All of the one-shots from That Magic Feeling can be found here once they're written. They'll still have their own individual pages, but I'm keeping them here too.
This story's theme is Booze Me Up and Get Me High by Ween.
The door swung shut behind Yamcha. The bar was dimly lit, smoky, and the air smelled distinctly of damp wood. Yamcha slumped over to the barstool, before pulling out a stool and seating himself on it.
“One shot of whiskey,” he called out, gesturing to the lone bartender.
The bartender got out a small cup. He fetched a bottle of whiskey, unscrewing the top and tilting it over and letting the liquid rush out of the bottle. He stopped when the cup was full, before screwing the lid back onto the bottle and putting it away. After putting a small toothpick into the glass, he brought the whiskey over to Yamcha.
“That’ll be 510 zeni,” the bartender told Yamcha, who took out his wallet. As he pulled out the money, he noticed a small wallet photo of Bulma. He grabbed the picture along with the money, taking both out of the fold in his wallet.
Handing the money over to the bartender, he quietly asked, “You guys have a trashcan?” The bartender took the zeni and pointed over to a corner of the room, where a dustbin lie. He took the small photo and dropped it into the bin, watching it float down to the hole and into the trash. He put his wallet away and moved back to his stool. Sitting down, he swirled the whiskey around with the toothpick. Glumly, Yamcha stared into his one murky reflection in the whiskey.
He noticed that his hair had grown longer and that the origins of a beard were forming on his chin. His scars had not started to heal yet, which was of no surprise to Yamcha. As he swirled the whiskey again, his image disappeared, mixing into a blur of yellow and black colors.
Turning his head to the left, he saw a man physically dominating a girl. He had her backed up against a wall, leering over her. He was a large man, very muscular, and clearly was about to engage in some less than savory acts with the girl.
Yamcha’s instincts took over, as his heroism came immediately to the forefront. He stood up and walked over to them, before calling out, “Come on, man, let up on the girl. Nobody needs that.”
The man turned over to Yamcha, smirking a little bit. “Yeah, go bother someone else, big guy. I’m in the middle of something,” he scoffed.
“Come on, just let the girl go and we won’t have any trouble.”
“What’s that? You wanna fight? Come at me, big guy. I’ve got time for you.”
Yamcha sighed. He didn’t want to have to use violence against this guy, but he would do what he had to do. It wouldn’t be his first bar fight. He used to get into them quite often, getting into tussles before he was even old enough to drink. He and Puar would go around, stealing from people and scrapping with all sorts of folks. This was just another fight, just another scuffle.
Faster than anyone in the bar could see, Yamcha pinned the big man to the wall, causing a large dent in the wall. This would have been enough to stop the man – he had a genuine look of terror on his face – but Yamcha was angry. Maybe not at the man, but he was angry and dissatisfied. He needed an outlet, he needed to go off on someone, and this was the man who had been asking for it.
Yamcha raised his fist, mostly out of muscle memory, and laid a right hook across the man’s cheek. He crashed down to the floor, blood leaking out of his cheek.
It took Yamcha a moment to realize what he had done. He bent over, checking the man’s vital signs. There were none. That was all it took – one hit, one moment of indecision, one second of weakness, and a man was dead. Yamcha knew this before coming to the bar, he knew that a single bad decision could take a life. Why he kept trying to be a part of this society, he didn’t know. He knew that he couldn’t fit into the world of normal humans.
Looking around the bar, he noticed that all eyes were on him. Yamcha didn’t have much time to think about the morality of what he had just done – he wasn’t concentrating on the present and he wasn’t thinking much. He walked back over to the barstool. Swiftly, he grabbed his whiskey and drank it down. The bartender was on the phone behind the counter, presumably calling the police. Yamcha wasn’t too concerned about them.
He waited for the bartender to finish his call.
“Was that the police?” Yamcha calmly asked.
The bartender had started crouching behind the counter. “Yea – yeah! Get out of here!”
Yamcha calmly nodded. “Can you fix me another whiskey?”
“No! Leave! You don’t belong here!”
This line made Yamcha particularly angry. He walked away, back to the door. He kicked the door open, causing it to fly off its hinges. Looking around himself, he saw that he was alone. Silently wondering where the nearest desert was, Yamcha leaped off the ground. He took flight, and he started flying to the north.
Yamcha soon found the ground again. As his feet made contact, small puffs of sand came up into the air. He looked around, seeing an oasis to the left of him and more sand to the right. The stars were more visible here than they were in the city, and they all shone brilliantly in the dark sky. For a moment, Yamcha thought he saw the moon, but it was only a mirage. His memory of the moon was only a relic of the past, a faint image of what once was.
Well, what was Yamcha supposed to do? He couldn’t train with the Z Fighters – they were too much for him. He couldn’t live with the other humans – they weren’t enough for him. He had traveled to King Kai’s planet, fought against the Saiyans, seen the murder of Frieza and King Cold. There wasn’t much left in normal society to interest him. He was just a bug, a predator, in the normal world.
Maybe he could go back to being a bandit, stealing from clueless travelers in the desert. He had never felt unsatisfied back then, he had never felt anything less than happy back when he had done that. How was it possible that seeing so much more had left him so much less fulfilled?
“All right, Puar, I guess we should find our old base.”
The only response Yamcha received was one, single gust of wind.
This story's theme is Gabrielle by Ween.
An orchestra of enchanted voices filled the restaurant, accompanied only by the quiet flickering of the candles. Beneath these candles lay red lacy table covers, the ends of these table covers elegantly falling near to the floor. Amidst this sea of loquacious people sat a single quiet couple, whose candle seemed to flicker a bit less vivaciously and whose table cover seemed to droop down and sag against the floor. On one end of the table there sat a man, a man with light blue skin and hair carefully tied into a fishtail braid; on the other end of the table was a woman, with skin of a similar hue and short, orange hair which perkily stood atop her scalp.
The couple quietly ate their food, with no playful foot rubbing between the two nor any flirtatious chit chat. The man went to his glass, taking a long sip of red nectar from the cup, gulping down every last drop as it slid reluctantly down the side of the glass. After a long moment of contemplation, he put the glass back down, turning his attention back to his food. After another strained moment, he spoke.
“I got a new job offer today.”
The woman looked up at him, eyes bright.
“For what? You're already the captain here.”
The man nodded back, looking back to his glass to see if he could swallow some more time. No such luck. He took a bite of the meal below him – it was some hideous gunk imported from the Planet Yardrat, considered a delicacy by some and despised by more. He stomached the food and wiped off his mouth, as he was always careful to keep his face clean. He turned his attention back to the woman, speaking again.
He sighed. “I don't know much... I'd be working with Lord Frieza-”
“Frieza? Really?” she replied, her voice breaking away from her normal monotone.
The man nodded.
“How much does it pay?”
“Gah – it doesn't matter. Look, we've gotta discuss this. Can we get out of here?” the man growled, realizing that a restaurant wasn't the place to have such an important conversation.
“Come on, tell me! What are you gonna do?”
“Shush woman, I'll tell you in a minute!” the man snapped, gesturing for attention from the restaurant.
“No, tell me now! I don't know anybody who's worked with Frieza!”
“It's some type of planet trading job – I don't have a fucking brief on it, okay? I can show you the job description when we get home.”
“Planet trading? Sounds important! Must be high profile. How big's the raise?”
“Is that all you can think about, the money? I'll tell you all about it later – can we just leave here for now?”
The woman hardly paid attention to him, as she was overwhelmed with fantasies of what her planet trading boyfriend could give her. The vacations, the houses, the fame – all the luxuries associated with such a prestigious job!
“When do you get to start? Are you going to get to meet Frieza and everything?”
“I said I'd tell you later!” the man yelled. The voices in the background ceased as he shouted, their heads turning to face him. He grimaced, shaking his head slightly, before standing up and grabbing his girlfriend by the shoulder. Without paying, he hurried himself and his woman out of the diner.
Taking her to the side of the building, he threw her against the wall, clearly frustrated.
“Zarbon, what the hell?” the woman shrieked, beginning to run away from him.
“Will you let me talk for a damned second?” Zarbon replied, as the woman stopped. “Alright, listen, okay?”
The woman nodded, half in fear and half in curiosity.
“Look, Frieza, he wants me to come work with him, but it's... it's not that easy.”
“Well, what, then?”
“He wants our planet. He wants to trade it.”
The woman looked at him for a moment, as she registered what he had said. At first, a small look of confusion was painted on her face – but then, after a moment, a look of pure astonishment spread across the woman's visage.
“You're not going to let him take it, are you? He'd kill us all!”
Zarbon snarled. “Well, what the hell am I supposed to do? I know better than to disobey Frieza.” His tone lightened. “But – I've got good news! You can come with me – you can live with me! On his ship!” Zarbon felt relieved to finally tell her this, now that he'd gotten the bad news out of the way. It would work out well, it would. He and his girlfriend could live the rest of their lives without trouble. He would save them both.
“Are you kidding, Zarbon? Is this some kind of joke?!”
“No, it's not! We can live together!”
His girlfriend stared at him with disgust. “You'd let your whole family die like that? Just to save yourself? All your friends, my whole family, everyone we know? You'd trade them for your own skin?”
Zarbon gritted his teeth. “Look, there's nothing I can do about that. You're coming to live with me and that's it.”
“No, I'm not! I'd rather die than do that!”
These two sentences unleashed a myriad of emotions from Zarbon, as he finally rose to a tipping point. He began to yell again, this time louder and with more force. “Do you understand what I've given to you? Your whole life? A house? Money? Every single thing you've wanted? And you won't fucking keep going with me now?” Zarbon took control of the woman as his face rounded out, the skin which held his face together stretching as far as it could go. His muscles grew dramatically in size, completely disproportionate to his body. His once beautiful face disintegrated into a repulsive amphibious grimace.
“You'd rather die than come with me? Is that it?”
With a single swift movement, he bludgeoned her against the wall, cracking her head open against the surface. The blood leaked down from her skull, forming into a puddle at the intersection between the cement wall and the ground. Zarbon, though, was not satisfied – he took the woman and threw her away, hurling her toward the open road to the right.
It took a moment, but Zarbon came back to his senses. He felt his face shape back up, his muscles contract, and his breathing slow down. He looked around at what happened, coming to the eventual realization that he had been the cause of it. He shed not a single tear, though, as he fled from the scene.
Zarbon came to a stop several miles away, a run which took him mere moments. He sat down, knowing what he had done. It was not his first transformation – he had hoped the one before would be the last, but now, it had come back, at such an inopportune time. The monster within, surging back up for another feast.
Zarbon wondered where to go to from there. He knew one thing, though – it wasn't to anywhere on the planet.
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.
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.
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.
This story's theme is Never Squeal by Ween.
The birds on the ground never stayed down for long. They were, at once, both peaceful and frantic. They stood with solemnity - and then, on occasion, they would peck furiously at the dirt below their talons. Their eyes never seemed to stray from the sky for too long - there was something in Heaven inviting them.
And then, all at once, their wings would rise in unison, a flurry of feathers, light and blue, before flapping off like a fan that knew no cessation - their talons would lift from the dirt with a small puff of sand and their bodies would raise gracefully into the air, and then they were long gone.
They were gone, all gone, into another plane of existence altogether.
Tao watched a bluejay fly away. He turned his head and scoffed. He was not a man concerned with nature - in his mind, he already had enough to worry about. He did not need to concern himself with a thousand other species. Humans were his principal concern, save for the occasional demon, and a bird concerned him not. Even so, as he walked away, he left a scant trace of bird food behind. A minute part of him liked to see the birds come near.
He walked away and into the vast city center, walking along the sidewalk. He was dressed in a ceremonial green gown, albeit for a ceremony that was mostly imaginary. The gown held not a single insignia and most decor was absent from the robe. He glided across the sidewalk and found an obscure, seldom noticed door to the side of the city street. After two raps on the door, the door was opened and Tao entered the uninviting domicile - he was greeted by no one, but he didn’t care.
The room was dank and dark, the air pungent with the smell of smoke. Tao hated it - to him, smoke was a hindrance. He hated cigarettes, cigars, pipes, tobacco, and all the culture that was associated with it. He needed to maintain his physical health.
“The job is done,” Tao declared, taking a seat in an old, dilapidated chair.
“You took him out?” a faceless voice asked Tao.
“If I say the job is done, the job is done,” Tao responded. Of all the times he had come to this dark house, never once had he come for the conversation.
“Very good, Tao. Very good.”
Tao nodded. He gave no indication that he had accepted the compliment, and instead sat there, waiting. He heard the man across from him pull out a brown paper bag, one that crinkled and ruffled on the way out. He threw the paper bag at Tao, who caught the bag in the air with great precision and swiftness.
Tao opened up the bag and found that a small plastic baggie, filled with a clean white powder, was inside. He was rather pleased with this, and he looked back up to the man who had offered it.
“What do you need of me now?” Tao asked the man, pulling the small plastic bag out of the larger brown one.
“There’s a rival crime syndicate on the other side of town. They’re encroaching on our territory, and we need to put a stop to that.”
Tao scoffed. “You want me to take out an entire gang of people? That will cost you far more than a bag.”
“Not the entire gang. Just a leader. This is a warning shot, so to speak.”
Tao smiled. “You want me to give them a warning?” The man nodded. “I’ll make it an extra bloody one, then. I will teach them not to come here.”
“Do as you will, Tao. But you must target one man in particular, one of their leaders. He will be wearing their insignia, a red dragon, and it will be necessary to kill him. Every afternoon, he patronizes the local coffee shop on Main Street and orders an espresso. You can find him there.”
Tao stood up, not bothering to acknowledge his acceptance of these terms. He began to turn away, toward the door, but then he turned around and refaced the man. He pulled the small baggie out of his pocket, and said to the man, “I am going to use this now.” Tao retook his seat and spilled the cocaine out on the table into five neat, although small, lines. With great haste, he used a small cylinder he found on the table to snort the lines. He stood back up, and, at last, exited the door.
Tao left the building with red, bloodshot eyes and a devilish smile on his face. He scaled up a nearby building, reaching the top in virtually no time at all. He saw a small flock of birds fly quickly over the top of him, and came to the conclusion that he would make infinitely more progress up high than down on the ground.
Tao ran to the end of the building and leaped off, crossing the gap and reaching the roof of the next building. He scanned around and determined a route to the coffee shop, before taking off once more.
As he reached his maximum speed, he found it virtually effortless to jump from building to building. With every leap, he felt the air breeze through his ponytail and across the rest of his body, and he briefly wondered how it would feel to fly. He thought about how easy it would be to learn, if he had the right master. He could ride through the air on other objects, like columns or pillars, but he knew that it was possible to learn the art of flying. He knew not a single person, though, who could accomplish it, let alone someone who could teach him to do it. Tao sometimes wished that he had attended a different martial arts school, for he knew that there was so much more to learn than what the Crane School had taught him.
It was not long before Tao reached the coffee shop. He glanced around for a man wearing apparel with a Red Dragon on it, and detected him before too long. As a precautionary measure, Tao checked to make sure that the man had, in fact, ordered an espresso. He had. Tao was ready to indulge himself by murdering this man.
Tao walked over to the criminal leader. He grabbed the man by his head and turned it around, forcefully, so that the criminal would see him. Tao spoke not a single word, but instead stared into the man’s eyes as they filled with fear. This was Tao’s favorite part - he relished the look of fright in their eyes as they realized that their execution neared.
With great force, the mercenary slapped the criminal. He went flying, eventually colliding with the wall of the nearby coffee shop. Civilians turned and stared, trying to piece together what was happening. Tao merely grinned. He walked up to the criminal, and this time took a hold of him and slammed him against the ground. He stomped on the man’s stomach, causing him to cough up blood and sputter.
“Stand up,” Tao ordered. When the man was slow to respond, Tao grabbed him and forced him onto two feet. He figured that it was not quite bloody enough yet, and that much more would have to be done. Tao grabbed him around the neck and started to choke him. The nearby civilians started to flee, none of them wanting to see what happened next.
Tao felt the man’s death approaching, and he began to feel the everlasting thrill associated with the final kill. This is what Tao lived for. However, Tao could not let the criminal die this simply. He threw the criminal up into the air, as far into the air as he could, and waited for him to come back down. In the meantime, Tao charged up a Dodon Ray. He charged it fully, and then, as the man came falling down into range, the mercenary unleashed the ray onto the man and directly hit his head.
The man’s head exploded like a pinata filled with blood. Crimson red confetti came falling down in every direction, splattering onto the sidewalk and coming within inches of the few remaining citizens. The man’s body went limp as he came back to the ground, and he collapsed back on the sidewalk as nothing more than a ragdoll.
Tao walked away. He scaled another building, and began to bounce from building to building again. What he was jumping around for, nobody would ever really knew.
This story's theme is Light Me Up by Ween.
“I must say, Nail, you are one pathetic warrior. Do you really think you stand a chance against me?” The wind blew serenely in the background, a contrasting backdrop to the horrific scene that Frieza was inflicting upon Nail. Nail had, to no avail, attacked Frieza with all his might; in spite of this, Nail was the one who was defeated. His torso was covered in cuts and bruises while Frieza’s appearance remained pristine and unscarred. He hung his back in shame, turned away from Frieza. For not even a moment had Nail held the upper hand, and he knew this all too well.
Frieza, upon receiving no answer, continued his tirade. “Might I suggest you give up now while you’re still breathing and simply tell me the password, hmm?” The question hung ominously in the air for a moment as Nail contemplated his options. Every part of him wanted to capitulate then by giving Frieza the password and concluding the fiasco. But Nail adhered to a higher order than his own personal desires - he had to protect Guru before himself.
Frieza waited another moment, and then gave up on Nail. “Oh well, suit yourself,” the androgynous alien sighed, without moving a single muscle. Nail stood there, his body heaving up and down with each successive breath, and then resolved that it was time for his final stand. His series of attacks had been thus far relentless. There was no need for it to end there.
Nail pivoted around and unleashed his most powerful attack, a bright yellow wave, unto Frieza. The grass around Frieza was torn and promptly decimated by the energy wave and the land around Frieza was left completely barren. But the dust soon cleared to reveal Frieza still standing there, completely unmoved. The attack had not even phased him.
Nail gasped in shock. That move had never failed him before. His jaw swung open, and he let out a clearly audible gasp.
Frieza’s lips contorted into a small, sadistic smile. “You really are starting to bore me, my dear friend.” Nail’s body tensed up in anger, his fingers curling into a threatening fist. Frieza continued. “As you well know by now, you can never defeat me. So my question is, why are you still trying? And if you don’t tell me, maybe I’ll just have to beat it out of Guru. Is that what you want?” Frieza rose off the ground, before saying, simply, “It doesn’t make any difference to me. One way or another, I will get that password.”
Frieza momentarily disappeared completely and then reappeared, facing the same direction as Nail. Frieza swung his forearm backward and it collided with Nail’s head, sending him flying backward until he hit the ground. He laid there, clutching his head, and he felt his mind wander to a place far removed in both time and location. ‘
Frieza was not the first alien to come to Namek seeking the Dragon Balls. In sooth, he was not even close to the first. Many more had come before him. For this reason, the Namekians had devised the whole system of keeping each Dragon Ball with a different tribe. The Namekians were no amateurs.
In Nail’s time, five different groups of aliens had come to the planet searching for the mystical objects. Their reasons varied, but they were all similar in that they were vain and egotistical. Frieza was the exception in strength alone - three of the others had also sought some form of immortality, and the other two had wanted riches instead.
Nail’s mind wandered back to the first group that had invaded the planet. Nail remembered it quite clearly, for that was when he, the only Namekian warrior, finally got to prove himself.
For whatever reason, Nail’s most vivid memory was when the aliens touched down outside of Guru’s settlement. They had all looked the same to Nail, who knew not their species. They were purple aliens and could be described as nothing less than repulsive. Their foreheads were daunting in size, and they were colorfully spotted. The only difference Nail could detect between them was that the spots on their foreheads were different - aside from that, they all looked perfectly uniform to Nail.
When they first arrived outside of the palace, Nail was not sure what to do. It was of course bright out (this was Planet Namek, after all), but nevertheless it appeared to be dimmer than usual. Nail was put off by this, for brightness was constant on the planet, but he accepted it as just being one of those days.
As the new group of invaders arrived, Nail turned to Guru. “What should I do with them?”
Guru pointed out of his domicile. He spoke only one word: “Go.” Guru, in his innumerable years, was familiar with invasions. He trusted Nail to deal with this new threat.
Nail stepped out of his new home most apprehensively. The group of aliens had congregated together, facing toward him. There had to be close to fifty of them, in total. Nail briefly sensed over their Ki levels - they ranged from low to tiny. There was no legitimate potential of threat from these enemies.
In unison, the crowd raised their weapons out of their holsters and brandished them threateningly at Nail. He waited calmly as they readied their blasts.
At last, their leader spoke. His voice was a raspy growl, most unpleasing to the ears, and it was practically painful to hear. “Give us your Dragon Ball and we won’t blast you to smithereens!” It was a simple demand, one that had worked on three villages beforehand. But Nail was not so easily persuaded. He waited, calmly, for them to attack.
A sense of unease spread throughout the crowd of aliens, who waited for Nail’s response. After a minute or so, the leader finally spoke again. “Well?!”
Nail turned around and saw that Guru was watching him. He knew that he could not perform poorly. “I can’t give that to you,” he spoke, and then he waited.
The leader growled audibly, his body taking on a more offensive stance. Turning to his squadron, he shouted out, “Fire!” They all unleashed their guns upon Nail, barraging him with a series of successive yellow blasts that pelted him consecutively.
Several stray blasts missed their marks, hitting the ground around Nail and leaving the ground barren. The stream of blasts did not end, though, until the last man’s gun had been completely emptied and a strong cloud of smoke surrounded Nail. There he stood, though, fully undamaged. In fact, Nail had taken on a fighting stance, and was prepared to attack.
He began with a few simple punches and kicks to the nearest soldier. The alien crumpled over in pain, falling to the ground. Nail determined that multiple punches and kicks would not be necessary - he instead elected to topple each alien with one kick or punch, until none remained.
The aliens quickly reloaded, however, and began to retaliate. They all shot furiously at him as he made his rounds through the aliens, but none of it could deter Nail as he continued to tear through the crowd. The blasts were glowing and emitted a bright yellow aura that seemed to encapsulate Nail within. The aliens were therefore unable to clearly see Nail as he tore through them. They were completely defenseless.
It was not long at all until Nail had all the aliens laying on the ground, himself standing over the leader who had earlier spoken to him. His foot was on the leader’s chest, who had been conquered by no more than a single punch.
Nail looked down at him. The man looked back up at him, the fear in his eyes shrouded by the anger forming concurrently. “What are you gonna do now, kill me? Go for it! See if that helps!”
Nail looked into his eyes. “I don’t want to kill you. I just want you to leave. You’re not wanted here.”
The creature below Nail’s foot squirmed a bit as hope filled his eyes. Nail released the man from under his foot, and he crawled away before standing back up. He rallied his troops together, and then they were off again, having left three Dragon Balls behind. Nail had proven himself.
Nail’s mind returned to the present as Frieza concluded a monologue.
“...either you divulge what I want, or you will never get up again! You truly are pathetic!”
Nail, however, began to chuckle as he moved his hands off of his face. A smile stretched across his face, to the surprise of Frieza, and he began to divulge what Frieza wanted not to hear.
“You know, I think it’s time I let you in on a little secret. Our little diversion worked perfectly. Yep, by now, Dende has given the password to the people from Earth.” He continued chuckling.
“What?! I don’t-” Frieza began, as shock flooded his face. He was notably taken aback, and his body tensed up in anger. As he prepared to fly away, he declared, “Mark my words, I’m not finished with you yet!”
And then, Frieza was gone.
Before Frieza, Nail had conquered five groups of aliens. Now, he had, at last, conquered another. That was his victory.
This story's theme is Happy Colored Marbles by Ween.
The river ran from swerve of shore to bend of bay. It was a source of sustenance and well-being for many different peoples, gracing each civilization it passed with new livelihood. This was, by no means, unique to this river - since the dawn of mankind, rivers had provided civilizations with water.
Alas, it had so happened that Piccolo, the revered Namekian himself, had started to use this river as his sole means of nutrition. As but a humble Namekian, he needed naught but water to sustain himself, and he found that this river suited his needs rather well. In between bouts of meditation and training, Piccolo would turn to the river to feed himself.
And it was so for many, many days, and perhaps many years. Until one day, lest his life continue uninterrupted and peaceful, Piccolo found that the water in the river had grown murky. He gave this little thought at first, and continued to drink from it. With each successive day, however, Piccolo found that the water grew just a bit dirtier, and just a bit browner. Soon it came to his attention that it might not be safe to drink from, but he chose not to leave his location. Many days passed before Piccolo concluded that the water was, simply, unsanitary. It seemed to sting his mouth, he decided, and he could drink it no more.
As such, Piccolo elected to find the source of this pollution and to put a stop to it. He knew full well that it would have been easier to simply relocate and to find a river that was clear and clean, but a part of him yearned to go into town, to create a more permanent solution.
So he traced the river for miles and miles, until he eventually found a town off to the side of the river, within which Piccolo saw a large factory. Large plumes of smoke ascended from the factory up into the skies above, seemingly forming new clouds. Off the side of the factory there was a pipe (an incomplete one, no less) that was depositing some form of waste into the river next to it. Piccolo, ever the brilliant man, deduced that this was the origin of the pollution, and he resolved to put a stop to it.
Piccolo entered the town. He concluded thereafter that ‘town’ might not have been the proper moniker for the civilization - perhaps ‘city’ might have been more accurate, for the bustling townsfolk and the numerous businesses lining the roads did not exactly denote a town.
There was something eerie, however, about the city. As Piccolo entered, the noise seemed to dwindle down, until ultimately the entire city was almost consumed by an overhang of silence. Piccolo did not quite understand it, himself. His presence evoked a disturbance, so to speak, wherein the variety of people retreated into the various surrounding buildings, seeking refuge. His presence, in and of itself, had forced these people into hiding, for they knew not what to expect from him.
Piccolo did not allow this to bother him. He entered the factory, only to be overcome with the stench of sweat and smoke. After a moment or two of searching, Piccolo came across the processing section of the factory. He noted that it was still pre-industrial - the factory was devoid of the capsules and advanced technology that marked the remainder of the world.
Piccolo glanced around the segment of the factory; a plethora of workers buzzed about, working on this or that. Among them stood one mustachioed man, a cigar in mouth and a whip in hand. He was the taskmaster here; that much was obvious. Piccolo decided that he was either the owner of the establishment, or that he could at least arrange a meeting between Piccolo and the owner. As such, Piccolo approached him, and prepared to initiate conversation.
He only prepared though, for the businessman initiated the conversation for him. “What do you want?” he spat, blowing cigar smoke in Piccolo’s face.
Piccolo waved the smoke out of his face, unamused, and began. “You need to stop polluting the rive-”
“Get outta here!” the businessman continued. “What are ya, one o’ those environment freak groups? Did they hire a shapeshifter to scare us? What are ya even supposed to look like?”
Piccolo had had enough. He could handle many things, but mockery was not one of them. He swatted the cigar out of the man’s mouth and caught it, before smashing the burning end against the forehead of the businessman. He twisted it around, leaving a permanent burn mark on the man’s forehead. The man, clutching his head, went falling onto the ground.
Silence once again surrounded Piccolo as he left the man lying on the ground. He went walking away and discovered the machine that was generating all the smoke and all the pollutants. It was a large, steel contraption, one that was practically hot to the touch. It produced new items at a rapid rate, dispelling more smoke with each new item. Piccolo conjured forth a great ball of ki and unleashed it upon the machine, damaging it irreparably. He then conjured up several more, destroying every piece of machinery in the entire factory until nothing was left but the screaming workers.
Piccolo’s work here was done. He stepped out of the factory through one of the holes that he had just created and left the city.
By nightfall, Piccolo had reached another town by tracing the river in the opposite direction. This town was considerably more appropriately named, but Piccolo contemplated whether or not it would be more accurately described as a village. He entered the town by swinging open a gate, and then he walked into the square of the town.
The wind blew calmy in the background and the roads were paved with gravel. As Piccolo entered, a boy on a bicycle rode past him, essentially ignoring Piccolo as he went by. The boy, however, was unique in this - as he walked through the town, the first person he came across was a young woman, who was knitting outside of her house.
Once she saw Piccolo, her mouth went agape - she had never seen a monster like him before. She scurried inside the house, slamming the door behind her as she went. Piccolo heard her click the locks behind her as she went, a reaction he found amusing. Figuring that there was no better source of information, he knocked on the door.
Slowly, she slid the peephole on the door open. Her disbelieving eyes looked out onto Piccolo, scanning him up and down.
“Wha-what do you want?” Her voice was high-pitched and squeaky, although Piccolo was unsure whether this squeakiness was inherent to the girl or caused by her fear.
Piccolo realized that he had to approach this with care and with ease, so as to not frighten the girl anymore. “Calm down. I just need to know where the chief is,” he growled back, his voice rumbling as it always did.
“What do you need with him!?” she shrieked back, clearly terrified.
“It doesn’t matter. Just tell me.”
The girl was too scared to continue this conversation any further. “He-he’s over there, two houses down. In the big tent.” She slid the peephole back shut and went running away, wanting nothing more to do with Piccolo. Likewise, Piccolo wanted nothing more to do with her. He walked two houses down, to the big tent, and went inside the house.
The chief’s house was a grand one, lined with a number of different artifacts. A number of different valuables could be found streaming across the walls, including innumerable paintings and jewels. The chief himself sat in a grand chair that likely doubled as a bed, for it did not appear that he moved often. Indeed, he was an overweight man. He was also notably old, grey hair sitting on his scalp and defining his chin. Atop the chief’s chair were six, bright red rubies, each one situated next to the other.
Standing to the side of the chief was a man who was substantially younger and fitter. He held in his hands a rifle, one that would classify as almost pornographic for the average gun-lover. The man wore a vest that was decorated by a number of different items, ranging from gold to magnificent pins. He was, indisputably, a warrior.
The air in the tent was tense as Piccolo entered. The man hastily cocked his gun, as a look of fear crossed the chief’s face. He immediately pointed it at Piccolo, aiming precisely and cleanly. He could easily get off six or seven good shots before Piccolo could even speak a word.
Piccolo looked around. He then decided that it was time to begin. He got out one word: “I-”
The warrior that stood at the chief’s side was shocked by this word, and he foolheartedly began firing away. The shells were fired out of the rifle at unbelievable speeds, piercing Piccolo. The sound of the rifle replaced the tension in the air, filling it with the sound of war. It filled the air for several minutes, as the man continued to fire away at Piccolo.
He then stopped, having not affected Piccolo whatsoever. The bullets that had pierced Piccolo’s skin fell out, one by one, and eventually hit the floor beneath him. He was wholly unharmed.
The chief was alarmed. He was the first to speak: “What do you want? Riches? We can give you all the gold we have! Please, just leave!”
Piccolo stood there solemnly, and then spoke at last. “I just wanted to tell you that the river here was polluted.” He finished his declaration, and then he left the chief’s tent and retreated from the village.
Mankind sics itself relentlessly onto the unknown, and now it had sicced itself upon Piccolo. He had nowhere left to go but back to meditation.
This story's theme is Woman and Man by Ween.
WARNING: Although there is already a disclaimer at the top of this page, it should be noted that this story contains particularly graphic imagery, even when compared to other stories in the collection. This story is not intended for immature audiences and reader discretion should be practiced.
Her name was Kushami, and she was being passed around a group of boys she did not know as if she were the collection plate at a large church.
The third boy she reached was the ugliest of them all. He had piercings protruding from his nose and a gauge in each ear. He shoved his cock inside her wet pink mass and began thrusting. Kushami smoked a cigarette as he exited and entered her and exhaled the smoke gratuitously.
The boy was far from gentle, and she bit down on her cigarette as he fucked her, squeezing her eyes shut and hoping that good feelings would follow the pain. She knew full well that ecstasy was in no way guaranteed – the men she fucked lacked form. They would thrust in and out of her like beasts for a few minutes and then they would finish, without Kushami ever experiencing anything bordering on orgasm.
As the boy reamed her, she pulled out her cell phone and checked the time. Her father, a chef at a local restaurant, had demanded that she be home by the end of the hour. This would be the last boy that could spend time with her before she had to leave.
She wondered what her father was doing. Kushami was a twin, and her sister, Launch, had always been her dad’s favorite. It stood to reason, too – Launch had always been the sweet one and she had never diverged from her father’s orders. Kushami hated it, how her dad would exclusively spoil her sister with little treats and attention. They would disappear for hours at a time on occasion, and Kushami could not even make herself think about what they were doing.
The guy pulled his manhood out of Kushami’s hole and spewed his seed all over her left thigh. She wiped it off with a bed sheet. The boy stood up with a revolting grin on his face and gazed up and down across Kushami.
“See you around, babe,” he said, pulling up his pants.
“Yeah, seeya,” Kushami replied, standing up and dressing herself.
She checked her phone. Her dad was bothering her again, pleading with her to come home. She shoved it into her pocket and began making her way home.
Launch was sitting at home, waiting for her dad to come back inside with the vanilla ice cream. She briefly wondered where Kushami was, but decided that it was really of no importance. Her sister always came home eventually, in spite of the countless hours she spent away from the house. Her sister had become more and more rebellious in recent years, as she had become increasingly prone to angry outbursts and had even threatened violence on several occasions. Launch heard the garage door open and saw her father come in with the ice cream.
“Come over here, Launch,” her dad said, gesturing her over to the couch. He set the two bowls of ice cream down on the living room table. Launch grabbed two spoons and walked to the living room, cautiously sitting down next to her dad. She placed one spoon in each bowl and ate a few spoonfuls of ice cream. It was quite tasty, as her dad had made it himself.
“How’s your day been?” he said to her, eating some ice cream himself.
“It was okay. I’ve just been around the house for most of the day. School was fine too, I guess.”
Her dad nodded. He smelt of a variety of spices from work, as he often did. He placed his hand on her leg, rubbing her thigh gently.
“I’ve had such a long day. The restaurant was the busiest it’s been in months, and it was real stressful.” He spoke softly, as though he was afraid to shatter the silence that surrounded them. “Can you help me out with that, sweetie?”
Launched turned her head and looked at her dad. She set the bowl of ice cream down and he grabbed her hand sternly and tightly. He guided her hand over to his pants and placed it on his crotch. She took the zipper on his pants and pulled it down, careful not to catch it on any fabric. She reached inside his pants and found his manhood, pulling it out of the hole in his pants.
She stroked his manhood for about a minute, waiting for it to firm up and grow larger. Once it had done so, she began gliding her hand up and down his shaft, grasping tightly on the loose skin that surrounded his erection. She was at first slow with her pumps but gradually increased the intensity of her movements, just the way that he liked it. It took several minutes, but soon he finished and the volcano erupted.
“Thanks, honey,” he said, putting his penis away. Launch did not respond – instead, she picked her bowl of ice cream back up and began to eat some more of it. He followed suit and ate some more of the ice cream. Before too long, both of them had finished their bowls and they placed them back on the table. It was a nice treat for Launch, for she truly did love her ice cream.
Kushami returned home a while after the two had finished eating, letting herself in through the front door. By this time, Launch had gone up to bed and was fast asleep. Their father was sitting in the living room and watching an episode of a television show.
“I’m gonna get some ice cream,” she told her father in lieu of saying hello.
“Do you need to eat that much?” he said back to her.
She snarled at him and resolved even more strongly to get some ice cream. She let herself into the garage and retrieved some of the vanilla ice cream her father had made a few days earlier. In spite of herself, the ice cream truly was delicious – she would have eaten all of it if given the chance. She made a bowl of it with a nearby scooper and went back into the house, grabbing a spoon. She headed up the stairs and into her room.
She sat down on her bed and began to indulge herself. She inhaled scoop after scoop of the ice cream. It took little time before her mind began to wander. Kushami thought about how she wanted to leave the household, to get away from her father and her sister. They could be alone together all they wanted if she did that, and it wouldn’t even be that hard.
That was the truth that Kushami struggled to evade – that her own family never wanted her at the house. It was omnipresent and inescapable. She was an outcast in her own family. And yet, she would have it no other way. Her sister was boring and unwilling to challenge the status quo, instead content to remain a slave to conventions. The way she bent every which way at the will of her father was revolting to Kushami. Her father was even worse. He was a pig, the type of man who would gladly subjugate the entire female population if he were able to. He was a chauvinistic man and it disgusted Kushami.
Even worse was the way he treated his own daughters. Kushami had noticed the way that her father had been looking at her sister ever since their mother had left. It was no secret, how he stared at her when she walked around the house. Kushami could leave for entire afternoons and it made no difference to him, so long as sweet little Launch stayed around to satiate him. Kushami despised it, how he gave her all the attention. She wondered why he had never chosen her to displace his affection upon. Perhaps she was just the uglier of the two.
This thought made Kushami angry with herself. She took the bowl to the bathroom and began pouring the ice cream down the sink. She then grabbed her toothbrush and shoved it down her mouth, triggering her own gag reflex. She threw up profusely and released the extraneous calories from her system. She then made herself throw up again, watching the vomit wash down the sink. She felt better and then she returned to her room.
The next day, Launch and her father were watching the one remaining tape they had of their mother. It was when she had given birth to Launch and Kushami. When Launch’s father was feeling wistful, he liked to watch the tape, purely because it reminded him of what once was.
Today was the first time that Launch had chosen to watch it. It was quite the lengthy clip, but he had insisted that she watch it with him.
He began to rub her thigh again. He had only recently returned from work and there were still particles of pepper remaining on his fingers. He was being unusually aggressive with his hands today. He felt around her pussy and rubbed her up and down both of her legs and up his chest. He often got like this when watching this clip of his former wife, and having Launch around was in no way a detractor.
Before long, he had begun to grope her chest. Launch wanted it to end, for she truly did not like it when he did things like this to her. She wished that he would sometimes do it to Kushami instead of her, but for some reason he only paid attention to Launch. She had blue hair like her mother, and Kushami’s hair was blonde like her father. Otherwise, the two were identical.
Soon, his hands found their way to Launch’s face. The pepper particles floated up her nostrils and she repressed the urge to sneeze. He forced her face onto his and bit down on her lips, sliding his tongue in and out of her mouth like a horny teenager. He groped her while doing so, squeezing her breasts and grasping at her thighs.
After a moment, he released her from his lips and used his hands to guide her head toward his groin. She resisted at first, for she hated having to taste it, but soon released that resistance was futile and it would be easier to just practice submission. She opened her eyes momentarily and glanced at the tape. It was at the point where the doctor was measuring the newborn, checking her for height and weight.
Launch stopped. There was only one blue-haired infant on the screen.
She looked intently at her dad. “Dad, where’s Kushami?”
Her dad appeared confused.
The ocean seemed to get a little bit higher each year. Roshi stood on the sand of his island, and watched the inexorable tide wash up on his shore time after time. Lately Roshi had been wondering if the tide would ever stop, or if it would just plod on, year after year, unchecked.
For a brief moment, Roshi thought that he saw the reflection of the moon out in the waves, but he knew that it was only an illusion, a relic of times long since past. A storm was brewing that night, evidenced by the heavy rain and powerful gusts of wind. Roshi stood out there in the rain and let it pelt his skin, but it did not bother him.
Roshi clenched his fists together. The smile typically found on his face was nowhere to be seen, and his good-hearted demeanor was notably absent as well. A certain brand of stoicism besmirched Roshi that night, as he struggled to deal with what had happened just a few hours earlier.
Turtle had died.
Roshi had fully known it was coming. Turtle had been dreadfully sick for the weeks leading up to then, and Roshi was aware that the old turtle was simply too old to live through another illness. His passing was not particularly painful or distressed, either; he had died peacefully, in a graceful transition from one dimension to the next. Roshi had experienced a thousand deaths far more traumatizing than Turtle’s, and, thus, he knew not why he was so sad.
But Turtle’s death penetrated Roshi’s psyche. The thought of it chased him around no matter how hard he tried to escape it, following him like a predator hungry for prey. It threatened to devour him and overcome him, and that scared Roshi.
Suddenly, all at once, Roshi was overwhelmed by these thoughts. Tears began to rain from his eyes, blending in with the rain that fell from the skies. They were washed off of his face in seconds, but he tried to wipe off his face regardless. He fell to his knees and yelled out over the ocean, clutching his face in his hands and rubbing his eyes. The tide brushed against his knees but he didn’t move an inch.
He didn’t want anyone to see him like this, but he knew nobody was going to. Not a soul had visited the island in several decades, and Turtle had been the only respite he had from a life of complete seclusion. Now that respite was gone.
Roshi pulled up clumps of sand from the ground and threw them out into the ocean, watching them sink into the water and disappear. There was something therapeutic about this, and Roshi repeated the action countless times. Roshi was suddenly angry, angry at everything around him, including the sand.
Soon Roshi tired of throwing sand and returned to his feet, stomping around.. He came up to one of his trees and punched it, breaking it in half almost on impact. Splinters stuck out from the tree and it careened downward, crashing into the ocean below it.
Roshi then stopped and took several deep, heavy breaths, his chest heaving back and forth as he stood still. He watched as the water rippled out from the island, the rain continuing to patter against the water. He was sick of it all. He was sick of the island, the house, the terrible weather, and, more than anything else, he was tired of himself.
Roshi migrated back into his house. He went into his kitchen and scoured around it, searching for something to drink. He soon found an old flask of whiskey in one of his cabinets and pulled it out. He unscrewed the cap and took one large swallow of it. He had always hated the taste of whiskey, as it burnt his mouth and often made him gag, but he didn’t care anymore. He grimaced after his first swallow and quickly took another gulp before slamming the flask down on the counter.
He glanced around the house, looking at all the furniture he had accumulated across the years. He went into his living room and scanned it. He saw a collection of tapes, filled with countless recording of women performing yoga and various other dance routines. He had gotten them as part of a subscription, from a series that was cancelled many years prior.
He had always loved those tapes, holding onto them for innumerable years. They were not, however, indestructible, and they had begun to stop working one by one many decades earlier. Just a week ago, the last tape had stopped working, leaving Roshi with nothing to watch.
Roshi went over to the collection and dumped them out on the ground. Furiously, he smashed them under his feet, each successive stomp creating a thousand more pieces of debris, the particles spreading out over the floor. He needed nothing more to do with them. They were trash, junk, worthless to him.
Roshi kicked the final tape away from him, letting it crash into the wall and shatter. He gazed over the mess he had made and felt disgusted with himself, so he decided to leave the room. As he made his way back to the kitchen, he bumped into one of his tables and a single picture frame fell onto the ground.
Roshi stopped, stooping over to pick it up. It had cracked upon hitting the ground and several small shards of glass were left on the ground, but he didn’t care. He saw the picture and examined it for the first time in many years. It was a small photo of him with Krillin and Goku, back long before either of them were martial arts champions or saviors of the universe. Roshi was momentarily ashamed of himself, for he realized that he could hardly recall what Krillin had looked like.
He set it back on the table gently, and began to stroll past the remainder of his photos. They brought back to him fond memories of people that he used to know. There were pictures of Bulma, Oolong, Launch, Gohan, Ox-King. They were long-gone by then, snatched away by the passage of time. Like sand in the hourglass, they had disappeared one by one, their memories fading alongside them as Roshi continued living out his days.
He remembered back to when King Piccolo had attacked the Earth for the first time. Even to that day, he sometimes wondered how he had survived. Everyone around him had perished at the hands of Piccolo, all of his training partners and virtually everyone he knew. He felt sudden pangs of fear as he remembered those days.
He recalled the unshakeable sense of fear that permeated the air around him, and he remembered how he had heard his best friend yell as he hid in a nearby room. He felt so much guilt and he still felt so helpless to do anything about it. The moans and the screams of his friend had been too much for him to handle, but he hid nonetheless. That was how Roshi felt now. He felt hopeless and helpless, unable to avoid the truth about his life.
Everyone he had ever called friend was now dead. He was all alone.
He cursed the Immortality Phoenix that had given him the ability to live for so long. If he could have changed the past, he would have done so without hesitation. He knew that there was only one option left.
He found his way back into the kitchen and scoured through his pantry and various cabinets. He located his objective soon enough, pulling a small vial full of pink liquid out of a faraway cabinet. It swayed back and forth in the vial, taunting him and calling to him simultaneously. He took the cap off and inhaled the aroma that radiated from the container. It was sickeningly sweet and he hated it. It made him gag a little bit, knowing what he was about to do. His eyes watered and he tilted the bottle backward, allowing the liquid to seep into his mouth and creep down his throat. He had just swallowed a suicide elixir.
This was the first time in recent memory that Roshi had felt legitimately scared. He knew what was coming next, as he had died thrice before, but he knew that he wouldn’t be coming back this time. He only hoped that King Yemma would choose to send him to heaven.
Questions inundated his mind as he wondered why he had waited so long to do this. Part of it was for Turtle. He had decided resolutely that he would at least wait until Turtle died before killing himself, but Turtle wasn’t the only reason. He had also felt a need to play guardian of the Earth, to be there to counter any new threat that would approach the planet. He knew, though, that this was not necessary. There were numerous people out there more qualified than him to save the planet in a time of need. He was just too old to be the guardian anymore.
Roshi’s mind flashed back once more to when King Piccolo attacked his temple. He had crouched in an empty room by himself and hoped that King Piccolo wouldn’t come in. All he could do then was pray and wish that day was not the day that he died. That was the only time in his life that Roshi had felt truly powerless, up until that night.
He clenched his fists together once more and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the elixir to take effect. Death was inevitable now. He was totally and completely helpless. Tears flowed from his eyes, and he wondered what it had all been for. Perhaps it was all meaningless.
A part of Roshi was happy, though. He had made a difference in the history of Earth. He had trained Goku and Krillin, two of the greatest warriors and heroes to ever grace the planet. He had left his mark, and now it was time for him to go.
Roshi wished that it didn’t have to end this way. He wished that he could die of old age, like so many other people he had known, so that he didn’t have to put himself through this. He walked back outside of his house, as great pain seized him and took ahold of him.
The salty aroma of the outside world infested his senses as the rain began slamming against him again. He marched on, out to the coastline of his island, and faced the island. A great pressure gripped him around the chest and he began to have trouble breathing, gasping for air and struggling to remain upright.
He started to hallucinate then, and he saw the moon once again in the sky, brighter and bolder than ever before. Faces of his old friends flashed through the sky, and he hoped that he would be joining them soon enough.
He had lived for much too long and he had experienced far too much. He was but a mere mortal and immortality was not suited for him.
Roshi fell into the water then and slowly lost consciousness. He was washed away by the tide and forgotten, lost in the annals of time.
|That Magic Feeling|
|One • Two • Three • Four • Five • Six • Seven • All Good Children Go to Heaven|