In Search of Pork Buns

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This article, In Search of Pork Buns, contains the following: Adult Content. Reader discretion is advised.

Shortly after lunch, May 16, Age 767

Bulma had gone to deliver the android shutdown device to the Z Fighters, and Dr. Brief had, by the sound of it, just put Trunks down for a nap. Yajirobe’s chopsticks clattered into an empty bowl. Cigarette smoke lingered in the dining room. Patting his stomach and holding in a burp, he noticed the muted TV was showing footage of Cell terrorizing people on a small island.

Yajirobe’s palms slicked over with sweat. He knew what Bulma would demand of him when she returned. Well, he wouldn’t do it. He had fought courageously with Goku and the others against Vegeta, but the androids and Cell were orders of magnitude more terrifying. He was only a ronin—a ronin who couldn’t fly. From a helicopter’s vantage, the news showed the chaotic traffic situation in South City.

“They have the right idea.”

The sly samurai slunk silently to the sliding door in the back, where he found a taped envelope addressed to him. It held a capsule containing cash, a new hovercar, and a thank-you note from Bulma (for keeping Trunks company the past few days). Unfortunately, Yajirobe wasn’t much of a reader, so he crumpled up the letter and chucked it in the bin.

Outside, a fierce sun greeted him; there wasn’t a soul in sight. A gust of wind disturbed some crumpled newspapers. His eyes fell upon a parked hovercar across the street, half-cloaked in shadow. Its glistening orange coat roused in the man a devious craving. He could have taken Bulma’s car. He could have. But where was the fun in that?

Pocketing the capsule, he felt his arms prickle with goosebumps.

---

On the outskirts of the southern port of Seikishi City, the western ocean laid bare before him, a desperately famished Yajirobe dipped below the clouds and spotted several people milling about a nikuman shop—3792 Miyashiro. He parked in a near-desolate lot that had been built upon a hill overlooking a dirt road leading into town and scampered down to the humble shack, that savory smell of roasting pork teasing his nostrils, grateful that they had remained open in this time of terror and hunger.

A half-bald man with curly red hair came running down the road, zeni in hand; not far behind, an elderly couple came ambling over from the inland hills. The samurai was mighty proud of himself for securing his place in line before they had appeared.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere. Ah, get back here, Herb.”

“Unhand me, woman!” He pushed her away, and she came perilously close to falling and breaking a hip (but, alas, held her balance). “If I want a bun, I’ll have a bun. Quiet! I’ve had enough! You’re embarrassing me in front of everybody…”

“Why do you eat those things? They taste like plastic!”

Yajirobe rolled his eyes. The line moved up, and a tall blonde began her order.

“You never support me! Never!”

“That’s enough, Herbert. Quiet. People’ll hear.”

“To hell with them.”

“Herbert!”

“Don’t you Herbert me, damn old bag! Goddamn her! I hate her!”

“Now you know I don’t like that talk. Don’t call me a… oh my! Oh, good heavens! Pervert! Pervert! Pervert on the loose! Oh, it’s him! Pervert! Him! Look!” the old woman shrieked, pointing to the red-headed man. She had a terrible shriek, a smoker’s shriek, the kind that is always on the edge of giving out, yet never does. “Herbert, look! He’s… he’s… he’s… oh, Herbert, he’s pleasuring himself in public!”

Herbert, whose beer belly would put Rob Ryan’s to shame, shoved the bald man to the ground and spit on him. “You sick bastard! The hell’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?” the ginger asked, jumping to his feet. “What the hell’s wrong with you, pal? You hit me. That’s battery. I have witnesses. I’ll get you for this.”

“You were trying to bust one to my wife.”

“No… what?! No, no, no, you’re crazy. My shirt just, uh, got caught in my zipper. I was just getting it unstuck. That’s it. No big problem, see?” He turned to show everyone his predicament, and it was readily apparent that his cheeks had gone scarlet.

“He kept glancin’, Herb, kept glancin’ all sweaty at me.”

“No I didn’t… I was just, uh… I only looked at you nice folks once…”

“Aha, so you did!” Despite being thirty years his senior, Herbert shoved the man out of the line before getting up in his face. “You’re sick.”

“Hey, what the hell, you touching me?” He shoved Herbert back. “I’ll call the cops on you!”

So, they swore and swung fists, and the old lady was hooting and hollering, flailing her violet handbag wildly about. The smell of cooking dough couldn’t stop Yajirobe’s mouth from watering. The woman in the fur coat collected her order, and it was his turn. Feeling his heart beat a mile a minute, he didn’t know how to properly clench his jaw. Not having eaten in two hours could do that to a warrior.

Zeni in hand, he said, “I’ll have three pork buns, and, uh, let’s see… ten potstickers. That’ll be to-go.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but we are fresh out of pork buns. Would you like to try our pork or prawn shumai instead?”

“Pff, whatever. Ten of those, then.”

Having been looking forward to those pork buns for almost five minutes now, Yajirobe was understandably crestfallen. Returning to the parking lot, he found the blonde in her red convertible, pigging out. It felt as if an invisible blanket of ice had constricted around him, and all restraint had left him.

“Don’t you have any shame, pig?! Really? Hogging the last ten pork buns all to yourself?”

A piece of onion was stuck to her chin. “You talkin’ to me, dude?”

“You heard me.”

With three bites that would have inspired lion cubs, she swallowed the second-to-last bun, then licked her fingers foul. “Don’t know what to tell you, Chubby. Should have gotten here sooner if you wanted ‘em. Besides, look at all that food you’re carrying. What a whiner.”

He ground his teeth, but the ice wasn’t melting; she scoffed and bit into the last bun. Without hesitating, he threw open her door, pulled her out, and stomped on her precious pork bun. Before she could scream, he ripped her fur coat away and slid into the warm seat of the hovercar. With how cold it was by the water, it was the little things like that which he appreciated the most.

Soaring into the air, his heart in his throat, Yajirobe felt a sense of nostalgia. It had been many years since he had last stolen a car and taken it on a joyride through Orange Star City. Those were the days, he thought, reaching a hand into the potstickers’ container.

---

When he was fewer than fifty miles from Korin Tower, Yajirobe made one last stop at a gas station in Baku Bay. Amidst a setting sun, the sky bronzing and purpling, the wind whistled through the mountain pass. First, he needed a bite to eat. Five unique flavors of steamed buns were for sale at the counter. He was a simple ronin; he liked the classic flavor best. He bought the remaining three: one for him, one for the cat, and one for the road.

It was growing chilly as he returned to his car. On the right edge of the parking lot, a cyan convertible lay at rest, just asking to be stolen. To his left, the mountain gave way to the Sacred Land of Korin. It would take no great effort to steal that car, to claim it, test its speed. And yet, the pork buns were getting cold, and so too was his blood. He was not the man he once had been.

Unwrapping one, he inhaled its savory aroma and returned to the car.