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This article, Bean Daddy, contains the following:

Graphic Language.

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It was August of Age 775, and everyone had gathered to celebrate yet another one of Bulma’s birthdays. Yajirobe had not come to the party in several years, for doing so would be unreasonable for even the most reasonable of asocial samurai, but the temptation of feasting on the budget of someone as rich as her was too much to resist for someone who lived off of senzu beans three hundred days out of the year. All of this is to say that Yajirobe went to Bulma’s birthday party that year without telling Korin.

There was a particular server girl he liked a lot; she had nice, full lips, and her face wasn’t half bad either. He had spent many years wallowing in self-reflection, in his own pervasive thoughts. His feelings were nakedly at odds with the moods of those around him. They partied and guffawed, stuffing their faces. Being a man of class, of perpetual hunger, he filled his belly almost entirely on the mu shu pork. It had been years since he’d had something as good as that. The cat sure as hell could not cook like this, and anything he bought was governed by the sturdiness of the microwave he’d saved up to buy (which wasn’t much, as the poor machine had been used heavily over the years).

“Hey, Puar. How’s it goin’?” he grunted, as he was wont to do.

“Oh, you know Yajirobe, same as always.”

“You doin’ anythin’?”

“Oh no, I’m just floating around, making comments about Yamcha and the others. You know, the usual. Hopefully Yamcha won’t have to fight anybody today so he stays alive for many years to come. Oh, I don’t know what I would do without him.”

It was no fun talking to that weird little cat, so Yajirobe stuffed his face for a while until the little bastard got bored and floated off. They were congregating and conversing in the backyard of Capsule Corp. He was not inclined to join them. It would be a bitch to get up right now. The pulled pork tacos were exquisite. If there was nothing else to eat in the world for the rest of time save these tacos on his plate (being his fourth and fifth portions mushed together), he would not be unhappy. Why couldn’t senzus taste this good?

He silently cursed Whiskers the Wondercat’s gardening abilities.

Krillin came over to say hello, but he had grown his hair out, so Yajirobe hardly recognized him. That made him easier to ignore. Although their exchanged words were curt, he felt himself recalling their training together on the Lookout in preparation for Vegeta and Nappa for some unknown reason. What had that accomplished in the end? They had saved the Earth for a time, with the samurai’s own contribution being the most important of all. Still, none of that had really mattered. Buu had still shown up and killed everyone. He would never forgive Goku for allowing that to happen. Yajirobe had wanted to go through his entire life without dying; the stupid Saiyan and his friends had messed that up badly. Krillin was worse off, he supposed, having died three times, so he couldn’t complain much.

At least the idiot had chosen to come over to Yajirobe, unlike the others. It would still be a stretch to say he cared about Krillin’s recounting of his personal life–finding a mate in Android 18 of all people, and having a child with her.

“Marron? Didn’t you have a girlfriend named Maron? Real classy, Krillin, naming your daughter after your ex…”

“Hey, quiet down man! Don’t let Eighteen hear you!”

“Or what? She’ll kill you, and we’ll have to wish you back again with the Dragon Balls?”

“Oh, real funny, Yajirobe. Gee, it sure was nice seeing you again.” He rolled his eyes and walked away.

As the day progressed, the samurai’s belly steadily filled, and he became less hostile. The waitress brought him sushi, making him happier than he cared to admit. He wanted to show her his bag of senzu beans, yet after she gave him a wink and a smile, he thought better of it. Afternoon decayed to evening, and soon Bulma was opening her gifts in front of a crowd of most of her closest friends. Even Goku was there, though he did not say hello to Yajirobe. The samurai made note of that hideous betrayal. One would think at least he, of those in attendance, would give Yajirobe his due.

Yajirobe hadn’t gotten her anything. What had Bulma done for him lately? He was only here for the food.

Afterwards, his belly aching for some relief, he satiated himself by calling to her again. Prompt and professional, always carrying a platter of a variety of mouth-watering choices, she was everything he desired in a woman. By now, he had grown accustomed to her middle-aged face. She was neither beautiful, nor ugly. Her homely face aside, something about her gave him comfort. He adored her. He wanted to marry her. More importantly, he wanted to put baby samurai inside her. Korin could take care of them most of the time, anyways. It was about time he spread his seed.

There was a brown-haired boy fanboying out at Hercule’s heel, embarrassing his shorter friend, whose tail was twitching in irritation. Yajirobe recognized that one–that was one he’d cut off before, much like Vegeta’s. That was the tail of Ledas, a Saiyan boy who had come to Earth only a year or so ago, involving Yajirobe, Goku, and the others in some minor crisis. Yajirobe had forgotten most of what had happened, although he vaguely remembered being crucially involved in saving the day once again.

In any case, he wanted more food, so he raised his sweaty palm and again beckoned her over. She was quite lovely. He couldn’t say anything to her. She smiled at him and fed him, and really, that was all he had ever wanted.

Mr. Satan was entertaining Ledas’ friend, posing for him and showing off his muscles. The boy’s eyes were wide, and the grin on his face was unmistakable even from ten meters away. The champ began punching the air, doing a bit of his routine. Thankfully, there were no cameras around. Yajirobe noticed Videl watching her father and shaking her head in disgust. The fat man could hardly disagree with her assessment of the situation.

“Hey Yajirobe,” said Ledas, who had grown bored of Mr. Satan’s showboating. “How’s it going?”

“Not bad. The sushi isn’t terrible, and the mu shu pork is pretty good. Tacos are amazing. Have you had any?”

“Uh huh. That’s the only reason I came to this stupid party.”

“Same.”

“Heheh, that doesn’t surprise me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re a big fat tubby, Yajirobe.”

He scowled. “Why do I bother talking to you, Ledas?”

“Sorry,” the boy replied, his tone becoming earnest. “I was just being cheeky. So what’s up with you, Bean Daddy?”

“H-hey, shut up… don’t call me that. Someone could hear.”

“Alright, alright! So, um what are you up to, man?”

“Chillin’.”

His eyes were on her, even as she served Yamcha a table over. His cheeks grew hot. He noticed the boy noticing, but there was little for him to do except let it happen. Knowing he might never see her again, Yajirobe was not about to ration his glances.

“Ohohoho, I see that look in your eyes, Yajirobe. You must be in love.”

“No I’m not,” he replied in a grunt. “Just need to take a shit.”


The party was a massive dud, as usual, so they left early to avoid the worst and most awkward parts (talking to supposed acquaintances). They hadn’t left, however, until the server girl had gotten off of her shift. That had been a bitch to coordinate. Nevertheless, in bustling West City, the fat samurai and the insolent Saiyan followed the woman home for they wanted to see where she lived. There was nothing unvirtuous about their intent.

Try as he might, there was no fooling Ledas, and indeed, while they followed her, Yajirobe was forced to come clean.

“I can’t get her off my mind.”

“Yeah, I can see why. Her boobies are kinda big, though,” the Saiyan pointed out. “Personally, I prefer them a lot smaller.”

“I wasn’t asking what you preferred, man.”

“Oh, right. Well, in that case, I think she’s lovely.”

“Sure is pretty,” Yajirobe kept muttering to himself.

“She’s alright, yeah.”

They maintained a distance behind her of around half a block. It wasn’t the best, but at the same time, they were not professional detectives. Hover cars raced down the streets around them. There was a fair amount of people about, so they could not afford to lag behind too much, lest they lose her in the crowds.

“C’mon Yajirobe, say something t’her,” Ledas complained in a whisper.

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’…!” the big man muttered, shoving his way past several idlers.

A stale city wind was on his cheeks. With an anxious energy akin to hunger, the samurai rushed towards her. He wasn’t going to end up like Yamcha, like Puar, like half the losers stuck back at Bulma’s. He was going to find a baby mama and put it in her. A fine swordsman such as himself should have no problem with that. If he were confident enough, nothing else would matter.

People were swearing and gasping in fright as he pushed his way past them. She had reached the curb, and was waiting for the light to turn with a modest group of people. One of her fingers had curled around the end of her long brown hair. His mouth went dry. Wiping his palms on his shirt, he cleared his throat. The pace at which he was approaching her caused many around her to gracelessly step out of the way.

The woman turned around, her eyes meeting his. For a moment, he forgot everything, a sweeping, tingly feeling spreading through his vision, enough to almost knock him unconscious. Yajirobe smiled weakly. He was not good with ladies, of course, having rarely ever talked to them. On the walk up to her, he should have been thinking about what to say, but his mind had been racing.

Taken aback by his brazenness, the woman backpedaled away from Yajirobe, tripped on the side of the curb, and fell into the street. She should have recognized him. He didn’t understand why she did that.

Having hit her head hard on the asphalt, the server began bleeding out. A few indignant pedestrians ran over to help her. Yajirobe was not amongst them. From behind, the boy reached him, clicking his tongue as most everyone fled or watched in hushed silence as the woman twitched unresponsively, blood flowing into the street. He felt the joy slipping out of his skull.

In his pocket, he fingered a senzu bean; he could not compel his body forward.

“That really sucks, man.”

“Yeah.”

“Wanna go to the buffet?”

“Yeah.”

He climbed onto the back of the much smaller boy, and they got the hell out of there. Nobody noticed them fly off into the sky. It had been a disaster of a night. At least the samurai was about to feast. Feasting always made him forget about girls–at least until his belly was filled. That was a rare feeling, being entirely filled up. Yajirobe could not and would not get there easily, and for good reason.


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