer.)

The crowd let out a great collective gasp. What an unbelievable twist! Yamcha was not in fact the lawyer, but in sooth this new man was. The judge, in shock, demanded order in the court.

The lawyer, assessing the situation, turned to the judge and asked, “May I have a moment to convene with my client?” The judge allowed this, at which point the lawyer said to the Tournament Announcer, “Who the fuck is this?”

“This be Yumcher. He’s my lawya, and we’re fightin’ the sessual ‘arrasment suit together. I think we’ve got the jury’s favor right now…”

The lawyer grimaced. “Are you in any way connected to the plaintiff’s house burning down?”

“Oh yeah! You bet your ass we are!” the Tournament Announcer proudly replied.

The lawyer glanced around nervously. “Is there any evidence indicating that?”

“I dun think so… Oh wait! We told ‘em.”

“And why is the judge soaked in vomit?”

Yamcha threw his arms up in great confusion. He couldn’t remember, for the life of him, why the judge had vomited all over himself. It was such an odd turn of events.

The lawyer glanced around himself nervously. He couldn’t come to a decision about how to handle this situation. His skill in improvisation had gotten him through law school – he could come up with a plan now. This was all a big misunderstanding… the Tournament Announcer wasn’t really drunk, he was just stricken with grief because he had lost his favorite dog in the catastrophic fire... no, no, that would never work. He started to think, and he knew it wouldn’t be too long till he reached a conclusion.

“Hey, man,” Yamcha hollered out, “’Member when we fucked up dat bitch’s carr?” The Tournament Announcer and Yamcha high fived at this, laughing in joy.

The lawyer finally came to a decision. It was not too late to make a positive outcome out of this anyways, for he had a solution.

“Your honor,” he began, “I’ve come to the wrong court case. I have to go.”

The lawyer was out of the building before anyone could make a note of it, and the Tournament Announcer would never see or hear from him again.

Yamcha watched him fly out of the building faster than Shadowfax could gallop across the Rohirrim plains. Watching this, the good bandit got a sudden idea, which was much too clever for his current state of mind to fully grasp. He rummaged in his back pockets and then pulled out two plastic masks. Both of them were beautifully grotesque renditions of Cupid’s fat face, crafted from the finest Chinese plastic. He threw one to the Tournament Announcer before fitting one over his face. Then, in a muffled voice, Yamcha screamed out:

“Less blow dis joint!” Yamcha laughed and then ran out of the courtroom.

“Yeah, blow me, bitch!” The Tournament announcer shrieked like a gypsy taking a very hot bath. He raised both of his and gave everyone the double finger (double the ‘fuck you’) before following Yamcha out. By the time the Bailiff and the other policemen had figured out what was going on and ran outside, Yamcha and the Announcer were gone; indeed, though the humans could not see them, Yamcha and his best friend ever were flying off into the sunset like a couple of unjaded cowboys who didn’t know there weren’t any frontiers left to explore.

They couldn’t go back to the Tournament Announcer’s house, for the feds were probably already swarming over it like the cockroaches they were. And they couldn’t go to Yamcha’s home, either. He didn’t want Puar to see him like he was, either. So the two of them went to the best place they could think of – a bar. It was around 3am when they touched down in North City (which was far, far away from the dreaded courthouse) and stepped inside the place. It smelled of piss and paint thinner to Yamcha, and he felt at home.

The two of them sat down in the corner of the bar, away from the other customers, to discuss their tournament. They didn’t bother taking off their masks, because, honestly, they were still pretty wasted.

“What’re we gonna callit?!” The Tournament Announcer quipped.

“Uh, ‘ow’bout… Yamcha’s and Tourney Dude’s Best Tournament For All The Strongest Fighters On Earth!”

“Yes, yes, yes!” The Tournament Announcer jumped out of his seat and punched the air as if it were a giant marshmallow. “I’ll start making the banners!”

Yamcha watched him. The Tournament Announcer had already rented out a location for the Tournament, and a stage was being constructed as they sipped sweet poison, but Yamcha couldn’t help but think it was all a waste. He’d been helping the Tournament Announcer with his woman problems (without getting much in return), and it had nearly gotten them both imprisoned for life. In fact, they were on the run for what they had done in that courtroom. He had no endgame for that. He didn’t know how to fix what he’d done.

Another round of drinks were brought to the two, and they happily sipped them down. The Tournament Announcer was writing things down with penmanship that would make a doctor look like an artist. Yamcha assumed it was all for the tournament. But he didn’t know. As he was watching the man, Yamcha was swiftly and unexpectedly hit with great emotion. Tears welled in his eyes, and he felt a great pressure in his chest.

“What’re we doin’, man?” Yamcha slurred out in a mixture of drunkenness and melancholy. “Whassit for?”

“Gettin’ you the bloomers, man,” The Announcer said from behind Cupid’s eyes.

Yamcha shook his head. “Lookit us. We’re fucked. Why would she ever want me when’m like this?”

The Tournament Announcer patted Yamcha on the back. “Now, now, Yumcher, if there’s one thing I know, iss that you’re a good man. No matta how much we drank, you were always thar fer me.”

Yamcha looked the Tournament Announcer square in the eyes and realized that the announcer, in a bout of sudden openness, had removed his sunglasses. The bandit swigged down a good gulp of bourbon, and, consequently, began to water at the eyes. He clenched his hands and felt the glass shatter within his grasp. The tears started streaming before long (the tears still tasted like alcohol), and he started to wonder what a tournament was going to do to win back Bulma. The Tournament Announcer was taken aback. “C’mon, mayne, you’re my best friend. Dun be like dis…”

Yamcha fell onto the floor and began to writhe around in some other person’s vomit. “’N’ that’s the saddest part! Of all the people I’ve known, you’re my best frand, and I dun even know your first name! Goker left me, ol’ Kriller left me, Master Rosher left me! The only one that will even come to my tournerment is Chaozu, and that’s worse than nobody coming at all!” To top it all off, Yamcha threw the shards of glass that remained in his hand at the wall, watching what remained of the glass smash to bits and pieces.

The Tournament Announcer responded, “Wewll, who needs ‘em, anyways? We’ll show ‘em when you win the tourn’ment of all the greatest fighters on Earth.”

Yamcha bawled some more. “I ain’t ever gonna win! I’m in the worst shape of my life. Last time I tried a Wolf Fang Fist, Puar laughed at me and called it the “Dog Tooth Dance”. Even Beaver Cleavage could beat me now!”

The Tournament Announcer looked down at the vomit-covered, Cupid-faced man writhing below him and resolved that it was time to remind this man just who he was: the god-damn, undisputed heavy-weight Martial Arts quarterfinalist! Nothing could stop Yamcha, and of this the Tournament Announcer was sure.

“Pick yerself up,” The Announcer commanded. “We’ll get you back into shape.”

Yamcha did not comply with The Announcer’s commands. Instead, he remained on the floor and licked up his tears, finding that they tasted quite a bit like alcohol. Before long, though, The Tournament Announcer simply lifted him from the floor himself.

He gestured to the Bartender, and said, “Get this man a beer.” He put his sunglasses back on and looked back over at Yamcha, realizing that it was time for a healthier option. “Make that two beers. And a banana.”

It was time to train.

The two removed their Cupid Masks, and were almost immediately recognized by the bartender as the two men he had seen on the news that were wanted for three separate felonies. The bartender’s heart was warmed, however, by their sudden drive to train, and supplied them with a bonus beer and two bonus bananas. Yamcha and the Tournament Announcer each gulfed a banana down, and then Yamcha felt strong once more. He would kick Beaver Cleavage’s ass if it killed him.

Chapter 5: Acceptance
<p style="text-align:center;">"It's always best when the light is off <p style="text-align:center;">I am the pick in the ice <p style="text-align:center;">Do not cry out or hit the alarm <p style="text-align:center;">You know we're friends till we die

<p style="text-align:center;">And either way you turn <p style="text-align:center;">I'll be there <p style="text-align:center;">Open up your skull <p style="text-align:center;">I'll be there <p style="text-align:center;">Climbing up the walls" <p style="text-align:center;">-Climbing up the Walls by Radiohead - An Ode from Destructivedisk to KidVegeta

Yamcha stood in the center of his tournament’s stage, watching it all come together. The stands, which would be able to hold thousands of people, were still under construction. But they would be finished soon; he could feel it in his bones. He looked at the entrance to the stage, where a marble archway stood. On it, in flowery letters was the inscription, ‘Yamcha’s and Tourney Dude’s Best Tournament For All The Strongest Fighters On Earth’. It was beautiful. He almost shed a tear.

Yamcha had been sober for over three minutes. He was ready to do this, finally. And so was the Tournament Announcer. Yamcha noticed him off in a corner, staring into a mirror and commentating on some unseen fight (maybe he was reliving Yamcha’s greatest moments in the ring, for they were many). Yamcha chuckled to himself as he saw the camera crews start pouring in like the maggots they were. Yeah, even if Bulma didn’t make it in person, there was no way she wouldn’t see Yamcha in all his glory.

The tournament had garnered the expected attention. Yamcha was a legend in his own mind, so anything he put his name on should be major news. And as most stations knew, people like seeing other people beat up each other. So every channel, save for the Home and Garden Network (fuck plants, Yamcha thought – and he didn’t even want them here – he wasn’t going to have one kill him again) showed up. The tournament would be broadcast on every network. The ad revenue alone would make Yamcha and the announcer the two richest sons of bitches this side of the Mississippi. For some reason, this made Yamcha think of Rock Rivers, his arch rival from his baseball career, which caused him to uncontrollably spit into the wind.

The rest of the tournament entrants began flowing into the staging area like the piss from an eighty-two year old man’s urethra into his son’s mouth. Yamcha caught a glimpse of his fiercest opponent, Sergeant Pepper. That guy worried Yamcha. If he was going to lose to anyone in the quarterfinals, it would be to that guy right there. Yamcha made note of the other notable entrants, including the ever popular King Chappa, who was a king of something somewhere (probably), and even Giran. Yamcha loved those guys, and the nostalgia of seeing them touched Yamcha somewhere deep in his liver.

The entrants moved into the training area, which was basically an assortment of training mats in a big tent. In there, the competitors punched punching bags, rolled around like drunk fishes, and stretched their muscles. Yamcha joined in with them. Now that he had been sober for so long, he could train again, and it felt great, just great.

Around noon, the stands had been fully constructed and people started pouring in. Jerry Seinfeld and the Tournament Announcer kept the audience entertained before the start of the tournament, as it was what they were born to do.

Yamcha started scoping out the rest of the competition. Aside from Sergeant Pepper, nobody in the training room seemed too threatening. Kiss of Meth looked out of shape and perhaps out of his normal routine, and Gregor had most certainly put on weight. As per usual, Chiaotzu looked like absolute shit. Yamcha had always wondered what had fucked up the little guy’s weight, but he was always too afraid to ask because he didn’t want to get too close to him.

Yamcha walked over to the punching bags and began swinging away. His great might made right, so to speak, and the punching bags went flailing irregularly around. He continued pounding away, watching the mouths of those around him hang open in disbelief. As it turned out, those months of eating bananas had really paid off.

“Yamcha, please,” rang out a small bitchy voice. It came from the right of Yamcha, out of a mouth too small for its ugly face. “You need help. You don’t have to go through with this.”

Yamcha turned and glared at Chiaotzu. “Don’tchooo tellme whaddido ‘n’ don’t need, lil motherfucka,” he threatened. He threw some fists in the general direction of the little mime before coughing up blood on the floor.

“Me and Tien came here together. We can get you your life back. It’s not too late, Yamcha.”

“I dun need you and your fuckin Cyclops boyfriend! I got the tournee announca! He’ll take good caree o’ me,” Yamcha blurted out, slightly falling over himself. He may have slightly underestimated his level of drunkenness.

Chiaotzu looked over the second most pitiable man in the room, and then decided to give it a rest. “Okay, Yamcha. We can fight in the tournament.”

Satisfied, Yamcha puffed up his chest and walked out of the training room. He knew that it was time to draw seeds, because he ran the tournament. He soon found the seed-drawing room, and discovered that Ranfan and Pamput were already waiting there for him. Before too long, the rest filed in, and it was high time to draw some seeds.

Although Yamcha knew it not, Chiaotzu was intentionally manipulating the draw so that he would have an easy path to finals. It turned out quite alright – for the first round, Chiaotzu would be fighting Heroic Hambone and Yamcha would be fighting Beric Dondarrion. The rest were essentially left to fight amongst themselves, and, while their families did see their fights as of the utmost importance, it’s not important in the context of this story.

Once the seed-drawing ceremony had concluded, it was time for round one to commence. First and foremost, it was time for the legendary battle of Yamcha and Beric Dondarrion. Yamcha stumbled up into the ring, and Beric Dondarrion proudly pranced onto the stage.

As the Tournament Announcer prepared to ring the bell, Dondarrion elected to engage in trash talk with Yamcha, as was the custom for most martial artists of the time.

“Hey, pretty boy baseball player, I heard your girlfriend left you for a dog!” Dondarrion barked out at Yamcha, tauntingly. Yamcha furrowed his brow, at first in confusion, and then in anger. How dare he make references to Yamcha’s past relationships!

After a scant moment of hesitation, Yamcha hollered back, “Yeah, well, fuck you, unclefucker!”

And with these words, it was time to begin – the bell rang, and the Tournament Announcer yelled to commence the fight.

Beric, like a little pansy, began dancing around the stage, purposefully avoiding Yamcha while in the process. Yamcha favored a more direct route; with great speed, he dashed over to Beric and punched him in the stomach. This sent him flying out of the ring, knocking him out of bounds within milliseconds. The round was already over.

Yamcha hovered over to inspect the damage. Beric’s eyeball had come flying out of its socket, and a variety of his guts and intestines had been strewn out across the otherwise barren ground. His tongue had fallen off, and not a single tooth remained in his mouth. He was a dead man if Yamcha had ever seen one (and he had seen footage of himself after the Saibaman attack).

Alerted, Yamcha raised his hand to announce that he had, in fact, killed this man. Ceremoniously, he vomited all over the dead carcass, watching the vomit ooze through the cracks in his skin. He glanced around, and, realizing that this might be disrespectful to the man’s family, he started to scoop some of the vomit out of the man’s body. Consequently, he pulled out numerous bones and intestines and tossed them around himself, trying to get every drop of vomit out of the man’s body. It wasn’t until several minutes later that the medics arrived and tore Yamcha away from his carcass, trying desperately to salvage what remained of Beric’s body. Yamcha, overall, just felt really bad about the whole thing.

Then he forgot about it. Yamcha sat down on the grass, cracked open a banana and watched the remainder of the fights. King Chappa rinsed Ranfan; Beaver Cleavage tore a swath through Heroic Hambone; Sergeant Pepper ripped Gregor a new asshole; Laughing Boy did to Giran what the spring does to the cherry trees; Pamput bitched Master Bruce straight out of the ring; Kiss of Meth rode Man-Wolf like the horse in 1 Guy 1 Horse; and then it was time for Chiaotzu’s match. Yamcha cheered on the small cocaine child like Howard Lederer would cheer on his sister if they were playing at the same table.

Chiaotzu stepped onto the plate. His opponent, Bactarian did likewise. The crowd and the Tournament Announcer all put on their pocket gasmasks to prepare for the onslaught of Bactarian himself. But nay, at that moment, Chiaotzu, like a majestic white juniper berry rolled forward and stepped into his fighting stance.

Bactarian was puzzled. He clearly asked Chiaotzu about why the young clown wasn’t falling over from his sneak attack constant stink. Yamcha didn’t give a fuck though, so he didn’t hear it.

“Na na na! My mom drank brandy every day for breakfast when she was pregnant with me! So since I was born, I can’t smell anything! The more you know!”

“Huh? Chiaoztu, you’ve always smelled my cooking!” Tien said from the stands.

“That was just pretend, Tien! Gosh! We were just make-believing!” This is the part where Chiaotzu would blush if he wasn’t weird as shit.

“Oh, Chiaotzu! How could you hide this from me? I’m your best friend and much more!” Tien mumbled, fondling his fingers with his other fingers.

Bactarian just stood there in pure awe. Then, before anything else could happen, Chiaotzu rushed at him, flipped over the behemoth and latched onto his back.

“I-I’m sorry Tien… but this is the only way!” Chiaotzu screamed, starting to glow like a Christmas tree, only without the Christmas or the tree.

“No Chiaotzu! No! You’re my friend! Save that move for the final! I love you! Grow up and be strong and get married someday!” Tien bellowed like a bellower.

“Oh, okay Tien. If you say so.”

“So!”

With that, Chiaotzu used his invisible telekinesis ki wave v. 2.0.19.8 to throw Bactarian off of the ring and into the grass. Yamcha scampered away like a prairie dog being chased by a swarm of bees. He didn’t have a gasmask, so he flung the banana peel over his nose. It didn’t help much, but it made him look fashionable.

“Oh my god! Oh my god, folks! This… this is unprecedented!” The Tournament Announcer screamed. The crowd was dead silent. Seriously, a few of them had died from defective gasmasks and breathing in Bactarian’s aroma. The other spectators didn’t seem to mind, as they were experimenting with giving the dead people new hairstyles. “Chowzulu won! He fuckin’ won! Oh my god! I-I don’t know what to say…! How the fuck did that happen? What the fuck, Bacterian?”

Bactarian grunted like a bitch in heat.

The Tournament Announcer nodded. “Yeah… now you’ll go down in history as Chow’s first victim!”

Bactarian cried; he cried, he cried. His tears were as moist as Yamcha expected Bulma to be from watching him fight.

Now that Bacterian had lost, and subsequently humiliated himself, his ancestry, and his kin, it was time for the quarter-final round to begin. Yamcha learned that he was going to be fighting Beaver Cleavage, a thought that made him shiver in fear. Yamcha had a bad history with quarterfinal rounds; in fact, the Tournament Announcer literally recognized him as the guy who always lost in quarter-finals. His last round hadn’t gone too well – he was beginning to get nervous. With haste, he gulfed down a dozen bananas, attempting to maintain his peak physical condition. He knew that Beaver Cleavage had been training for months, and he wasn’t sure what to expect.

As Yamcha prepared for his bout with Beaver Cleavage, he heard the door of the locker room open and footsteps tread slowly toward him. He turned around, and saw the Tournament Announcer’s familiar face look at him. The Tournament Announcer patted him on his back, and decided that it was time to give the desert bandit some inspiration.

“Yumcher, I just wantcha ta know that I believe in you.”

Yamcha smiled back warmly. “I believe in ya too! You announce like no one else.”

The two hugged. The Tournament Announcer busted out a bottle of liquor, and the two each took a sip of it before it was empty. This helped somewhat to calm Yamcha’s nerves, and he felt better.

As Yamcha exited to go enter his round, he heard the Announcer call out behind him, “Go live up to your reputation!” Yamcha thought about this for a moment, and then decided that the Announcer probably meant it as encouraging.

After wandering around for a bit, Yamcha found the stage and then stumbled up onto it. Medics were hurriedly carting several members of the crowd out of the arena after the whole incident with Bacterian several minutes beforehand, so the match had been postponed briefly. In frustration, Yamcha sat down on the stage and began to drink from a bottle of vodka, just hoping to kill the time.

It was for this reason, then, that Yamcha failed to realize when the round had started. The Tournament Announcer yelled out, “It’s time for the Quarter-Finalist and Beaver Cleavage to fight it out!”, but Yamcha noticed it not. He sat on the stage and slowly drank his bottle, while Beaver Cleavage hesitantly skirted around the stage.

Beaver Cleavage muttered to himself under his breath. He had the advantage, he told himself, he had the advantage of surprise. He could get Yamcha before Yamcha even knew what had happened. In a sudden moment of courage, Beaver Cleavage flung himself at Yamcha and delivered a frazzling flurry of punches and kicks straight to Yamcha’s torso.

Yamcha was, indubitably, shocked. He looked up at Beaver Cleavage mid-kick, and, purely out of surprise, flung a kick back up at his chin. This sent Beaver Cleavage flying up, up, and away, until he would eventually land back on the grass outside the stage, giving Yamcha the immediate win. Yamcha, once again, walked over to inspect his body.

Like Beric before him, Beaver Cleavage was unquestionably dead, or at least horribly mutilated. Yamcha looked down at him, and instantly felt bad once more. He realized that the various cuts on Beaver Cleavage’s body could become infected, something that Yamcha would feel real bad about. To sanitize the cuts, Yamcha poured his vodka out on the dead body, hoping to disinfect him. He dropped the bottle on Beaver Cleavage in confusion, and then wandered off again.

Fortunately, there were already medics in the area, so they just grabbed Beaver Cleavage’s corpse and went on their way. Yamcha settled down in the stands this time, sitting down next to Tien, who was still coping with his heartbreak over Chiaotzu just make-believing his love of Tien’s cooking. Alas, Yamcha watched the rounds that followed and learned to tune out Tien’s moping.

Laughing Boy wrecked the shit out of King Chappa and Sergeant Pepper had his way with Pamput, and then it was time for the round of Chiaotzu and Kiss of Meth. Chiaotzu, after having executed what was perhaps the biggest upset in Martial Arts Tournament history, was now hoping to follow this up with another surprise victory. He and Kiss of Meth took the stage, as the crowd waited in apprehension.

“This is what happens when you smoke too much opium, folks!” The Tournament Announcer announced as Chiaotzu took the stage. “It’s time for the match between Cheerio and Kiss of Meth!”

Chiaotzu was confident. He had, after all, trained under some of the greatest martial artists both on Earth and in the Other World. He also knew Kiss of Meth’s special move – after breathing on the opponent, the opponent would immediately become similar, both in appearance and internally, to a meth-head. That was his power – he could make you a recovering drug addict.

Chiaotzu knew he could not let Kiss of Meth come to close to him, for that would certainly signal his loss. He had to keep his distance, and fight fair. A Dodon Ray should do the trick.

“3… 2… 1… Let’s jam!” called out the Tournament Announcer, signaling the start of the round.

Chiaotzu immediately started charging up a signature Dodon Ray. Kiss of Meth, however, was too smart for a trick like that. He darted over to Chiaotzu, jumping into the air and spinning around. Chiaotzu was too much of a stupid fuck to understand how to react to that, so he just stood there like a dumb piece of shit and fired Dodon Rays in an erratic pattern around himself. Kiss of Meth got next to Chiaotzu, and breathed right onto his face.

Nothing happened. Silence shook the stands. Why did Chiaotzu not look like a meth addict?

“Joke’s on you, Kiss of Meth. I already was a meth addict. That’s why I look like this.” Chiaotzu pointed at himself, and it instantaneously became obvious. The white skin, the weird fucking cheeks, it was all just tell-tale signs of a drug addict.

Tien stood up abruptly in the stands. “Chiaotzu! How could you lie to me again? You told me you were a vampire! Is our whole friendship and so much more just a lie to you?”

“I was just pretending to benefit our sex, Tien. I thought you were into vampires. I’m sorry.”

Tien could take no more. “Why don’t you just blow yourself up on his back? It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve blown up on someone else’s back!” Tien ran away, crying, and Yamcha was moved enough to break out some more alcohol.

Chiaotzu couldn’t believe it. He had lost his best friend and so much more. Kiss of Meth seized the opportunity, however, and began relentlessly punching Chiaotzu on the face. His power level of 12 was too much for Chiaotzu – he was sent flailing helplessly around, breaking countless bones and suffering innumerable bruises. He, in fact, lost what few remaining brain cells he had that day.

Before too long, Chiaotzu was left unconscious on the ground. The Tournament Announcer counted up to ten, and it was over. Chiaotzu was incapacitated. Kiss of Meth was victorious.

“Thank God! Something’s finally gone the way it was supposed to today!” the Announcer hollered.

“Whaddafuck,” Yamcha muttered into his bottle. “A little meth’ead fucks a three-eye… whaddafuck.”

Yamcha was startled, he was perplexed. He had shit himself and he didn’t even realize it. Chiaotzu had just lost – which was a crushing blow to the desert bandit’s tournament plans – yet all Yamcha could think about was how Tien and Chiaotzu could mate. Maybe his drunkenness made him think that they had said they did, but he was pretty sure it was right either way. Regardless, as Yamcha stood up and felt the warmness running down his legs (he was induced into a gleeful countenance which could only be comparable to that of a bull in a china shop), he was struck with the thought, the fleeting notion that the clown’s most recent lost had just fucked Yamcha out of Bulma. Now, truly, there was no one left of consequence in the tournament. With Chiaotzu and King Chappa gone, it was no good. Sergeant Pepper and Kiss of Meth were probably stronger than either of them, but they weren’t big names. Bulma wouldn’t know them; she wouldn’t appreciate his victories over them.

This made Yamcha as nervous as a butterfly around Coriolanus’ son. He had to do something drastic. Yamcha produced a bottle of fine liquor from his back pocket and chugged it. Immediately after, he vomited into the stands, causing many patrons and onlookers to flee with unbridled terror. He swore he heard many of them scream out ‘gojira!’, and this made him forget how wretched his retching had been.

Afterwards, even as the Tournament Announcer was congratulating Kiss of Meth for his victory, Yamcha jumped from the stands and landed on the stage in a drunken stupor which damaged the fighting area more than any fight previously. The cameras were glued on the bandit. Every channel, (save home and faggots) was tuned into him. Billions, if not even more billions of people were watching his every move. And it was perfect. Yamcha was just about to make himself the eponymous champion of the story.

“Lissen up e’eryone…” Yamcha spat (and the Tournament Announcer dove to catch his spit as it contained much precious alcohol). “I can take alluvyou on. All three of ya! Man, I love ya guys. I ever tell ya that?!?!”

Kiss of Meth, Laughing Boy, and Sergeant Pepper looked stunned, shocked, as if they had just seen a majestic, drunken bandit of a man say he loved them. Be it erotic or fraternal, they didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t like any one of them was half the man Aufidius was.

“This… this is unprecedented, folks! A shocking turn of events! Yamcha says he can take on all of the other three semi-finalists at once! Great Scott! Beam me up!” The Tournament Announcer roared like a baby lion. The crowd roared back like a two year old lion, causing the Tournament Announcer to purr a bit, himself.

Yamcha smiled and dropped into a fighting stance. He motioned for the other three to jump onto the stage with him. A bit awestruck, the three nonetheless obeyed their master’s wise offer and jumped up. The three of them sidled forward and dropped into defensive stances of their own.

“Are you ready to rumble? Whoo! Let’s do this thing!” The Tournament Announcer threw his arm up into the air, briefly relieving his hand of his mic, before the device came crashing back down upon his head.

Yamcha ignored such a distraction for he was Yamcha and he was awesome. He stepped forwards and then proceeded to throw up on the three individuals across from him. They shrieked and cursed in tongues like some self-possessed Christians.

“Oh my god! This attack… its power,” Kiss of Meth fumed before dropping to a knee.

“Oh the humanity!” Laughing Boy laughed.

“Gruh… sneak attack! Uhhh!!” Sergeant Pepper moaned, as if he was in mid-orgasm. Who could blame him, though?

“It’s just smells, guys,” Yamcha reassured the group, nodding his head and bouncing on his knees. He was drunk, so that was a pretty normal thing for him to do.

Unfortunately for the three fighters, the fumes released by Yamcha’s vomit were in fact alcoholic vapor, filled with enough alcohol to make a grown man weep about past loved ones and memories and his evidently hopeless future. The three were immediately nauseated and started to charge at Yamcha with great speed, their judgment cloudy.

Yamcha’s fighting ability was no doubt impaired by his blood-alcohol concentration. Despite of this, he still remained an expert in one-on-one fighting, so long as the other combatant was substantially weaker than him. Here, however, Yamcha was forced to simultaneously fight three opponents who were substantially weaker than him. Such a challenge was great, and it would become the apex of Yamcha’s fighting career. Yamcha had sunk all the way to the bottom of his life – now, it was time to rise once more to the top.

Yamcha turned to face the three opponents, and a devilish smirk spread across his face. He no doubt had something up his sleeve.

Yamcha produced a surprise flask of aged brandy from his sleeve and downed it like a child would down a flask of brandy. After enjoying the unexpected, if enjoyable drink, Yamcha’s poison-covered lips curled upwards, and he spoke three words that struck fear into the hearts of his opponents:

“Wolfff fayneg frist!” With incredible intensity, Yamcha took to his feet and the silhouette of a wolf appeared behind him. He darted toward Kiss of Meth and landed a smooth uppercut, beheading Kiss of Meth instantly and forcing his spinal cord out of his back. Yamcha then threw up, causing the silhouette of the wolf to do exactly the same. He fell over and the wolf did so too, causing the apparition to break its calf. Unfazed, however, Yamcha unleashed a deadly roundhouse kick worthy of Chuck Norris upon Laughing Boy, causing Laughing Boy to laugh, “Oh shi-” before his torso was separated from his head and legs.

This left Yamcha alone with his fiercest enemy of all – Sergeant Pepper. Sergeant Pepper was tall, red, and quite sergeant-like. He was well known for his rocking good tunes and his relentless beatdowns in battle. After making his way away from Yamcha’s vomit, he looked at Yamcha, and said, “You call that a Wolf Fang Fist?” He paused to add dramatic tension. “That was more of a dog tooth dance, if you ask me.”

Yamcha couldn’t believe his ears, and then he couldn’t believe his eyes as he watched Sergeant Pepper transform before his very eyes. The merciless fighter that had once stood before him was slowly replaced by a small blue floating cat – it was Puar. Yamcha fell to his knees, mostly out of shock and partially out of alcohol poisoning, for he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“This is unprecedented! For the first time in tournament history, Yumcher has murdered two fighters on stage!” the Tournament Announcer announced, who was slow to realize that Sergeant Pepper had been Puar all along.

Puar floated back down the ground, and turned around. “I’ve missed you, Yamcha. You need to stop drinking.”

As soon as he heard this comment, Yamcha’s blood boiled. His face turned red and steam escaped from his ears. He flexed his muscles and lunged at Puar, tackling the cat to the ground and throwing him out of the ring. He had chosen to spare his partner’s life, but if he ever made another comment like that, he wouldn’t be so fortunate.

“Puar, you little shit!” Yamcha breathed into his friend’s fur.

“Y-yamcha stop! You’re hurting me!”

Yamcha growled and brandished his teeth as if he were a mighty wolf. As if. “This ‘as my tourney… I set it up with my best friend! Your’uinin’ everything, Puar! Dontcha know I needed this to get Bulma back!”

“I-I’m sorry, Y-Yamcha! Please, just let me go! P-please! I’m sorry!”

Yamcha’s anger subsided as he heard his old friend plead so humbly. He let go of the animal and fell back on the grass.

“And that’s it, folks! Yumercha has defeated everyone! Wow! And how! I’m stunned seeing it! It’s amazing, spectacular, extraordinary! This quarter-finalist has sure lived up to his name! Bravo!” The Tournament Announcer shrieked. He continued spouting off clichés in the background, though Yamcha paid him little attention.

Yamcha sat in the grass, breathing heavily for a few moments. His eyes were watery as he surveyed his best friend, lying crumpled on the lawn in front of him. “I n-need her, Puar. Y-you… you don’t unnerstand. She’s all that matters to me.”

“You don’t need to drink so much, Yamcha. Bulma wouldn’t want you drunk all the time; I know that. And I can’t stand to see my best friend killing himself, either.”

Yamcha nearly cried then and there. The paparazzi were rushing at him, preparing to swarm him. Billions were watching. And he didn’t care about any of them. “And so you come and ruin my tourney?! What the fuck, Puar?”

Puar bowed his head. “I-I just wanted my friend back. Bulma’s not going to leave Vegeta for you, no matter what you do, Yamcha. And deep down inside, I think you know that. Maybe that’s why you’re drinking so much.”

“Y-you don’t know that!” Yamcha screamed, waving his finger around as if it were something to point with.

“I guess only you know, Yamcha. I’m sorry for butting in,” Puar said, quietly. He rose into the air and began to depart when he said one final thing, “When you’ve cleaned up, please come home. I’ve missed you a lot. You’ll still be my best friend, no matter what happens. But I want the old you back. I want the Yamcha I know to come home. Please think about it.”

Puar gave one final smile to Yamcha before the tourney champ was swarmed by the paparazzi. Champagne was being sprayed everywhere, balloons and confetti were falling on Yamcha’s head and the constant, incessant flashing of a million cameras blinded Yamcha. He tried to find where Puar had gone, but within an instant, his old friend was out of sight.

Yamcha had won the tournament, but he felt like shit. He felt worse than before he had begun his venture to reclaim Bulma. He felt worse than ever. Truly, this had to be the bottom. The Tournament Announcer offered him some champagne, but Yamcha just swatted the alcohol aside. He tore through the press like a rabid dog. He wanted out. This was the most hopeless that Yamcha had ever felt. He finally understood that Puar had been right all along.

He started to wonder about when it had first started to go wrong. Maybe it was when he left Puar to be with Bulma. He left his closest, most loyal friend for a girl he hardly knew, and never even thought about turning around and coming back. He should have known that Puar would never leave him. All this time, he had been struggling to get back with Bulma, when really, he should have just been making his way back to Puar and the others.

Yamcha fell to his knees once he had reached the outskirts of the stadium. The soft grass crumpled beneath his legs, and he dug his fingers into the dirt beneath him. Yamcha’s head heaved forward, and he began to vomit into the grass below him. He resolved, right then, to vomit until every ounce of alcohol had escaped his body, until he felt better again. Then, he could go back and see Puar, say hello to Krillin, beg for Roshi’s forgiveness. He could start preparing for the arrival of the Androids. It wasn’t too late to make a happy ending out of it all.

Even as the paparazzi crowded around him and videotaped his relentless vomiting, Yamcha did not cease to purge the alcohol from his system. He continued, until he inevitably passed out from dehydration and was scooped up by some passing medics. The press had a field day with it – Yamcha had built his reputation up and subsequently massacred it.

Once he reached the hospital, the doctors took his blood alcohol concentration. He blew a .57, which meant that he should have been dead long beforehand. Yamcha, though, was a fighter – he fought and fought until he woke up, in a hung-over daze, the next day. His memories were faint – all he remembered was a tournament, and that the Tournament Announcer had somehow played a role. Luckily for him, he didn’t remember how he had brutally murdered four participants or ruined the life of a young secretary. He could forget.

Yamcha craned over, and saw that his old friend, the Tournament Announcer, was sleeping in the gurney next to his. Like Yamcha, he had passed out and was being treated for severe alcohol poisoning. To Yamcha, this man was ostensibly a ghost; he no longer meant anything to Yamcha. He would see him at the next tournament, he supposed, and that was all the Tournament Announcer was to him now.

Yamcha stood up. He decided that he was strong enough, now to deal with, the pain emanating from his alcohol withdrawal. He stood up and walked out of the room. He signed himself out and walked out of the building. He was a free man now, and he had to decide what he was going to do with that freedom.

He began to walk down the street, and realized that he needed to find his car. He recalled where he had last had it. He had driven it to the construction site of the last tournament, before he walked into a bar and began the whole shenanigans.

Soon he came upon that place, and he found it to be much like he had last seen it. Workers were still milling about the construction zone, and the building itself seemed to have had little progress. Yamcha smirked and walked over to where he had parked his car, only to find a ticket stuck to his windshield. He supposed it was for parking next to a fire hydrant, but Yamcha didn’t care either way. He crumpled up the ticket and stuffed it into his pocket. Then, he opened his car door and jumped inside. Once he sat down at the wheel, Yamcha noticed his cell phone lying on the dashboard. He hastily snatched it up and turned it on.

Scrolling through the contacts, Yamcha came to Bulma. He briefly toyed with closing his phone right there, forgetting Bulma, and riding off into the sunset without a care. But Yamcha was human.

He dialed Bulma’s number and pressed the small device to his left ear.

“Hello?” a female voice said, picking up the phone.

“Hey, Bulma, it’s me,” Yamcha said in a low, tired voice.

“Who?” Bulma asked, befuddled. The unsure tone in her voice was sincere; and that drove a stake through Yamcha’s heart.

“Yamcha,” he replied, sullenly.

“Oh, hey Yamcha! What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” he began. “How’s it going with you and Vegeta?”

“All right, I suppose. But you know Vegeta… he’s never been the romantic type. I guess I can live with that, though.”

“Heh, yeah, yeah,” Yamcha said, laughing a fake, hollow laugh. “Hey Bulma, I havta ask… did you see me on TV yesterday?”

“Doing what?”

“Uh, my tournament. It was broadcast on every channel, and–”

“A tournament? No, that doesn’t sound familiar,” Bulma said. “Oh, I know why! I was out shopping yesterday!”

“Shopping?” Yamcha repeated, partially shocked. “All day?”

“Yeah, I was getting some things for the, uh, well… how should I put this?” Bulma stammered out. “Well, can you keep a secret, Yamcha? For me?”

“Of course,” Yamcha shot back, eagerly.

“Vegeta and I are having a baby. I had to go buy him a crib and some clothes and food, y’know, to get ready for him and…” Bulma said, trailing off. But Yamcha didn’t listen. He had heard enough.

“B-baby?”

“Yeah, isn’t it great?! We’re going to start a family!” Bulma said, cheerfully and obliviously.

“Th-that’s great. I’m h-happy for you, Bulma. Let me know when the baby shower is, and I’ll come visit.”

“Aw, Yamcha, you don’t have to get us anything,” Bulma said as courteously as she could. “But yeah, we’ll have you and the others over some time. It’s been a while.”

Yamcha nodded. Of course, since this was a phone conversation, Bulma didn’t notice.

“Anyway, how are things going with you?” Bulma asked.

“I’m… I’m okay,” Yamcha muttered. There was a brief, awkward pause, which Yamcha decided to vanquish with another hollow laugh. “Hey, don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure, Yamcha? You sound… different.”

“Yeah, it’s cool. Anyway, I have to go now. Puar’s calling me.”

With that, Yamcha hung up. He didn’t even wait for Bulma’s reply. He sank back into the seat of his car, burying his face in his hands. And at that moment, Yamcha could no longer hold it inside him. He bawled uncontrollably for several minutes. Bulma had been the girl for him. She had been the one. There was no one else. She wasn’t just some butterfly girl. She was his soul mate. And she was having a baby with someone else. It didn’t even matter that it was with Vegeta. That it was with anyone else broke Yamcha’s heart. He’d seen so many movies, so many televisions shows where the good guy got his girl at the end. It was how it was supposed to be. And yet, Bulma hadn’t even watched his tournament. She hadn’t even been aware of Yamcha’s efforts to win her back. He was that insignificant in her life. And she was everything in his. He couldn’t even hate her for it, because he loved her so much.

After some time, Yamcha wiped away his tears and looked up. He started his hovercar and started driving off. There was one person in the world who was not so cruel, not so heartless. And that was his best friend. If Yamcha couldn’t get Bulma back, he would return to Puar. This time, it would be he who would beg for forgiveness.

He briefly thought of inviting the Tournament Announcer to come live with him, but he remembered of all the ad revenue the announcer had gotten from broadcasting the tournament on every channel (and which he hadn’t offered to split with Yamcha, either, though the bandit didn’t care much). The man had probably been able to buy an entire island mansion with that money. Yamcha also expected that a good deal of that money was going to bribe a certain judge to look the other way on a certain matter. As soon as Yamcha thought about it, he realized that he did not want to relive the past. He couldn’t have the announcer in his life anymore.

That left him with only Puar. Puar had stayed with him through his bouts of alcoholism, even going to the trouble of entering in Yamcha’s own tournament to try and dissuade him from continuing his habits. His friend had loved him in spite of what he had done, not because. And such a thought brought tears to Yamcha’s eyes once again. For a moment (and it was just a moment), Yamcha felt the emptiness that had come from his constant alcohol use and Bulma’s abandoning of him be fully replaced by the love he and Puar shared in their friendship. And it was the greatest moment of Yamcha’s life.

Yamcha tasted his tears. They tasted like tears this time.