The Destructivedisk Anthology/Three

Destructivedisk Three was originally published around four months after Two was published. For the longest time, I had planned to make the story about either Vegeta or Chiaotzu, but ultimately I found that Mr. Satan was the most interesting character and the one easiest to write about. As a result, this story took me at most about an hour to write, being another story written rapidly although it took a long time to come about. I came up with the idea for the story while in the shower, and I remember quickly leaving the shower once it came to me for I was so excited to write it.

In many ways, Three is the first story in That Magic Feeling to really capture what the whole collection is about. One was initially intended as a stand-alone story and Two was something of a faux pas, so Three was the first story to really capture the spirit of the collection. It's also one of the most generally sad stories in the collection, with a tone best described as either 'bleak' or 'lonely'.

The story is also rife with symbolism when compared to many of my other stories. The mansion that Satan lives in represents his wealth and status, but it also represents his psyche, with its long, narrow, empty halls and dreary decorations. The punching bag represents fighting and power, and mostly depicts how Satan has lost much of his power and strength. In this way, although the story is short and deals with just a small night in Mr. Satan's life, it feels much more meaningful than that and seems pretty broad.

Other concepts for stories included an interview with Chiaotzu on a radio station following many of the events in Dragon Ball and how he frames that interview, and a story about how Vegeta struggled to deal with his relationship to Goku in terms of power. However, neither of these ideas were truly interesting to me, and I therefore found them extremely difficult to write.

The story mostly deals with conflicts between Mr. Satan and the society that he lives in. The theme is mostly about how we project ourselves to society in a way that is rarely truthful or faithful to reality.

Three
This story's theme is So Long Jerry by Ween.

“Are you cold?”

His voice rang out against the wind, resonating through Mark’s empty backyard. Like a choir boy, his voice was clear and sharp, chiming in like a cherub.

“Yeah, I guess.”

He unbuttoned his jacket pocket and fished his right hand into the compartment. He shuffled about in this cove, seemingly grabbing something.

“Want something to warm you up?”

He reeled his hand out, bringing a bottle of tequila with it. He pushed it toward Mark, inviting the boy to take a sip. Mark seemed momentarily hesitant - after a pause, he replied.

“Thanks.”

Mark reached down and grabbed the small bottle, swooping it up to his mouth. He tipped it back and took a swig, the golden liquid spilling into his mouth. He grimaced, his face puckered up, and, with a disgruntled sigh, returned the bottle from whence it came.

“What, you don’t like it?” His breath was visible in the cold air and it collected as condensation against the side of the tequila bottle.

“It’s fine.”

Mark’s friend chuckled, more than a note of condescension in his voice.

“You need something to chase it with?”

“I can handle it.”

His friend took the bottle in his palm and drank from it like it was nectar in a plastic chalice. Within moments, half the bottle’s filling disappeared before Mark’s very eyes. The boy released it from his lips with a sigh of relief and spun the cap back on, placing it back down.

“You’d like it if you had it more. Myself,” he let out a small cough, “I find it kinda soothing.”

Twenty years later, Mr. Satan was beginning to find the taste soothing.

He did not partake too regularly. His consumption decreased after the death of his wife, when he alone had to care for Videl, and had only increased recently. There was something haunting him, bothering him, something he had to chase away. He was the Martial Arts Champion of the World. No bad dream fucker was going to boss him around.

Mr. Satan remembered the Cell Games too well for his own good. He hoped that he could grow old faster so that his memories would fade more quickly, until maybe he wouldn’t remember anything other than his triumph over that monster.

Mr. Satan hoped that would happen. He knew that it never would.

He had trained. He had trained so, so much. He had enrolled in more dojos, in more martial arts schools, than anyone he had ever heard of, mythic or real. He was supposed to be the savior of them all, the panacea for the world’s ailments. And yet, he had failed.

Who did they think they were? Those golden-haired warriors, those fools. With their cunning magic tricks, their light shows. They made a mockery of the real practitioners with their make-up and their tomfoolery, they were nothing more than clowns.

Mr. Satan knew this wasn’t the truth. He didn’t care. He had an image to maintain - one of machismo, one of bravado. Without that, his income would dwindle, his image would wither away, and he’d be replaced by the stronger ones.

And so ended the martial artist’s moment of clarity. His thoughts were overcome with a sea of alcohol, his mind’s eye fogged up, the barley functioning as steaming air against his mind’s glasses. He stood up, hardly coordinated, and plodded out of his kitchen.

His house was huge, the castle that obscured the mountain of lies buried beneath it. He wondered if such a large house was even worth the investment. All the more to get lost in, he thought. He didn’t need a second maze in his life - the first was already omnipresent enough.

He knew that it was a problem when he opened each successive door, unable to find his destination. He hardly recognized any of the empty rooms. He wondered why he even had them to begin with - Videl was away and he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had come over.

Mr. Satan couldn’t believe it was so difficult. Why hadn’t the tequila illuminated his path, acted as his lantern as he traversed the innermost recesses of this maze? Far as he knew, it had guided him through the other maze. He couldn’t fathom why this new one was so hard to orienteer.

Before long, he stumbled across the room he had been seeking. It was a spacious cavern, not to mention dark. He flicked a lightswitch, waiting for the lights to immediately come on. Nothing happened. He glanced up at the lightbulb and watched it gradually enlighten, at first dim, until it had transitioned to peak brightness. It was a beautiful, vibrant yellow glow, shining down on the room like a spotlight.

In the center of the room there hung a single red punching bag. It was ovallic and huge, the grandest punching bag in all the land. Mr. Satan had purchased it celebratorily as a reward for becoming the World Champion. He walked over to it, inspecting it’s fine surface.

He traced his fingers along the fabric, admiring the seams. It was an elegant piece of craftsmanship.

Something caught his eye. It was white and stood out on the ruby red surface of the punching bag. Mr. Satan examined it more closely, closing in on it. There it was - a tear in the exterior, a piece of cotton that had escaped.

Mr. Satan glanced around. Who had attacked his prize? He circled around the punching bag, scanning for intruders. This was a punching bag that no man could puncture, that no person could feasibly tear. Who had done this?

And then, Mr. Satan, in a moment of drunken fury, unleashed a flurry of punches on the punching bag. He slammed it, vigorously at first, and then with progressively more and more diffidence. It was none too long before Mr. Satan had given up completely. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t tear the punching bag.

Mr. Satan collapsed. Perhaps a tear rolled out of his eye - nobody ever did know for certain what happened. But, in a moment of defeat that was no less than pitiful, Mr. Satan finally succumbed to sleep. His mind could take no more abuse.

He woke up, twelve hours later, not refreshed but physically tortured. He regained his footing, attempting to actually walk. He found his balance again, rather slowly, now feeling slightly more confident on his feet.

As he walked out of his training room, he flicked the light back off. He wondered how many more nights that light bulb had left in it - he pondered if he would need a replacement soon and how he would get one. He calmed himself, though, moving back down the corridor that was his hallway. He closed doors as he walked back to his kitchen.

Going to his cupboard, he brought out a canister of coffee grinds and took three spoonfuls out. He dumped them into his coffee machine before setting the machine to ‘on’. He felt, at long last, like he could rest. He sat back down, simultaneously disposing of last night’s empty bottle.

He watched as the coffee slowly leaked out of the machine and into the pot. He noted the name of the brand on the machine - “Olibu’s Coffee”. He considered likening himself to such a heroic hero, and ultimately decided that such a comparison was not nearly enough. He wondered who could be compared to him - probably not anyone. He was above that.

One would be keen to question who was more sober - a sober Mr. Satan or a drunk one. Whether alcohol freed him of his delusions or only entrapped him in more, Mr. Satan did not know. All he knew, in sooth, was that he needed the soothing.

Mr. Satan took the pot of coffee and poured himself a high cup. Mr. Satan only knew one thing - three spoonfuls of coffee made for a damn good cup.

Endnotes

 * 1) The opening scene was inspired almost directly by an event in my actual life. I thought of it while in the shower and it is what really catalyzed the creation of the story - otherwise, it might have taken several more months to write. The intro scene serves as an introduction to the whole idea of alcohol, but ultimately isn't too important. I felt like it set the tone well and it didn't take up much space, so I kept it overall.
 * 2) The choir boy reference was thrown in as a reference to Lord of the Flies, wherein a group of choir boys get stranded on an island and basically end up killing each other.
 * 3) Mr. Satan's canon name is Mark, which is why the name Mark is used (obviously).
 * 4) Mr. Satan is shockingly young in the official canon, which is why I always find it weird to read that the opening scene takes place only 20 years earlier. He's only like 31 during the Buu Saga.
 * 5) "No bad dream fucker was gonna boss him around" is a line ripped directly from Christian Brother by Elliott Smith. Christian Brother is a brand of whiskey and that song deals with a man drinking it in order to escape his problems. It's very similar to what happens in this story.
 * 6) The part where Satan hopes that he will grow old so that he can forget his past seems similar to something that Shakespeare wrote, but I can't pinpoint in my memory exactly what that was. Sorry!
 * 7) 'Panacea' was one of the vocab words in the English Class that I had been taken at the time.
 * 8) What's interesting about this story is how Satan goes back on himself constantly. He goes from thinking that the Z-Fighters are all frauds to thinking that they're amazing warriors within the space of seconds, indicated a cloudy and confused psyche.
 * 9) The Moment of Clarity is a well-described phenomena wherein alcoholics realize momentarily that their habits are wrong and that she should stop drinking. This story begins during Mr. Satan's moment of clarity, before he reverts back into a stupor and stumbles through his house.
 * 10) "Far as he knew, it had guided him through the other maze" - the implication here is that tequila allowed Mr. Satan to navigate his way through his mind. The issue, though, is that Mr. Satan is clearly unable to find his way through his own house as a consequence of the alcohol, and therefore he is even less likely able to navigate his mouse.
 * 11) The implication of the light taking so long to turn on is that the light is weak and is close to dying. This would imply that Mr. Satan has turned the light on often and for long periods of time.
 * 12) It's incredibly likely that Satan tore his own punching bag during an earlier drunken rampage, but it's pretty clear that he had forgotten about that incident by the time of the story. However, that he is then unable to tear the punching bag is representative of his growing futility as a fighter. He can no longer keep up and accomplish what he wants to accomplish as a fighter or otherwise.
 * 13) What is earlier implied about the light being about to run it is confirmed here. It is implied rather heavily that Satan has repeated this incident countless times, venturing to the basement and attacking the punching bag before passing out on many occasions. This is particularly sad, for it shows that Satan is caught in something of a cycle and isn't moving up.
 * 14) The inclusion of Olibu has three purposes. First, Olibu is the Dragon World version of Hercules, which is Mr. Satan's namesake in the Funimation dub. Second, Olibu has never been used in fanon before to my knowledge, so including him is just a cool thing to do. Third, Olibu is highly regarded in the Dragon World, implying that Hercules sees himself as a type of Olibu as well by drinking his brand of coffee. It'd be like if somebody referred to themself as an Adonis because they were physically fit.
 * 15) "In sooth" is a phrase taken from A Merchant in Venice by William Shakespeare. I really like the phrase.
 * 16) The line questioning whether or not Mr. Satan is better off sober or drunk is an interesting one. It's clear that Mr. Satan is more honest with himself while drunk, but it's also clear that he has some self-destructive habits while drunk and that he isn't getting any closer to actually solve his problems. Either way, Mr. Satan seems to be damned if he does drink and damned if he doesn't.
 * 17) While many of the stories have very forced final lines, I feel like the final line in this story used the word 'three' in a fulfilling way that ends the story very satisfyingly.

I like Three a lot. The story covers a character pretty rarely discussed in fanon and gives a very in-depth evaluation of his character in a pretty short story. What I'm most proud of is how much Three manages to communicate in a pretty short form. There are several layers of characterization and symbolism that manage to be pretty compelling without making the story inaccessible or esoteric. In that regard, it's probably the most successful story at executing the whole purpose of the That Magic Feeling collection. However, there are a few thoughts. The first introductory scene could have had more relevance overall, and I felt like the story's writing could have been tighter and the prose a little bit stronger. Even though the writing is good, it's still not quite as strong as some of the other stories in the collection. Overall, in spite of that, I really enjoyed rereading Three and I consider one of my best contributions to this site so far. I would give it an S rank.