The KidVegeta Anthology/Spaceball

TUN asked me to write this story with him. It's a bit of an odd one too, since we decided to make it canon-following. The character is the referee from the U6 Tournament from Dragon Ball Super. When we wrote this, I wasn't caught up to that saga yet.

There's not a lot to say about this one from the get-go, though. We wrote it very quickly - the whole story was conceptualized and written on May 20, 2017. TUN was adamant about this being canon-following. I didn't really know what the fuck was going on.

A lot of the story was based on Speedball, and this story's a bit of a parody overall of Speedball (but in space). TUN was also interested in the stream-of-consciousness style I was using around this time as well, and we decided to put that into the second section.

In terms of the writing, we traded off every sentence until the first section's final poem. At that point, we traded off every word. We then each wrote roughly half of that madness that is the second section, with TUN going first, and then me writing the second half or so.

This is a very short story; it's similar to a BYARM, but it's not really. I'd say it's closer to the style of Shame than anything else. This was a very quick little fic, totally spur-of-the-moment, and as such, there's nothing else really to say about it. It was indeed meant to be comedic, but at the same time, it wasn't meant to be as wildly ridiculous as a regular BYARM.

Story
The stuff I wrote is in bold.

"I really think his picture looks seductive. And he looks like a Majin buu type character."



The space televisions buzzed in low, near-white noise. The referee’s mind was filled with a similar meaningless haze as his space drugs began to take effect. They were excellent space drugs, the kind you could find at a space flea market, such as Kooli, NTT, and the cheaper Nil strains.

The bartender looked at him with concern, but said nothing, as there was nothing he could do. He was a well-to-do bartender who very much enjoyed the ingestible Kooli strips because of their fruity flavor, but he would never tell a soul that, and in public he hated anyone who used drugs, particularly green men.

“Man, what universe am I even in,” the referee said, swaying dizzily in his stool.

In his younger days, the bartender had had a problem with his own stool. In his older days, he was unable to hold in his stools, and the ones he released were frequently crimson in color. He walked over to the green man, the referee of a man, who was wobbling on his stool and presented him with a fresh crimson one which by no means would be rickety.

The referee thanked him in a slurry of slurred speech, as he reminisced on his regrets, particularly that he didn’t steal Frost’s poison when he had the chance, that stuff could’ve given him a transcendent high.

It was the lowest moment of his life, and he looked up like a space deer in the space headlights, screaming, his voice breaking, “My mama was an ooooooooonly child!!”

“Ah, the classic Yardrat folk song,” the man sitting next to him, who was named Viet, said.

“Annathacoshun, inniprissed i needanatha koooo,” the referee explained before promptly throwing up onto Viet’s shoes and toes.

Viet was rather nonplussed by this blatant allegory for US foreign policy. “Your voice is familiar, green man, and I do say, have we met before?”

“I unno, I’ve met plenty of people in my day, including a pleasing old gal who touched my antenna and called me handsome” the referee spat.

“You…” Viet moaned, his eyes sparkling with wonder, “y-you were the runner up in Arcose’s Got Talent twenty-three years ago!!”

The Referee reminisced on his legendary performance of My Momma Was an Only Son on kazoo using only his head tentacle and his rightmost nostril.

It was the most horrifying thing Viet ever heard.

“I deeply apologize for the trauma I caused you and all the people of your race,” the referee said, each syllable interlaced with a vomitus expulsion.

The referee was feeling angsty and when you feel angsty it’s a good time for character development which this sheila obviously needed so he placed his head on the table and tried to do a pretend referee match in his head between the bartender and Viet but all he ended up doing was lighting his head tentacle on fire a bit.

Viet was a kind man and a generous soul, so the moment he saw the referee’s tentacle ignite, he popped that sucker in his mouth and sucked the fire into his throat. It was unfortunate and probably hurt the referee a lot, but he didn’t feel a thing because when he’d been but a child, he’d played with his head tentacle in his father’s space spa and pressed it against one of the high pressure space water jets until he couldn’t feel a thing no more no more.

“Be honest, does that Majin Buu have a bigger tentacle than I?” the referee said, spitting words and liquor.

“You meant to say ‘me’ there, I think,” Viet replied coolly, drinking a cool glass of space water on the space rocks.

“I think I mean shut the fuck up,” the referee said, thinking he was very much clever.

“It is your duty… to everyone in the universe… to stop doing all these drugs now you see…” Viet bellowed with the passion of an Arlian spacewhore whose melting genital cavity had been recently classified as more conspiratorial than fluoride in the water but i digress.

“Fine, I won’t do all of the drugs, I’ll only do some of them,” the referee replied, as he imagined how ripe for breeding Vados would look if she was wearing his skintight suit instead.

“Nay, and I declare a second nay,” Viet boomed and trumpeted, “but if you stop all of this horrible no good bad stuff I’ll give you one of these,” he continued, sliding a pink slip of paper over to the referee which said, in no uncertain terms, that he was the beneficiary of a Universally Recognized Space Monopoly Peace Prize.

The referee thought about it for a moment, “it,” in this case, being Champa’s supple breasts, and after his contemplation, he tossed his space heroin needle aside, where it lodged into one of the arms of the bar's patrons, condemning him to a life of addiction and eventual tragic death from overdose. “My leg,” moaned said customer quietly with no one around. That customer’s name was Dangyu, and he was a fabulous cowboy, and, unlike Zarbon, he was of the homosexual persuasion, as in, he was quite gifted at persuading men to be homosexual with him for a night.

White folks crazy. Green folks crazier, make it work. “Yo man in my off-time i like to do the slam poetry u ever do the slam poetry my g,” and Referee was all, “bruh id rather go to a warehouse and get locked inside as it burned down,” but Viet sai” yes exactly here is mine:

In so far that rest won’t give another death.

Twenty loves, for needles.

 My gold prince of Universe and Things.

Rock all worlds, but perish on silent xylophones.

You don’t break open lies of flesh castles.

Love is consuming several shattered nephroliths from down below where the sagging soul puffs.

Last time for breakfast, first time for stank ass pussy.

“Sounds like fucking bullshit, 5/679 at best,” the referee said. In his younger days of the Latter Day Referees, Referee, son of Referee

The cleanness burned his soul and his tongue was hot with white fire taste of ancient wind and gentle things that broke as he touched them clinging to him longingly like the appendages of some sea beast from a nightmare half recalled that he could not place but it was seven nights ago and he was lying in bed tears in his rounded black eyes as he thought about all that could’ve been and all that wasn’t and all that will be and how nothing could stop it no matter how hard he tried his impotent antenna was not an antennae and he wanted to take another sip but the fire was in his throat now and he couldn’t stop any longer and the red spheres bounced and pulsated gently within his skull as cartilage gave way to veins and veins gave way to blood and the blood was hot and the blood was spilled but not for anything that meant anything to anyone not even himself and he wondered why he was chosen or if he was chosen to have that blood flowing within him keeping his broken heart alive and his throat was dry and he vomited sand and the room around him turned a shade of superblack and he was flesh and he was bone draped over a stool in a half-empty bar in a galaxy in a universe in some place and he couldn’t figure out why he was here and not anywhere else are you alive or not is there anything going on in that head I remember oh but to me and i say this kindly warmth of the fix going down the in his youth and a blank screen where happiness and his father the rush of eyes and voices and black and black and she came sitting in the comfiest remembering to hear the voices the roar the crowd surging the dark growing and overcoming him like a wave of the blackest tar his voice he could remember of all the voices his not his mothers was watching how could he you don't want I will you won't yes I can the blackness and spiraling heat in his cheeks her cheeks so cold to touch to kiss laughing and the televisions on another roar and he was on his knees over him well over him well gone and finished if you could compact your conscience tearing to pieces a handful of dust it doesn't take much to survive these days it doesn't take a lot and if you're looking we’re always selling I’m not selling why would I sell do you have any clue ripped orange flesh salted with smoke and the televisions on good and sweet and true but not the best not any longer and was mother watching last night did she see and him, she won't look oh her warmth on his cheek the feeling of but if that's what you think than to hell with you you heard me and him, that'll do none of your kind good you watch me I went through this myself when I was twenty and there ain't no way it'll turn out pretty there's too much sound and all the eyes looking the breath before the calm graceful and sitting before the moonlight held breaths and looking nowhere on the empty stage and in the silence the sounds of buzzing televisions once more.......................................................................... .....................................................................................................................................................................................

Endnotes


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