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This article, Sandboys, contains the following:

Adult Content, Graphic Language.

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A bald man’s head was poking out of the sand like a gopher’s. Master Roshi stepped on him, and down he went. “Oooh, heehee! Lookee there, that’s a cute one!” he moaned, elbowing Oolong in the forehead. He pulled up his binoculars to get a better look.

The girl was as you would expect: in a bikini, thin, with blue eyes, blonde hair, and pale skin, because let’s be real, Master Roshi’s a white supremacist. You have to like them Upa look-a-likes or else you’re just like Master Roshi, fam.

There were a lot of bitch baby mamas, if I’m being generous (and I will be). They scoured the beach like they were looking for gold (and they were).

“Wow, there’s a whole lot more nothing than I knew exists!” Oolong squealed like he fryin’ in a pan niġġa.

“Shut it hog,” Roshi spat, giving the runt a savage backslap.

“Hey, old man, that hurt!”

“Would you quiet down, you mangy animal?!?!”

As they gibbered, seagulls burned the skies. As they gabbed, hotties by the scores vanished from sight. This was no good. Roshi needed some action and he needed it bad. The tide was comin’ in yo. Mirages were on the horizon; his throat was raw, his blood hot.

One time there was a brown-eyed lass layin’ in the sand like some sand crab or such, and a middle-aged man with a head like a fuckin’ orange was poking about with a metal detector next to her. When his detector made a beeping sound, the man jumped for joy, spraying her with a face full of the aforementioned sand. All of this is to say that she was lying there braless, y’know, gotta tan the whole back. She was quite a breathtaking girl, or at least all of her holes still worked. This was all rather nice, and when she rolled over briefly, anyone could’ve seen her fine twin kangaroo shakers.

There was a guy who looked like a right tosser, weasel-faced as a shrew. He was blasting himself in the face with a tiny pink spray fan. Wearing what looked like a bonnet and knee-high socks, the knobhead blocked Roshi’s view of the above event as he walked by.

Oolong was spoiling for some action. He loved action, even though his mother was a whore. The story of Oolong’s mother rivals that of Goku’s story, but ain’t nobody got time for that salami. There were tent complexes spread moderately around the beach-face, like a bunch of tents spread across a beach. These were changing areas, showers, bars, and really anything else you want to imagine they are. Oolong got on all fours and grunting like a pig in heat, rushed into the nearest one. Women screamed. Piggy squealed. Them bitches be rilin’ themselves up. In the tussle and dust, Oolong was kicked out and went flying into the air like some proper pigskin. Roshi caught him on a go route, much to the cheering of the shrimp and undersized plankton.

Triumphantly, Oolong held up the pair of panties he’d stolen. “That’ll do, pig, that’ll do,” Roshi murmured, nuzzling at the baby boy’s snout tenderly.

Seaweed came in with the next wave, a dirty green pile of decaying sludge on the polished grey shore. There might’ve been some pieces of jellyfish mixed in. Her black boots parted sand from her path, and the breeze rattled her curly brown hair, one dangling lock falling down her face, landing just above her nose. She was well met to the Roshi who could live forever, but hadn’t performed his civic duty in many a blue moon.

Oolong was just some ugly little pig fellow. He’s a strange one. He’s not human. He’s not a homo sapien yo. This little bitch’s a pig. Him having the good times with a female human is cross-species!! What is he doing? C’mon Oolong find a pig bitch baby mama and stop playin’ these fools, ain’t no one got time for that nonsense. This is tantamount to animal porn, and of course wise Toriyama, bless his glasses, would never have such filth in his universe, no sir, no ma’am.

Knowing this, yea verily, Master Roshi approached the situation carefully. There’s a lot of unconventional sexual stuff in Dragon Ball and Dragon Ball Z, but one would assume cross-species copulation is not something that Akira Toriyama would support. I know he’s Asian, and Asians are as weird as a possum posse. But they only like fucking corpses, not paper tigers. Roshi needed a wingman. He was old, my niġġas. He was ancient. Master Roshi was around since before all the people on Earth, except some random immortal people and beasts and such. He needed a wingman bad. He was too old to connect with beach babes. What could he do to form an emotional bond with an 18 year old girl? Nothin’, that’s what. This was a puse game through and through.

Some girls have an old guy fetish. It’s rare, but possible. Eventually a man like Roshi would get lucky. But he was an impatient fellow. He suffered from incontinence about three out of every nineteen days. He didn’t like to wear his turtle shell on his back anymore, because that frightened them from jumping on (what with the cross-species assumptions and all). But no one called him a muto, and in all the years Roshi had been doing this, he hadn’t been able to score a date with one bitch baby mama. It was tragic, but more importantly, it prevented Roshi from mounting some hapless soul in the middle of the night, hunched over them like he’d fallen on a rock, bleeding out before he could cum. This year he was going to use Oolong to make sure things went smoother. People look less weird when they’re with friends because we’re supposed to be social creatures. We must be.

“H-hey there,” Roshi called, going red. He had a nose plug in either hand just in case.

“Ég get ekki talað tungumál,” she replied, her voice distant as a melting glacier.

Roshi didn’t speak the language of the Deep Ones, although in his youth, he had worn special contacts that turned his eyes purple to impress the girls. That was back when he had hair. Oolong had basically done nothing with his life. That was not really a surprise, though, considering he had been a small child of significant sexual perversion. He’s a pig after all, haha, well done Toriyama, we get it, you hate the communists. Yes, Oolong was dressed up as a commie and he’s a pig, it’s marvelously subtle. What would have been even better would have been if Oolong had had any sort of character progression at all. One questions why he even exists in the first place. What couldn’t happen if he wasn’t there? Nothing. He’s absolutely useless, and if an author puts a character into a story to make a political statement about Chinese communists, or some shit like that, maybe that character should have other reasons for existing too. Just dreadful storytelling, 0/10, and god rest your soul, Akira-chan.

There was a teal-haired, cyan-eyed boy wandering about in a white-and-red uniform with a black-and-white hat. He was holding a wide box which was connected to a strap slung around his neck. He was like capitalism giving birth to shitty must-buy products, so eagerly did his customers claw at his bloomed stomach. Pale and confused was his face, but all sorts of people were buying the fans from him. It was a successful business. They were sweating like animals, just lying in the sun, taking it, getting just absolutely destroyed by the weather. It’s outrageous. They were evolved to survive in such weather, but the slightest bit of discomfort is too much to handle. Oolong was ashamed that these people could be compared to his noble species.

“Look at those lazy bums. I wonder if any of them have ever seen the dry side of a pillow before!”

“Heheh, Oolong, that’s a good one, heh, take a look at this one, ooh baby!” Roshi rasped like he had taken three to five energy drinks in quick succession. Yes, there were women walking all about and lying about on blankets or towels. A lot of them had two pieces. Some were playing volleyball; some were out in the water, fearless and stupid.

A mustached surfer threw a frisbee into the air, and a second later, an anthropological green-furred dog man jumped after it as a wave crashed into him. He didn’t come back up.

Oolong wore the underwear he’d stolen upside down on his face, just where it belonged. Roshi saw a girl approaching him, her hair dripping. She’d just gotten out of the water, salty as cornbread. “Ah, ahoohoo! Weeaahaahahah!” Roshi said seductively as he scampered up to her like Gollum in a plastic ball. “Say, you ever name the twins?”

“Sand Attack, gruh!” The woman screeched before flinging a pocket full of sand into Jackie Chun’s beard and sprinting off down the beach. A particularly violent wave came foaming in and just took her out, I mean look at her cartwheel in the air like a ragdoll. I like this kinda party.

“Come on, Oolong!” Roshi fondled the lil guy’s ears angrily. “You gotta be my wingman! That’s the only reason I brought ya out to the dunes in the first place!”

“Easy old man, I got all I needed,” the pig squealed (as he is wont to do). “Besides, I’m getting pretty hot. Why don’t we find a place to camp down and regroup? We could have a picnic!”

“Shut your bacon mouth, fool! Here, here, these ones! Comin’ up hoooot!”

There were two of them, as thin a needles, scintillating like a mid-October day. Their skin was tan, their bikinis short, their faces as blank as plates of bacon grease. These were just his kinda girls.

“Uh, hi ladies,” Oolong grunted, shuffling up to them all proper and such. He was wearing stained blue jeans and a yellow wife beater, as well as his snout-treasure. When they just stood there without an expression in the world, he stammered, “So, uh, a-any of you wanna get tuna rolls?”

“Oolong, no!!” Roshi wheezed in sheer horror.

Oolong shrugged. “Hey, girls dig tuna rolls, right girls?”

“Sure, lil piggy! My grandmother could make a beautiful bonnet for you to wear around your head, oh she used to make them all the time!”

The other one asked simply, “Who’s packing?”

“That would be me,” Roshi said, hopping forward. “I’ve gotta package for you, my dear!”

He was expecting to be hit. He wasn’t hit.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. After tuna rolls, right Tiff?”

“Yiff yiff yeah!” Tiffany the human barked.

Off they marched to a nearby tiki bar, and no one had any zeni ‘cept Roshi. Even the old man knew this. He was a mac daddy. A man in a tiki mask was breathing fire. An all-girl punk band, whose members’ hair was bleached pink and blue, was playing a song about some bitch being a bitch anyways. This was not the cheapest winesink on the beach. Roshi noticed with horror that everything would cost him an exorbitant amount (in the readers’ minds, because let’s be real who cares).

They ordered volcano Mai Tais, two each. Oolong got a Diet Dr. Pepper, and Roshi ordered a strawberry daiquiri, much to the girls’ giggling. Some dude was whooping ‘Hell yeah!’ over and over again as he strolled down the beach kicking a saggy beach ball. He would answer his own call, and he would do so again, and eventually the silhouette of his back faded in the shimmering distance.

“So girls… it’s gettin’ kinda late, whaddya say we head back to my place?” Roshi asked hopefully, and he tried not to look too desperate.

“Haha, you’re a cute old man, aren’t’cha?” the blonde one chuckled, blushing.

They drank their drinks like they were just water. A dank beat carried across the sands. Roshi’s head was just beginning to swim, that old familiar feeling. He stumbled up, slipped left, and bumped into the blue-haired fan vendor. Kryll shit was everywhere (jk it was just plastic fans).

“Awhoooheheehheeeeheheh! My bad, boy!” he said, slapping the kid and standing up. “I’ll take two, one for me, and one for the hog. Yeah,” Roshi sighed like an old time farmer, pursing his lips and staring off at the sunset. “That piggy gets real sweaty.”

“Yeah, sure man, alright, sounds good, that’ll be ten thousand zeni.”

“Ten thousand, whassat boy?”

“Ten thousand zeni. You can also pay with Woolongs–”

“Braah!!” screeched a sudden yellow-furred fox-lookin’ thing from the boy’s backpack.

“Oh Pertelote, for Korin’s sake!” Oolong fell off his stool in fright. That right there was a damn varmint, a proper coyote. It was a giant old monster, and Oolong was afraid of the sharks, to be frank.

“Yeah, yeah, calm down,” the boy said, annoyed. “You gonna help me pick these up, yo?” he gestured to the ground angrily. There were many fans yet in the sands, oh heavens me! Some were even half-sunk, kami help us!

“Yeah kid, good luck with that,” Roshi murmured. He forgot to pay the kid, but that’s understandable. He had female hominid breasts to find and suckle upon.

“Are you serious right no–”

He lost the voice in the crowd. Tiffany was the blonde one, right? No, probably not. That would be the other, unnamed woman he just bought two drinks for. Yeah her (everyone cheers yes this is correct okay Roshi move onto another plot point already). There she was, like an angel on a spaghetti stick, her hair faded seaweed green and charcoal black. She had a couple of big ones, okay, that’s all Roshi’s interested in by the way. She could be bald for all he cared as long as she had a couple of giant old meatballs on her chest. You getting this camera guy? Didn’t think so. This is quality TV right here, now back to you Willbur Brunson.

So as you can see, Roshi was all, ‘Imma put my face raight in there m8’. And this may appear to be a good idea, but it’s not. It’s right awful, that. When Roshi lunged forward, he tripped over someone’s sandal (pink and blue and yellow with a black plastic strap), and that just made him spill his drink on her tits. That was pretty nice, like at least fappable if you’re into that kind of stuff, but Roshi was far too old for those middle school hijinks. The lady screamed, but no one heard her under the pulse of the dance beat. There were little Chinese kids running around with fluttering pink and green and blue flags in their hands. The woman stepped back, her chest sopping wet. He’d lost his chance to do a faceplant. A few patrons were looking at him oddly.

Roshi thought briefly of scratching the back of his head and going red and jumping in the air and laughing nervously as he sweat bad. But that was kinda cliche, so nah brah.

There were some flashing lights, and people smoking dank kush and charred meat, and someone had thrown a volley ball at him, and his reflexes made him punch a hole in it. He felt an orc purring in his throat, singing fervently, ‘Put holes in it!’. A few had touched him; he’d grabbed for more than them. Impatient by the bonfire, he stood, a beer in his hand, unsure how much he’d had and how many different kinds of alcohol he’d mixed. His head swirled. Even in the evening light, his sunglasses bounced with firelight.

Oolong was being inspected by a rather tall woman of egregious girth. In the next moment, little piggy was riding tall fat women like they were interlopers.

Outside, a dark-haired man was vomiting into the sand, a blue drink in one hand, blue liquid flying into the sand with tempo. In the distance, an annoying platoon of taiko drummers sat banging away. In front of him, on a raised pier, a man stood next to a majestic great white shark, still dripping blood and water, shouting, “Mankind’s behavin’ like some serial killers!” It was real deep, almost blue. “They’ll be reduced to nothing if–”

“There’s a lot more nothing than you know exists,” the vomiting man groaned, leaning up against the wall. He was bronze-skinned with bleached-blond curly hair and a light, dark beard. “Ua mau, ke ea o ka aina, i ka pono, o Hawai'i, I say, and off with your knickers,” he screamed, saliva sailing into the air like little astronauts into naught, “goodnight and thanks for some of the fish!”

Oolong jumped through hula hoops on fire to the cheers of the crowd, and Roshi scratched his burnt scalp. He drank saké with a group of drunk beachgoers on a floor in a wooden room somewhere on the beach, and when he complimented one of the girl’s rather large pair of breasts (haha my niġġa got good taste), I do say and I do declare that she was rather unhappy at the transpired events. He did not get her number, nor her invitation. Like an empty room in Himeji Tower, he remained overlooked, unburden, forgotten. All the girls wanted men their age, and the women were no better, and Roshi was all alone. They roasted some geese over the fire, some of them real scum, some of them train-hoppin’, lice-eatin’ fox people. The smell wafted across the air like an auspicious spice. A warbler landed on a nearby branch – a plum blossom in vibrant bloom. Wheresoever he looked, he saw faces without names.

Where is the bitch baby mama, Roshi thought nobly, impassioned upon his blue-balled throne, where is the whore that was blowing? They have passed like rain in the onions, like wind in a rainbow. It was sad, sad enough that you don’t even need to cry. He made a pass at a girl named Sundance, tall as a limousine, but it was no use. They sometimes laughed politely. Most of them just ignored him altogether or smacked him upside the head. He hadn’t had so much as a single brain aneurysm since he’d gotten here. Not once had he needed them nose plugs, niġġa. Like fo’ real, that’s some cold lotion!

The wind blew colder. The waves went out and didn’t come so far in again. He wondered how there could still be tides after he blew up the moon. Like for real, this gangsta Roshi gonna grow up one day u gonna blow up the moon, damn u no all them niġġas be sayin he trippin yo like for real man.

“Heeyeyeyey, nice pair ya got there!” Roshi rambled, pointed drunkenly at some random bystander in a two piece. “I’ll buy you a tuna roll. Haha, come on, whaddya say, sweetie? A tuna roll. Tuna. Roll,” he whispered romantically.

Her name was Mary Kate because she’s a girl with two names. The beach bar was still open, though the music had died down and most of the remaining customers were either passed out or trying to see how much alcohol it takes to poison a human being. They talked for a while. She wore a flower in her hair. Roshi thought that was cute, but it would be even cuter if one of these days he could remember to gather all the Dragon Balls to wish for a new head of hair.

It was half-past whenever when Oolong returned. The panties were still on his snout; he was a proper and well-tamed piggy. “Hey, master!” he grunted like a chain smoker riding a fat hog. “C’mon, I found some girls… they’re really hot and–”

“Quiet, pig!” Roshi did not stutter. His sunglasses reflected the dying light coolly. “Scram, I’m workin’ my magic.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. But you better not say I didn’t give you a chance to be part of this! More for me, yipee!” And off he went like a pig, we needn’t describe it now.

Across the beach, hooded figures gathered and crouched over bonfires. One man fell back, flinging a guitar in the air drunkenly. Mary Kate’s date returned, and when the two started making out next to him, Roshi left the bar. His vision was a bit blurry. Of all the drinks he’d had, the cup of saké was the one that stuck with him most, the one that still warmed his throat.

A lone hooded figure stood on a rock that extended out beyond the shore. Rust brown seafoam sprayed into the air. The sun was leaking away behind the horizon. The solemn watcher was like a gargoyle, crouched and unmoving. Roshi might not have thought he was alive had his eyes not glowed like boiling gold.

Shivering and feeling sick, Roshi stumbled across the dunes to the nearest bathrooms. There was a man in a business suit sitting up against the men’s door. He was drinking turquoise liquid from a plastic coffee cup container. “Heh, I just found it,” he slurred, looking up. “Left it here this mornin’, and no one took it! Alright!” He took another drink, then collapsed on his side, vomiting uncontrollably.

Cold water on his face, trickling down his wrinkles and beard, Roshi found the mirror was too dirty to stare into. A sandy brown spider crawled across the dirty little sink. Outside again, the air wasn’t so cool. Everything was spinning.

“Shake that booty, baby don’t stop. You know I can’t stop cuz I won’t stop, whoaooaa!” the businessman shrieked wildly. Vomiting one last mouthful, he wiped his lips and straightened his tie. “Eh, nothing matters anyways.”

“Heh, wish that were true.”

“Nah man, I’m serious, I am!” He had rosy little cheeks, bless his ventricles. “There’s no big mystery out there, you just gotta do it!”

“Do it? What are you talking about you ugly little flab of meat!”

“Do whatever you want. Don’t have any regrets, man,” he said, wiping the vomit again from his lips before taking another sip from the green straw poking up from the hard, clear plastic. A piece of driftwood swung back and forth on the dark beach, unsure if it wanted to stay in the water or not. “Trust me, that’s no way to live.”

He wished he had his driftwood walking stick. More than that, he wanted some titty action pronto, because lil Roshi couldn’t wait forever. But most everyone had gone to bed, fleeing to the beach houses or back to their hotels. He thought there would be more time. He thought Oolong would make a good wingman…

The smell of bacon was light upon the air, just there with every passing breeze. Two seagulls were scrumming in the dirt. Oolong hung from the ceiling fan, chained with pink-fur handcuffs and wearing a black cape that had the mark of the devil on it. The women were massive, sweaty as a pair of sows. Their chins were like mountains sprouting out of the fog that was their skin. They wore their bowl cuts admirably, and to them Roshi was well met, for he had always wanted to pork a porker.

“Master, help, it’s too much!!” Oolong squealed, trying to break free. “I can’t take ‘em both.”

“That’s okay son, you tried,” Roshi stepped into the apartment, stretching his back and fondling his beard. “Now it’s time for a man to do some work. Heeeheeeaawoooha! Betcha girls haven’t seen a real hog all night!”

One of them grunted. The other emptied a bag of taters into her mouth. They wore dresses as wide as dinner table covers, polka dots of purple and yellow peppering their lime green dresses.

One stuck out its snout to view Roshi from the side. Sniffing, it closed in on the side of his face, and he was just waiting for the goddamn second mouth to come shooting out and pop his brains out. He never wanted to go out (that’s why he drank that immortality water that will never be spoken of again), least of all like a little space marine bitch. Instead of wasting Roshi (kami knows she could), the beast of a female hominin licked Roshi down the cheek and groaned pleasantly. The other was using Oolong as a punching bag.

“Woo boy, I like this kinda party!” Roshi hooted. “D’ya know girls, I won a martial arts tournamen–”

She snatched him up real good, like a prairie dog wrapped in a tortilla, and come morning, Roshi’s hands smelled like butter.

They were punting Oolong around like a beach ball. The lights were strobing; one hundred different perfumes and colognes mixed together, and all he could smell was the alcohol burning down his throat. Roshi was hunched over. ‘The Guac’ was this hellhole’s name, the pre-eminent club in West City. Roshi and Oolong were early for the party at Capsule Corp tomorrow, and they had nowhere to stay, but luckily, they weren’t thinking about that now. This was all about the girls.

One girl wore fishnets and a red skirt. He made a comment, she rolled her eyes. Blood rushed in his fingertips. He took another shot of tequila and stumbled forward, grabbing for another girl’s huge titties. They made his mouth water. His nose was burning. They were all dancing to the beat, the lights black and green and purple and ever changing. Even in this club, Roshi’s sunglasses would not come off. He couldn’t let that happen.

A girl dressed up in dark clothes, her short shorts ripped and her face covered in too many layers of makeup, was holding a cigarette, leaning up against a wall. Moaning, her painted blue lips split in pleasure, she grasped the hair of the other girl who was kissing up her neck. He wanted to stay and watch, but she saw him.

He couldn’t dance, and he didn’t know why Oolong had brought him here. Roshi had already made a mistake listening to that short fool. Those huge women had never wanted to wet his willy, to put it in layman’s terms. They had just wanted to wrestle. He was more pent-up than ever. Roshi sighed, wanting nothing more than to return to his island and watch his yoga tapes. He was almost desperate enough to dial a number on the phone.

Like a land crab, Roshi swung his arms and grinded up against the younger kids, all dressed up and smelling fresh, yo they ready to club amirite. This is where it’s at. But everyone avoided Roshi, and when he approached girls, they recoiled in disgust. The beat went on. Everyone had a good time. He didn’t know where the hell Oolong went.

His ears ringing, Roshi hobbled into the bathroom to collect his thoughts. It was empty save for a boy in a dark hoodie and jeans with spiky, messy hair, and a monkey tail poking out of his backside. For a moment, Roshi thought it was Goku, and in a sudden flurry, the image of that boy on the beach returned to him. The first time he’d ever met Goku had been how many years ago? He couldn’t remember. So much had happened since then. Master Roshi felt incredibly old as the alcohol hit him. It wasn’t euphoria, but tiredness that squirmed through his veins. The world had moved on without him, yet here he stood.

Rubber wristbands hung on the boy’s left arm, the color of every rainbow. Streaks of pink dye spread like roots of lightning in his hair, and when he turned to Roshi, the old man gave him a look that rivaled Thom Yorke’s alien gaze in the High and Dry music video.

The walls were shaking. Through the door, music was squeezing through. “Jigeum isungan, urineun gonggan! Rideumeun cheomdan, gibuneun ggeutjang!” a middle-aged Korean man was singing to the synth beat. It almost made Roshi want to dance.

“Y-you’re not… Goten, are ya?” Roshi asked uncertainly, as the boy pulled brown paper towels from a hanging dispenser to dry himself off.

“No, I’m twelve,” the kid replied breathlessly, his grey eyes bright and bloodshot. Sniffling, he cracked his neck, took a few deep breaths, and ran back out to the dance floor.

Washing his face in the sink, Roshi knew he had not the energy of these youngsters. But he had some zeni (not all of it from his last tournament win, thank kami), and he knew oftentimes that was the most important thing to a girl. The beat would not stop. It was relentless in his skull. He returned to the bar and bought himself another shot. There was a woman sitting alone on the other side of the bar, but when he approached her, her boyfriend sat down next to her.

A blue-skinned fellow and a red-skinned fellow were playing dodgeball with Oolong. Roshi wasn’t about to ask questions, like if they were aliens from another world, or just filthy mutos. He simply grabbed the battered, squealing pig and marched out of The Guac.

Outside, the air was crisp and wet. A maple tree, set in a hole in the sidewalk to his left, was sprouting new growth. His breath frosted in front of his beard. Sitting on the curb, Roshi tried to stay in the moment. The world was moving and spiraling out of control before his eyes, and he had not the stamina to stop it. The old man sat on the curb, zeni bills in his hand, trying to call a cab, but he was too drunk to stand.

Oolong was muttering to himself, “No… not an apple… no master, stop it, not again…!”

A girl wearing a blue leather vest on a hoverbike came screaming up to the curb. Her flowing golden hair reminded him of Launch, or more appropriately, Cersei’s cunt. Taking off her helmet, she shook her neck as that boy had done before and clicked off the power to her bike. Stepping onto the sidewalk, she looked down upon the drunk and his pig.

“Party’s too much for you, old man?”

“I… juss need… a cab…”

“I’ll call one for you,” she smirked. “Just give me your cash. I’ll make sure the driver gets it.”

“Heheheeh, y’know howta play a guy, huh?” Roshi hiccuped, leaning forward, holding his zeni close to his chest. It was so typical that a woman would only look his way when money was involved.

Squatting down next to him in the frigid air, the woman smiled. “So what’s it gonna take, old man?”

“Heh heh, juss a squeeze…” he muttered, lurching forward. She did not have especially large breasts, but he would do with anything right now.

“Fine, here,” she whispered back, holding the back of the man’s head as she pushed his face into her chest. She was sitting on his lap; he was getting hard. He wondered if she could feel it. The feeling was overwhelming; his mind was numb. He never felt himself falling backwards. He didn’t even get a chance to squeeze her pink-nosed puppies.

Muttering to himself like a broken machine, Roshi lay on the sidewalk. Time was going too fast. The woman plucked the zeni from his fingers and ran off. Oolong was squealin’ something fierce next to him.

“Master… she stole all your money…” the pig moaned.

Roshi didn’t give a fuck. The beat was still in his ears. Cars slid by on the roads, making raucous noise. He’d felt her heat, felt how firm they’d been, and then…

Roshi sat up, rubbing his forehead. When he tried to stand, he let out a cry and nearly fell over. The weak and weary Oolong propped him back up. Roshi missed the pig’s army outfit. It suited him better than the wifebeater. Also that’s a terrible name for a shirt, fuckin’ stupid as fuck. Fumbling in his pockets, Roshi found a few more zeni bills. His stomach was rumbling. Oolong was swaying back and forth, like he was going to fall over in exhaustion. The club was no place for guys like them. They were better off watching old yoga tapes and fapping to the girls in the bathroom in quiet shame. That was all a man like Roshi could hope for.

Whistling for the pig to follow him, Roshi walked down the sidewalk. He thought of a girl he’d once known. She had dyed her hair the same color as that Saiyan boy. Who the hell was that? One of Vegeta’s kids? No… if that was the case, he’d know about it. The thought utterly perplexed Roshi, but he was too weak and old to be in the know with the Z Fighters anymore. He found the longer he thought about it, the less he cared.

They came to a pizzeria. The sign swung in the night’s wind and read: ‘Most Famous Original Raymond’s Pizza’. Stepping inside, Roshi was glad he still had his shades. The guy at the register would never know he’s drunk. The man was young, clean-shaven, and wore a white apron. He was a proper pizza-maker if Roshi ever saw one. Some days he wondered why he hadn’t become a pizzaman himself, but those were the days that only came three times every nineteen days.

“One large pepperoni to go!” Roshi said as soberly as he could.

“Aw, c’mon master!” Oolong whined. “Did you really have to get pepperoni?”

“Shut it, pig. I’m paying.”

“Whatever, man.”

“Maybe next time, bring some of your own money!”

“I don’t have any money!”

“Well, that’s not my problem!” Roshi folded his arms and returned to the cashier. “Come on, hurry up, I’m hungry!”

“Uh… right away sir!” the man replied. He was rather flummoxed, it seemed to Roshi.

It was a wait like an eternity or something like that, and then the pizza came, piping hot and in a carry-out box! It was so tasty, Roshi could hardly contain himself. He paid the man, gave him a three zeni tip, and stumbled over to a table. In the dimness, he didn’t see that first chair, nor the second, nor the table, and it was nothing for him to fall over, sending chairs flying everywhere. Luckily, he clutched the pizza box tight to his chest, and nothing bad happened to it, it was wonderful.

“Sir… are you okay?” the fine and splendid pizzaman asked. “What are you doing?”

“Eating my dang pizza!” Roshi grumbled, getting to his feet to find a new table.

“But… you ordered take-out…”

“That’s because it’s my favorite.”

“Sir… the pizza’s no different if you order it for here or to go.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all say,” Roshi waved his hand at the man. Sitting down, the paying customer, a godsend for this clearly-about-to-go-out-of-business establishment, dug into his pizza like a wolf into moose intestines (that’s where all the good shit is yo). Oolong sat proudly and did not eat for the first few minutes, but then he got too hungry to not be a cannibal. Y’know any of you would’ve done the same thing if you were in his position. We’re never cannibals until we are, and that’s the moral of this story.

“I got an invite to another party,” Oolong said after a while. Roshi’s beard ran with pizza grease. “You wanna go, master?”

“Are there gonna be any hotties there?”

“Yeah, lots.”

Blood suddenly rushed through his body again as he thought of various parts of the female human body that drove him into self-copulative fits. He liked it when they didn’t wear much, or better yet, anything at all. Maybe these last few parties had yielded nothing to be proud of, but Roshi wasn’t done yet. Maybe next time he’d walk around with a handful of zeni. Speaking of that…

The memory was fresh as a spring night. Roshi stood, swerving as he walked, and then ran as he felt lil Roshi coming to life. There was little time! He had to find a bathroom fast.

The cashier was saying something stern to him, but Master Roshi would never hear another word out of that scrub’s mouth. He ran down the hall to the right of the cashier’s station, hoping to find a bathroom. There was one indeed in the unlit hallway. This was most fortuitous; his loins were burning for him to go, go, go, go, go!!!

He kicked open the door, all Roshi-like and such, and went running for a stall when Roshi realized there were no stalls. This was a single bathroom, and it was occupied. A ruinous fat man with rolls of flesh like stacks of buttered pancakes was sitting on the pot, reading a magazine. His eyes were bloodshot, and whatever he was smoking wasn’t tobacco.

“I’m all for a show, but are you about done?” the man asked in a deep voice, peeking over the top of his newspaper like a neighbor over a fence.

“I-I-I…” Roshi stuttered, not sure what to do. The sense of that woman, her breasts in his face, was too vivid. He wasn’t so drunk anymore. Lil Roshi would not be denied. Falling to his knees on the dirty white-and-black tiles, Roshi brushed his hand across his pants, trying to readjust himself down there. The single fleeting touch was all it took.

Groaning, his cheeks reddening, Roshi fell to all fours. The fat man grunted and unleashed a big one into the bowl. Looking up, breathing hard, Roshi tried to clear his mind, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know what the fuck was going on, nor how he’d gotten here. His thoughts were frozen in the snow while everyone else was flying above the storm it seemed.

“Man, you gotta go, this is getting a tad tiresome,” the fat man said with a spot of bother.

Roshi agreed, but he didn’t make it out far. As soon as he closed the door behind him, Roshi took one step forward, and it felt like someone had squirted glue (which had now dried) in his underwear. Crying like a little bitch (perhaps this was an unconscious Chiaotzu impression), Roshi took a step forward, lost the will in his legs, and crashed to the floor. It took Oolong forty-five minutes to find him, and by then the whole pizza was gone. Roshi never forgave Oolong for eating the rest of the pizza, and for the remainder of Oolong’s life, several of the better yoga tapes were kept off-limits from the bacon boy.

So that’s the story of how Master Roshi accidentally ejaculated in front of a high (allegedly) truck driver who was in the midst of a bowel movement. As Oolong would say for years to come, this story was a good indication of the state of Roshi’s sex life, and I don’t think anyone, even Hasky’s daughter, could disagree.

A Short-Lived Dream
Fading Legacies
Ice Age Coming

A Good Beginning
Superior Small Shame

There Is No Black and White
Black as Blood He's a Baaad Man

Once But Never Again

A Ghost Atop My Chair
A Flap of the Wings Sandboys
Country Matters Not So Far

Beautiful People
The Ginyu Force Chronicles The One Where Bulma Goes Looking For Goku's Dragon Balls