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ONE
Goten sighed. It was not the sigh of exhaustion he had after a long, hot, tiring afternoon training with Dad. It was a different sort of sigh. Sort of like the sighs Mom had when Dad gave nanoseconds of notice about going to train with this Kai or that Kai. And Dad knows lots of Kais. So why was Goten sighing?
Right now he should be smiling, laughing, shouting. He was at the Model 1 Amazing Capsule Amusement Park Trunks got for his ninth birthday. There were no lines for Game Arcadiea, Whimsical Whirligigs, Bumblebee Bumpercars, Upsidedown Slipslide or Crazy Horse Coaster and Carousel Combo. Servobots were everywhere, too, fetching sour slurpies and cotton candy whenever Saiyan besties asked. And, coolest of all, they had outsmarted Vegeta, telling him they were going to train in an unsettled area out east. Altogether this was a formula for fun, but it was totally failing today.
Goten sighed again. What’s wrong with me? Maybe these sighs were because of Gohan. His big brother was behaving like a moody monstersaurus. Almost like Vegeta. Mom grumbled all the time about him behaving like a horrormal teenager. Dad had not been there much to watch it happen, having gone to train with Uncle Tien and Uncle Chiaotzu again. Lately Gohan locked his door, too, blasting strange music and yelling at Goten to go play with his animal pals. Perhaps he was cramming for national exams. The next two rounds would determine which universities he could apply for. And he really, really wanted to get into West University on a complete ship of scholars.
“Alright, Goten,” Trunks broke through thoughts, “your ice creams’s dripping.” Goten looked down at the melting mash of rocky road, butter brickle and strawberry banana. “What’s wrong?” His inky eyes drifted to Trunks who had that annoyed look, that look Vegeta wore whenever Goten waved hello. “Come on, what is it?”
“I dunno,” Goten shrugged. “Maybe I’m just moody like Gohan always is.” He devoured the remains of his ice cream cone in three bites. “He’s always locked in his room and telling everyone to go away.” He's even yelled at Piccolo!
“My mom says he’s hit peak teenager.” It must be true if Auntie Bulma said so, whatever it meant, because she was a Super Supergenius like Gohan. “And it’s worse since he’s in an intimating relationship.”
Intimidating relationship? “But he and Videl seem to have lots of fun playing Saiyaman and Saiyagal.”
“I thought she was Saiyawoman.”
“I dunno.” Goten plopped onto a porcupine-shaped bench. “She just changed it again.” He kicked his dangling legs as Trunks sat beside him. “What’d you mean they’re intimidating?”
“No, it’s intimating.” Trunks had donned that irritated look again. “It means they’ll like live together after high school.”
“They'll be married by then?”
“No, first they've gotta live together a while. They’ve gotta be sure they don’t have habits that aggravate one another.”
Dad must’ve done a lot more aggravating things before Mom would marry him. “Oh, now I get it!” Goten laughed. “Would we have to be in an intimating relationship to live together?”
“Great galaxy!” Trunks smacked his own forehead. “You really need to get out more.”
“Mom says I’m outside too much already.”
“Nevermind.” Now Trunks was sighing too. “So what else has Gohan been up to? He hasn’t visited my house lately.”
“He’s too busy dating.” And he doesn’t even want to spar anymore. “Tonight he’s taking Videl to Maison Turducken.”
“What!?” Trunks gaped like Videl did at Gohan when they had went swimming off Papaya Island. “That’s the most expensive restaurant in the world.”
“It is?” Dad had eaten there with Uncle Krillin once and that was supposed to be kept totally secret. “I heard steak there comes with awesome sauce.”
“I haven’t tried it yet.” Of course Trunks would have eaten there; Auntie Bulma was the wealthiest woman in the world. “I’ve been there a few times with Mom. She won’t take Dad because a meal for him would be like 80,000 zeni.” That was as much as a cool car cost, like the Capsule Zumzum XTC owned by Uncle Yamcha. “You know what, we should go there for dinner.”
“That’d be cool,” Goten agreed. I’d find out what awesome sauce tastes like. “But isn’t your allowance maxed out til next year?”
“Nah, nothing’s happened at school lately.” Trunks grinned, showing chocolate crumbs wedged between teeth. “So do you want to go there tonight?”
“Gohan’ll get angry if he sees me.” He’ll tell Mom I’m stalking him like a lunar tick. "And he's been real scary lately."
“Then we’ll disguise ourselves.”
“Like Saiyaman?”
“No, we’d be too conspicuous.” Trunks crossed his arms in thoughtfulness. “I know, we’ll dress as Mr. Satan fanboys!”
TWO
Friday date nights with Videl attracted disaster. Sometimes emergencies in Satan City summoned them, be it catmen caught in trees or bank robbers in rubber Mr. Satan masks. Mostly it was that asshat Sharpner, crashing the scene if Erasa had betrayed their whereabouts; and places like Megamini Golftini and Acme Ultimate Frisbee were not options since his muscle buddies worked there. Gohan had concluded they needed to venture elsewhere, somewhere upscale in another city where teenaged weightlifting junkies would not wander.
It was his week to choose so he had chosen the most expensive restaurant on the planet: Très Chic Maison Turducken. He was able to obtain a coveted reservation without any wait time because ultimate movie stuntman Yamcha was their number one customer. Celebrity connections are the best! Before dinner there would be dancing at the au courant Footsie Tootsie where classical ballroom was en vogue. Bulma had instructed him in the intricacies of waltzing footwork; it was like synchronized martial arts filled with Ginyu-esque poses. As to money, there was unspent birthday zeni from Grandpa Ox, totaling 18,000, which would be sufficient if he restricted himself to two dishes and one dessert.
He admired himself in a full length mirror. This suit was styled in the latest cut and pattern, with a paisley cravat and a high-collared ruffled shirt. His muscular thighs did not fit the fashionable superskinny cut, not even if he contracted thigh muscles to conserve energy, so his trousers were not as skintight. Vegeta had seen him model his completed ensemble for Bulma and he provided his ever insightful commentary on clothing: “A true Saiyan warrior would never wear that!” What did Vegeta know when his myopic world was the gravity chamber, a reflection of his narrow-minded, single-minded existence to surpass Kakarot.
Inquisitive knocks attacked his door. “Gohan?” The mirror showed the knob twisting. “Can I come in?” And the door thrust opened, admitting Mom with her face stamped by sternness.
“Mom, you could’ve waited for me to say yes.” She had promised to be more respectful of his space, but, here she was, trespassing as if it was Goten playing Saiyaman after bedtime. “Geez, what if I’d’ve been naked?”
“I can ride Nimbus but that doesn't mean I have to be an innocent maiden.” She stepped deeper into his room, hands perched on authoritarian hips. “That’s a very fine and fancy and suit on you. What a hotzilla I have for a son!” Ah, shit, why did she always have to be so embarrassing? “I wish Goku would wear snazzy duds for our anniversary dinners. But it’s always gis, morning, noon, night, you name it.” Dad had at least a hundred orange gis decorated with symbols from several martial arts schools. “Now, I know you’re getting serious with Videl. And if your intimacy's crossed--"
“Geez, Mom!” Fist furled. Blood surged. His power level inflated like Capsule Corp did after quarterly earnings reports. “We’re not getting married!”
“I meant that if you’re having sex then--”
“Mom!” Swift air currents swirled around the room, rustling curtains, blankets and clothing. “I know all about the mechanics!” Krillin had educated him on these matters when he was thirteen before Master Roshi distorted his adolescent mind further.
“Calm down or you’ll blow up the house,” she scolded, stepping closer while she did so. “I wanted to make sure you have a supply of protection capsules. If you should need--”
“Oh, Bulma gave me some.”
“So, you’ll talk to her about sex,” Mom flushed, “but not with your own mother.”
“I just, you know, I--it’s weird, well, I--”
“Young man,” she yelled, “I know what you’ve been doing in your room!” An admonishing digit jabbed at him. “I’ve heard all those moans and groans, no matter how loud you blast music. ‘Kitchie-kitchie, bang-bang! Can I clang your booty, you hooty-tooty’--”
“Mom, please!”
“You could’ve at least chosen music with words Goten wouldn’t ask about.” Her waggling finger withdrew. “Now, ‘hotzilla loveboy’, remember, I’m too young to be a grandma.”
THREE
Ah, another day of inventing done! Neurons had been exercised to excess, maintaining themselves at Super Supergenius 3 for twelve hours. Now, now it was the time to let brilliant, beautiful brain cells relax with a clichéd romance novel while all was quiet on the household front.
Verbana, a wealthy, intelligent woman, is on her way to meet her betrothed, the bankrupt Prince Geranio. She travels through the desert escorted by her old lecherous uncle (who looked like Master Roshi) and his valiant Herbiwarriors, commanded by handsome Ser Cumin. Halfway there mercenaries, mounted on colossal scorpions, attack the intrepid party. She escapes into an oncoming sandstorm and struggles against the battery of boundless sand grains. And then, as she is about to be buried, stumbles a noble, one-eared bandit rescues her. His name is--
Yamcha. Bandits always looked like Yamcha. Or Yamchas. But only in her imagination. Jealous Vegeta would forbid her to read fiction if he had any inkling what literary tropes roamed in her head. How indignant he if she revealed that reformed Emo-esque villains looked like him. He’s always been the hot, hunky hero in his tale. And what would happen if she confessed to fantasies of him fucking Yamcha?
That Vegeta, he was so single-minded about sexuality. The most sentient Earthlings imagined dozens, hundreds, thousands of scenarios internally without needing to experience them externally. But His High and Mightiness had no forbearance for bedroom roleplaying like her ex-boyfriend had. She was his mate and his wife--His Bulma!--and he would authorize no one else, whether flesh or fiction, to kiss her on the lips. Not Oolong. Not Kakarot. And not Old Kai who would lose his afterlife in any attempt to collect that debt.
But, oh, it was such a pleasure, reading while soaking in a heated tub. Vegeta scorned trivial diversions, especially those reams of wasted words Trunks and she digested. Sometimes he deigned to read earth history and science so as to criticize its primitive state. For a few days he had been fascinated by Allizarder the Great, son of Princess Anaconda, the world emperor who rode into battle on a one-eyed pterodactyl, ahead of his horde mounted on elks and mammoths; interest would have prolonged if His Greatness had not died a pathetic death by accidentally drinking poison meant for rodents.
“His tongue lapped the tip of her nipples, delivering an unknown thrill to her body. Her breasts heaved and throbbed, like the pearl between her legs, as his mouth suckled--”
“BULMA!” Her book dropped into bathwater as the door gusted open, admitting a Super Saiyan draft. “BULMA!” The yeller stood beside the tub, clad in bomber jacket, tight t-shirt, black slacks and army boots. “WE’RE GOING OUT!”
“NOT SO LOUD!” she shouted back while salvaging her book. “You don’t have to screech it into my ears like that!”
“We’re going out.”
“Oh?” She glowered at his face fused into an everlasting scowl. “But it’s your night to do 10,000 pushups in 400G.”
"It can wait.” Fists clenched like when he powered up. “We’re going to Maison Turducken.”
“Honey, power down your stomach!” she snorted. “The line there is absolutely ridiculous. You’ll need a reservation. And the waiting list--”
“I made a reservation seven months ago.”
“You did!?” Jaw dangled and book plummeted beneath bubbles again. “You--you--you made--”
“You’ve said you’ve wanted us to eat out alone together.”
She leapt from the tub like a playful dolphin. “My sweet Saiyan!” Her arms swung around his neck and water splattered onto his clothes. “I can’t believe it!” Her slick nakedness pressed against him and his virile arms encircled her narrow waist. “You’ve really been listening!”
“Hmph.” He squished her tighter. “My ears aren’t defective like Kakarot’s.”
FOUR
Krillin learned powered down Saiyan sneezes do dislodge foam from atop macchiatos six meters away. What he did not know was how Goku had time to sneeze between coq au vin and steak au poivre, ratatouilles and andouillettes. He would finish this appetizer before before the turduckens arrived, including one served au escargot for an impervious Saiyan stomach.
Goku lauded food like the media did Mr. Satan. If there had been gods and guardians of cuisine, Goku would have glorified them all. The only literature (besides comic books) Krillin had witnessed his friend willingly read were cookbooks. He knew the history of Ginger Town (or Ville de Gingembre) soufflé but almost nothing about the ancient Kwungfueh civilization around Mount Paozu. And Hwong Kwong Fueh, the Greatest Martial Artist from the Sunrise Shore. Scripted dramas on PunchOut! were no worthy competitors to food channels. TastyTV, Zoom Food, Grilling Central and Meat Mayhem were what he watched when training binges were less intense. So who better to appreciate Maison Turducken with than Goku...since he never forgot an appointment with food!
So long as you have 40,000 spare zeni. Krillin had to be underhanded to afford dinner here with the superest Saiyan. He had laundered money through fraudulent items in the household budget. This supplemented his monthly allowance which he had been frugal with for four months; it saved him money to not wax his head weekly although he still did, uh, elsewhere. 18 had extorted more than two billion zeni from Mr. Satan, but she would not permit such expenditures when they were going to buy Jubejubeju Isle (five square miles of island paradise!) and live there in an ostentatious villa, like the one Marron had for her Supersparkle Pixie Princess Shimmershine action figures (because, as she said, only boys had dolls). And I’m sure Master Roshi'll move Kame House there since it’s three miles from Nearly Naked Isle.
With Goku licking his last appetizer plate, Krillin rejuvenated conversation: “18 and Chi-Chi would be furious if they knew we were here.”
“I know!” Goku lowered a cleaned up plate sparkling with Saiyan spit. “Chi-Chi would’ve made me wear a suit here.”
“Well,” Krillin laughed, “it can’t be as awful as being fused with Vegeta.”
“Actually, you know, I’d prefer to be merged with him.”
“What!?” Krillin gaped. “Even if it was permanent?” He’s got to have a limit with suit evasion.
“Vegito doesn’t wear a tie.”
Being fat, flatulent and unable to fight might be it. “Well, Goku,” Krillin snickered, “would you like yo be stuck as Veku?”
“Hmm.” Contemplativeness seized Goku for a moment. “Hmm.” Or two. “You know, I’ll have to think about it more.”
“Perhaps you’ll wear a tie if threatened with a needle.”
“Not even then.” A very mischievous Saiyan smile materialized. “I learned a technique on Yardrat to counteract my fear. It’s something I had to do, something I couldn’t let Vegeta exploit after he learned about it.”
“Really?” Krillin quirked an eyebrow. “You’re still going to fight him to the death?”
“No, not after we’ve both been dead!” Goku laughed, almost hysterically. “Now where’re those turduckens?”
FIVE
Disguises were easily acquired. Satan popup stores were everywhere, selling Mr. Satan t-shirts, Mr. Satan suspenders and Mr. Satan glow-in-the-dark, day-of-the-week underwear. Trunks used his Executive Platinum Capsule Card to buy them wigs, hoodies and foam fingers. And Mr. Satan Sweet and Strong Slurpies, too. Trunks had a piña colada supergulp and Goten had a twirly-whirly supertwist.
The restaurant was atop the totally giant and ginormous Gigantor Tower. It was the second tallest structure in West City. Tallest building honors belonged to the Capsule Corp Customer Service Center. Trunks knew all about it, like 30,000 underlings worked there fielding questions about damaged stuff. Not that Capsule Corp things had many problems. Auntie Bulma makes unbreakable things. Trunks said something about superfluid workers being a form of philandry. He had to learn business stuff for two hours every Wednesday; he got out of class, missing midweek gym madness, to learn stuff about static ticks and internalization.
The line to get into Maison Turducken was long and lengthy. Too bigly big, too. Thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, waiters long. A catwoman host informed them that due to the cancellation rate they would have six days and seven months of waiting, but they could hire several stand-ins if they wished from reputable agencies such as Wait’n’Watch, Patience In--
“Uh, we get it,” Trunks huffed, waving the host away. “I’m really sorry, Goten.” He stared at the ground like he was guilty of refrigerator raiding which Dad always was. “I didn’t know there’d be a line like this.”
“--and now on Heart-Z-Music, the world’s number one song--”
“That’s okay,” Goten laughed over loud electro-music that Gohan would say had like a totally sick beat, man. “I know you’ll think of something.”
“Kitchie-kitchie, bang bang. Can I clang your booty--”
“I dunno.” Trunks slumped onto the tiled floor. “Their security’s tighter than your mom’s cupboards.”
“Kitchie-kitchie-coo!” Goten sang along to the song Gohan always blasted. “Can I ride inside you--you--yeah! Vroom-vroom--”
“Goten,” Trunks shouted, “do you even know what this song’s saying?”
He had asked Mom about that, too. Maybe Trunks doesn’t know what it’s about yet. “It’s about tickling.”
And Trunks donned the dour Vegeta face again. “My mom told Dad it’s about ass kissing.”
“She shouldn’t use the butt word.” Last week Mom had scolded Gohan for calling Mr. Satan an assclown. What’s so funny about butts? Goten scanned through the tall, tall crowd, looking for ideas to aid Trunks. His eyes swiveled toward the red carpet reserved for those with reservebations. There, in a silly, frilly shirt and polka-dotted tie, was someone he knew with a blonde lady holding his hand. Just like Mom holds mine when we're crossing streets in the city. “Look, it’s Uncle Yamcha.”
Trunks yanked Goten aground. “Don’t blow our cover,” he snarled like Vegeta would, always cranky and grouchy like he lacked sunshine. “And keep your power level on the down low.”
Goten glanced at Uncle Yamcha again. The lady with him had what Master Roshi called big, squishy headrests. She seemed familiar, too, yet strange with her clothes covering her from neck to knee. “Hey, haven’t we seen Uncle Yamcha’s friend before?”
Trunks eyed them. “Yeah, she’s in Master Roshi’s bathroom magazines.” He punched the tiles, creating several small cracks. “We need to get in.” His teeth clenched. “But I’ve got nothing here. Think, genius, think!” He smacked his forehead.
Goten looked at the latest red carpet arrivals. There was a horde of them and the bedazzling bling on their shirts sparkled like Destructo Discs: MR SATANS ULTIMATE FANBOYS. “Hey, Trunks, maybe we should sneak in with those guys.”
Trunks blinked at the bright bunch. “Oh!” The smile Bulma named mischief slithered onto his face. “Goten, that’s the best idea you’ve ever had!”
SIX
And so, dancing was another dating disaster. Footsie Tootsie was populated by older peoples, as in old enough to be their great-grandparents. Ladies more wizened than Fortuneteller Baba fought to partner Gohan. They pressed close, and closer still, to better study his adorability and for him to inhale breath rife with denture glue. And the groping! Most satisfied themselves with pinching and squeezing his backside, but a rip-roaring randy handful cupped his man prize. One great-great-grandmother, with a few wisps of fried and frizzled hair, offered him 15,000 zeni to accompany her to her 70th class reunion.
But incognito Videl had it thrice as worse. More than a score of Master Roshis (complete with nosebleeds) begged her to dance Bumpingdon and Grinderdownton waltzes with them. They nudged and snuggled against her breasts when not scrying into them like crystal balls. One spry old being with four arms pinched her breasts and buttocks simultaneously. After that incident, they departed, disregarding ardent requests for them to remain for the Cootchie Smoochie. Maybe Vegeta’s right, the only dance worth knowing is the Fusion. Gohan vowed he would do even more extensive research when next planning for date night.
And so, across the glittering city they flew to Très Chic Maison Turducken. They rolled down the reservation red carpet, cruising by glares and glowers from the line to get in. The covetous would have clamored for the Daughter of Satan had she not concealed herself with the newest Capsule Superhero Disguiser (secret patent pending), developed by the incomparable Bulma. The haughty maître d’hôtel escorted them to leur table spéciale. It was beside a disappearing window with a view of the flickering, flashing city skyline, making it feel like they were outside, floating, without traffic noise to destroy ambience. Waiters in black berets, penciled-on mustaches (female humans included) and striped shirts roved between tables, replenishing bread rolls.
“So, Professor Gohan,” Videl smiled up from her menu, “it’s time to show off your French.”
“Vegeta wouldn’t approve,” Gohan laughed. And who’re these repressed powers I’m sensing? They better not fuck with me tonight. “Saiyans don’t parsley voo.”
“If your have time to parsley voo, you have time to train, right?”
“Exactement, mon chère. Bulma believes he hasn’t taken a day off since he started walking.”
“Seriously, he needs another hobby, besides the eating. And offering terrible advice. ”
“Bonsoir,” a snooty tone interloped, “je serai votre serveur ce soir--”
“You!?” Gohan and Videl goggled together at their blond server. “You--you work here!?”
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Videl!” Sharpner smiled at Videl like an old-fashioned cinema idol in those old movies Mom liked. “I see you’re disguised again tonight,” he continued in a farcical accent. “If I’d known you’d be coming I would’ve gotten you a better table, somewhere more intimate, where--”
“Hey,” Gohan interrupted, “do you have a wine list?”
Sharpner glared at him. “I’ll need to see identification.”
“Guess I’ll have a club soda instead.”
“That’s be eau gauche.”
“Don’t you mean l'eau gazeuse?”
"Whatever." Sharpner huffed. “Videl, would you like a wine list?”
Her smile gleamed with deviousness reminiscent of Krillin. “Well, do you have Château Fromage from the 690s?”
“A shot of that costs 15,000 zeni!” Sharpner gaped. And stupidly so, too. “The earliest vintage we have is from 747.”
“Then I’ll just have Duke of Earl tea.”
“Anything for you, mon cerise.” By the Great Dragon, date night would be dropping deeper into disaster with Penzel Sharpner here to interrupt their evening, again and again. “And a sippy cup of club soda for your underaged guest.”
SEVEN
Astounded. Confounded. Dumfounded. This was the tornado of astonishment attacking Bulma (dressed impeccably as always) when she realized Vegeta had reserved them not just any table. A rooftop table! And up here, on the roof, no twinkling stars could be seen thanks to light pollution. West City is the brightest spot on the Earth thanks to Dad and me. But they were unbothered by the wind beneath a disappearing dome, decorated with bird droppings until robo-scrubbers removed them. Birds sat up there, including beaky buzzards with squinty faces like Yajirobe, staring down at the food. As if the dome will malfunction. Bulma had perfected the technology at thirteen so dodo brains did not die from crashing into domes.
His High and Mightiness needed no menu. He had his order memorized: one turducken and four steaks, each done a different way, with double orders of all sides. He was curt yet colossally considerate, not overwhelming staff with monumental demands for two of everything (minus carrots and radishes). Like the last time we ate three years ago. And no undue attention would be awarded him since numerous diners gorged themselves on buttered bread like they were at the Olyve Oyl.
Their server departed. “What, no desserts?” Bulma teased. “You usually order a dozen straightaway.”
“Hmph.” Vegeta snorted. “I’m ordering according to your silly custom.”
“Is this my cue to ask how Saiyans would do it?”
“I’ve told you before, woman: food is food,” he huffed in unison with rumbling hunger. “Not breakfast. Not lunch. And especially not dessert.” The sweetness (for him) he had exhibited earlier would not remerge until his stomach was sated. But his pheromones desiring her had not abated so ther would be a bedroom brawl tonight. “Now surrender those bread rolls!” He seized them. All princely pretensions were forsaken when he stuffed his face.
“Hey!” Ah, shit, it was Yamcha! “Hey Bulma!” Vegeta ceased chewing to glare at the bugaboo he referred to only as “that guy”. And that guy came over to their table, unidentified romantic object clinging onto him, both dressed like West Citians from the Prince of Whales Era. “I never expected to see you two on a date!”
Scowling (as always), Vegeta swallowed cheeks full of rolls. “It’s called let’s not eat dinner at the same table every night.” His deadpan was definitely deadly.
“Oh, man!” Yamcha laughed awkwardly as Saiyan eyes drilled into him. “What a droll sense of humor! Man--”
“Oh, dearie!” his blonde accomplice interrupted. “Who is she?” She glowered at Bulma. Or at least her cleavage. And it was all natural, too.
“Oh, yeah!” his laugh brayed. “Bulma and Vegeta, this is Lily Lilac.” She blew His High and Mightiness a kiss. “And, dearie, this is Bulma and Vegeta, longtime, er, friends of mine.” Uh-oh, Vegeta would not appreciate that guy referring to him as a friend.
“Hmph.” Vegeta stared at the stranger. “Haven’t I seen you before?”
“Lily’s a famous model and--”
“Yummy,” she seethed, “I can answer for myself.”
“Sorry, dearie.”
“Let’s go, dearie.”
“As you say, dearie.” Yamcha waved. “Well, see you around!” And Lily Lilac towed him away like a corpse, limp but leadened by dead weight.
Why does he always attract jealous types? “That won’t end well.”
“Maybe he should try this dating thing with men instead.”
"Oh?" Vegeta would go ballistic if she suggested he date Yamcha. It'd be the sexiest sight in the universe to see them kiss. “What a droll sense of humor you have, dearie.”
“Hmph.” Vegeta crossed his arms. “She must be the strong power I’ve been sensing around here.”
This many jokes and jests from him in one night!? He must have developed a new devastating technique to test on Goku when they next sparred in space. “And I thought it was your stomach.”
EIGHT
They twinkled like neon saloon signs. They flashed like strobe orbs on karaoke night. They spun and sparkled like psychedelic disco balls. And they were legion, draped in regalia sporting the image of their idiotic idol. They were MR SATANS ULTIMATE FANBOYS, from near and far, from here and there and everywhere. And they don’t know how to use apostrophes.
“WHO DO WE LOVE?” Fanboy #1 (so said his glittering shirt) shouted with aid of megaphone, multiplying his loudness by obnoxious degrees. “YEAH, SAY IT: WHO DO WE LOVE?”
“SATAN! SATAN! SATAN!”
“Just our luck to be seated by them,” Krillin muttered beneath their tumult. “And they’re not even plastered yet.”
“Hey, Krillin,” Goku chirped chipperly. “Maybe Bulma can figure out a way I can wear my hair like Mr Satan.” Of course Goku was not irked by dumbass fanboy antics when there was so much food to enjoy.
“That just wouldn’t be you.”
“It isn’t you with that thing on your head!” Goku laughed. “It can’t be Jackie Chun’s wig so it must be from Master Roshi’s merkin collection.”
Krillin winced. “That’s an absolutely disgusting idea!” But not as revolting as Satan worship.
“But not as disgusting as Bacterian, right?”
“I wouldn’t know, not having a nose.”
“Then you don’t know what you’re missing!” Goku laughed heartily again. “So are you ready for dessert?”
“SATAN! SATAN! SATAN!” the fanboys cheered as their enormous Satan-shaped cake arrived. “SATAN! SATAN! SATAN!”
“No,” Krillin sighed, “I’m ready to go home.”
“I’m sticking around,” Goku grimaced. “There’re immense but suppressed energies lurking nearby. They feel familiar, but keep fading in and out so quickly I can't identify them.”
“What!?” Krillin gulped. His ki sensitivity had not been alerted to anything. And it’s more sensitive than Dr. Feel. But there, there it was! He felt it. Them. Two blips. His skin chilled like whenever Vegeta glared at him. “I got a bad feeling about this.”
NINE
Fears of Gohan fled when Goten and Trunks discovered Dad and Uncle Krillin devouring deliciousness. They hid beneath a banquet table--just like spies!--to watch them eat cakes, tarts and custards. When they were not eating themselves, too, taking tasty things from MR SATANS ULTIMATE FANBOYS. The fanboys ordered many meaty things fried, smoked, roasted and steamed. But where’s the awesome sauce? Trunks said to listen for the French phrase “le sauce d’awesome” but it was difficult to hear anything beyond “SATAN! SATAN! SATAN!”
All the drinks were funny tasting too. Goten and Trunks gave them to others hiding under the table, unless they were napping like Fanboy #52 and Fanboy #757. There were two shapeshifting pigs who were removed cousins of Oolong; Dongding and Darjeeling were piggyrazzi looking for celebrities. But they were unfamiliar with Uncle Yamcha, him being just an ultimate stuntman in movies about Jackie Chun: Old Drunken Master, the highest and grossiest films of the decade.
"HEY!" Someone yanked Goten by his shirt cuff. “HEY!” That someone named Trunks screeched into his ears.“TRRRGNN!”
“WHAT!?”
“TRRRGNN!”
“Huh, what?” Trunks dragged Goten from the noisiest noise, toward busbots lined up to haul dirty plates and things away. We need more of those at home. “What’s a trigun?”
“No, I said they’re gone.”
“Who’s gone?”
“Krillin and your dad.” Trunks sounded as aggravated as Vegeta did whenever Goten asked about how his training was going. “What were they doing here anyway?” He turned, showing the unnerving Mini Vegeta face to match his voice.
“I dunno.”
“Well,” Trunks grinned toothfully, “maybe he was on a date with Krillin.”
“Really?”
“Geez, I’m kidding.” Trunks shook his head. “They’re just besties out to eat.”
“Like me and you!” Goten paused to ponder. Does Vegeta have friends? “Hey, does your dad have a bestie?”
“I dunno,” Trunks shrugged. “My dad doesn’t talk about stuff like that.”
“He only talks about training, right?”
“And defeating Kakarot.” Trunks yanked Goten by the arm, towing him toward the fanboy feast. “Hot damn, Goten, look at them hot wings!”
Goten looked and beheld plates and platters, trays and trenchers of hot wings humongous. Maybe they’re covered in awesome sauce! Drool dribbled from the corners of his lips when he saw sofa-sized drumsticks approaching.
TEN
The wannabe beau--and asshat supremo!--bestowed tremendous service on his beloved who did not belove him. Videl received her order, saumon sauce endives, in less than twenty minutes. Meanwhile Gohan was condemned to wait, like people once did for return phone calls, his glass getting empty and emptier. Like my stomach. Even the bread rolls were not replenished until Videl requested more. That’s it, Sharpner’s getting absolutely no tip.
But there was pandemonium beneath the punctiliousness here. Gohan sensed ki levels rising among employees, a clear indication of unaccustomed tensions coming from the kitchen. Staff became scarce and scarcer, Sharpner included. Servobots came out of storage to clear tables and deliver food. Are vegetable-shaped aliens gobbling the staff? Is was as plausible as anything Gohan had encountered in seventeen years (excluding that year in the Time Chamber). And it could explain the strange power levels.
Finally, that asshat resurfaced, bringing Videl another drink. “Hey there, mademoiselle, what can I--”
“Hey, Sharpner,” Gohan deflected the latest attack, “what’s the holdup on my meal?”
“There’s a sudden steak shortage,” eye-rolling Sharpner explained. “Mr. Satan’s fanboys are having their monthly visit.”
“Can I change my order then?”
“Sure, why not.”
“I’m have le Turducken Maison Spéciale.”
“We’re low on that too. Some crazy guy on the roof ordered like eighty of them.”
“Sounds like another Saiyan’s here,” Videl commented as Gohan (re)scanned the menu. “There’re some noteworthy powers here.” Her ki was noteworthy, too, over three thousand now with her training in gravity.
“That’d explain the repressed energies I’m sensing.” It must be Goten and Trunks sneaking around to stalk me. Bulma should not permit her spoiled son to have a credit card since it enabled those little brats. “So I guess,” Gohan surrendered his menu, “I’ll have le confit de canard et les bonbons saucissons.”
“Well,” their server huffed, “is there anything else?”
“You still haven’t refilled my drink.”
ELEVEN
Bulma sighed, pushing her plate of buckwheat crepes aside. Other diners eyeballed Vegeta like the (beautiful and bangable) alien he has, agog and agape by Saiyan velocity and momentum on the battlefield of dinner. I should tell them he’s training for the world’s hot dog bingeing title. He had transformed into a taciturn troglodyte (again) when he discovered the delights of turducken. He had demanded thirty for here and more for takeaway, advancing meal costs over 70,000 zeni (excluding tip). He made the reservation but, as always, I’ve got to pay. The tedium of waiting for His High and Mighty Stomach was abated by watching how miserable Yamcha was on his date with “dearie”.
"Hmm." She glared at her chipmunk-cheeked companion. Finally he’s on the last turducken. “So are you ready for dessert yet?”
“Hmph.” He swallowed loudly. “What a ridiculous question, woman.” He smirked, that maniacal smirk reserved for insulting Goku. “You should be asking what I’ll be giving you for dessert.”
There were snorts and snickers. By the Great Dragon, his words had been overheard! From the heat of her face, she knew she glowed crimson. Not gold like a Super Saiyan in the sack. And she would have clobbered him on the way home if he had not flown them here. Maybe I should learn to finally fly myself. But that would invite endless training advice from someone.
“Huh!?” Vegeta choked on the last bites of his meal. “That--that’s Kakarot!” He looked skyward and Bulma followed the path of his scowl. And there they were, Goku and Krillin, standing atop the disappearing dome; the former was resplendent in a blazing gi and the latter was clad in a frumptastic suit that took style inspiration from Master Roshi.
TWELVE
Yawning, the dessert-saturated Saiyan had decided to forsake the search for strange ki. But the parting of friendly ways was delayed when Goku shouted most merrily: “Hey, look below!” Krillin did as bidden and descried a sight disturbing: Bulma and Vegeta dining out like normal Earthlings. “Are they on a date?”
Then Krillin felt them. As he always felt them scourging his skin. Those icy, coal orbs swelling and overflowing with extraterrestrial venom, more menacing than Android eyes ever were back in the day. “Uh, I think they’ve seen us.”
“We should go say hi.”
“No!” Krillin yelled, pleading, as Goku clutched his shoulder. “No, don’t!” Two fingers sped toward Saiyan forehead. “We shouldn’t interrupt them if they’re--”
And in a whir and a blur of curlicue and corkscrew lights they were there. “Hi Bulma!” Goku greeted them while Krillin recovered from instant transmission dizziness which no one else seemed to suffer. “Hey Vegeta!”
And on cue he (the always happy to remind you weaklings he was a prince) sputtered: “Kak-a-rot.”
Goku laughed. “Are you two on a date?” Vegeta lobbed the dirtiest look of dirtiest looks in his arsenal at his nemesis. “It looks like--”
“No, we’re not!” Bulma blasted. “We’re giving Mom a night off from cooking for His High and Mightiness.”
“Then it’s a date!” Laughter morphed into gravitas. “Vegeta, have you felt repressed powers in the vicinity? There’re four in this building.”
“Well," Bulma answered, "Yamcha’s here.”
“That accounts for one.”
“Hmph.” Vegeta scoffed. “He’s a weakling.”
Bulma beamed a dirty look at Vegeta more terrible than any of his. “And he saved me innumerable times before your royal ass came along.”
“Hey!” Speak of the devil (named King Piccolo), here was her former heartthrob, dressed in the latest silly style of West City. “Guys, what’s wrong?”
“Dearie!” someone yelled, and she yelled loudly, at him. “Dearie, get back here!” Krillin looked in her direction and discovered it was someone from the cover of magazines stashed around Kame House. “Yummy, I’m not paying for dinner!” Krillin would have laughed at that nickname if it were not for that feeling that tonight was not going to be the best night.
“That leaves three powers lurking below,” Goku declared. “It can’t be a coincidence they’re here.”
“Not again!” Every cell within Krillin winced. “I got a bad feeling about this.”
“You always got that feeling!” Goku laughed, slapping Krillin on the back. “Now, everyone, hold onto me.” Even Vegeta deigned to touch Goku with ungloved digits.
“Wait!” Bulma yelled as the setting blurred. “Guys don’t leave--”
THIRTEEN
“GUYS, DON’T LEAVE WITHOUT ME!” And, of course, they transported below without her, warriors devoid of forethought, as usual, that her genius was often--NO, ALWAYS!--a necessary tool in vanquishing the latest invader. “DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL FOR INFINITE LOSERS!”
“Where’s Yummy!?” Lily Lilac screamed at her face, spraying spit like a graffiti artist. “You bitch, what’d you do with Yummy?”
“Bitch!?” Bulma felt her spleen melt from boiling blood. “Dearie, this genius bitch took--”
“LOOK!” Oolong-esque sounds squealed. “IT’S HER!” Two grinning pigmen scampered toward Lily Lilac with mobiles set to record.
“Not them!” she gasped. “Not the piggyrazzi!” And she hurtled tither, shadowed by oogling shapeshifters.
Bulma smirked. Yummy’s no name for a bandit. As to those chronic fighters, there was no scintilla of doubt about them needing her. Where would Vegeta be without gravity rooms? She guzzled the remainder of her red, red wine, nasty vintage that it was, bucking up for the enemy ahead.
And as she rose, the maitre’d materialized with servobots toting takeaway boxes. “Madame--mademoiselle, your bill.” The receipt was deposited in her hand and its deliverer dashed before objections could spew forth. 100 turduckens to go!? 156,789 zeni!? There would be no desserts for His High and Mightiness tonight, not even if he saved the world again from annihilation.
FOURTEEN
“SATAN! SATAN! SATAN!” the conga line cheered as it slowly, slowly climbed the stairs. Goten shouted alongside topsy-turvy fanboys, several who wobbled like spinning tops on the way up. Trunks had grumbled how Satan Says was the stupidest game ever. But there he was, booming like thunder, louder than anyone after Satan said to conga. He smiled so maybe he was over losing to Goten in the hot wings eating competition. It was only by two seconds. But Trunks could be a sore, sore loser like Vegeta sometimes. “SATAN! SATAN! SATAN!”
Onto the next floor the conga line wandered. Eaters here looked miffed at them. Just like Gohan always does. They were dressed silly, too, all fancy and frilly, like Mom and Dad were on their date nights. And there was Gohan, gigged up in goofiness like he was in a movie about fairy tale times. But where’s Videl? The woman he was with had green eyes and golden hair like gun-toting Auntie Launch.
Such worrying was renth ashplunder, as Doofy Dingo said when his schemes failed to capture Womby Wombat. Tickles and prickles attacked Goten like spitballs. Incredible powers! His own energy level surged and skyrocketed, ready to defeat the latest outer space invaders. They’re four of them! Trunks felt it, too, since he was posed to pounce with his Ultra Kickbox Combo.
And they materialized beside the table where Gohan sat. “It’s our dads!” Goten dashed toward Dad while Trunks shouted at him to stop. “Daddy!” He leapt with his last step so he could hug Dad around the neck. "I've missed you!" He kept the hug brief so his bestie would not say he was behaving like a little kid.
“Goten!?” Dad sounded stumped. “You--you’re a Satan fanboy?” He scratched his head. “Geez, I really have been away from home too much.”
“Trunks!” Vegeta roared in the direction of his son. “Get over here right now!” And his son did as asked, sour and sulky as Gohan when scolded about staying out after midnight on school nights. “What’s on your face and shirt?”
“Le sauce d’awesome, mon père ultraforte.”
“Don’t parsley voo with me, son. You’re supposed to be training.”
“Oh, am I?” Trunks grinned like the Worcestershire Saucy Cat cartoon. “What’s happened to your Pushup Night?”
“It was cancelled,” Dad answered. “He’s on a date with Bulma!”
“Kakarot!” Vegeta thundered as laughter thundered around him, rumbling from Uncle Yamcha and Uncle Krillin. “Shut up, you pitiful Earthlings!”
“Hmm.” Dad pondered. “Hmm, they account for two powers, but the third--HEY GOHAN!!!” Gohan and the mystery lady cringed as if embarrassed by Dad. “Hi Videl!” It was her!? Perhaps she had the same sneezetastic disorder as Auntie Launch. “Have you two tried the steak? It’s totes awesomesauce.”
“Hmph.” Vegeta snorted. “The turducken’s far superior.”
“Thanks to you,” Gohan muttered, “there’s a shortage of both.”
As Dad and Vegeta bickered, Goten hopped onto the empty chair beside his brother. “Hey Gohan!" And that scary glare attacked him like eye lasers. "I won a hot wings eating contest. That's why my shirt's all messy, like when I fingerpaint. And your shirt, it's silly.”
“It’s the latest style.”
"Actually," Videl laughed, “Goten’s right." It sounded like her voice did not change between sneezes.
“But,” Gohan frowned, “you said I looked dapper.”
“I did. And you do. But only from the back.”
"You said--"
"It's settled: Tursteakducken would taste best!" Dad declared. “Well, I better head back to Tien’s house. Chiaotzu’s promised to cook his special pork dumplings for breakfast.” He smiled at his sons. “Boys, tell your mom I’ll be home for lunch.” And he winked at Goten! “I’ll be staying a while, too, to keep an extra eye on you.” Fingers reached for his forehead. “See you!” And Dad fizzled away in a fuzzy blitz of grinning orange.
"Bye Dad!" Goten looked across the table. “I didn’t recognize you Videl,” he laughed. “That's a great disguise! Oh, and are you and Gohan in an intimating relationship now?”
Two meters away a server dropped a steaming tray of duck. “Damn it!” Gohan slumped, hands clawing his forehead. “There goes my dinner. There goes my night. Everything's going to hell!"
“You should’t use bad--”
“And you shouldn't skip out on training ” Vegeta announced, grabbing Goten by his sauce-stained shirt. “Don’t think I don’t know when little Saiyans are slacking, visiting that amusement park.”
"Oh fu--fu--fudge!" Trunks used both hands to smack his forehead. “Mom installed a stupid detector chip!”
"We know you're prone to mischief, son." Vegeta pulled his son by the shirt. "Tomorrow morning you'll both train in 500G. And on the following morning you’ll spar with Uncle Piccolo and me.”
Goten sighed. And there would be many more sighs this weekend too. Of fatigue. Of frustration. Of failure. And lack of fun. Vegeta was totally a vacuum who sucked the fun out of everything, just as Gohan always said. Until Gotenks arrived!
FIFTEEN
At home, here on Turtle Island, Krillin was greeted by the sounds of water thrashing against rocks. And the volcanic glare of Android eyes leering down at him. He had that feeling. That very bad feeling. It swelled from his stomach like an overflowing toilet. Android eyes did not blink, not once, boring more holes into him than were needed to repair Kame House after hurricanes named Goku. "Uh, good evening, 18."
"You were out."
"Well, kinda-sorta." He giggled awkwardly, with the awkwardness he felt when using the word awks. "You see, I was planning, uh, a new training thing with Goku and--"
"Marron and I saw you."
"WHAT!?"
"You don't have to sneak around."
"I don't?"
"We could've gone out together to that restaurant."
"But--but you don't need to eat."
"Marron does."
"Am I in trouble?"
"Bulma's correct." 18 smiled enough for her teeth to be seen. "You're adorable when you're scared of me!"
"I am?"
She pinched his cheeks. "Yes, you are." And she yanked his arm. "It's time for bed, honey. Remember we're taking Marron to Supersparkle Pixie Princess Shimmershine's Tiara Park Teatime tomorrow morning."
Oh, shit, he had totally forgotten! The fans there, they would be louder and sparklier than buffoonish Satan fanboys. They would toss glistening tiaras and twirl glittering wands which would, inevitably, thump his head when they performed Pretty Princess attacks against him since he resembled the main baddie, Elf King Elfish. Now he finally knew why he had that bad feeling.
SIXTEEN
They sprawled au naturel, in a cocoon of bliss, among the oncoming splendor of summertime. Dew-dappled grasses lay beneath their blanket of discarded clothes, some stained by lovemaking. Flowers, lush and fragrant as hair in shampoo commercials, surrounded them, bursting with brightness. Trees, heavy-headed by leaves, canopied their bed in a secluded valley, a nature reservoir created by King Furry the First for endangered cross-eyed catdogs.
And so, date night had been another disaster. Especially since Gohan never had any dinner. But from midnight onwards catastrophe had been overcome by delights more savory than food and fights. They were tart and tasty, peppery, pungent and piquant, a spice rack of stimulating permutations. The throb of lips, above and below, kissing him, caressing him, and his own man prize easing into her, her lips swollen and her nipples rigid. It was more sacred than pulling a sword from a stone in Other World. Gohan wondered how it had tasted for her, to straddle a Saiyan in ecstatic weakness, murmuring her name: "Videl, Videl Divine". And the collision of lovemaking ki, it was more electrifying than Special Beam Cannon. Piccolo would totally toast me if I told him! And the Namek was still seething from being told to mind his own business about how much Gohan was training.
“Hey there, Hotzilla,” Videl elbowed his ribcage as she sat up. “I don’t think I’ll find a pillow firmer than your chest.”
“You should feel it when I’m a Super Saiyan then.”
“Alas, I’m more curious about what happens to your cock.”
"Well," he laughed, “I think it turns golden too.”
“We’ll have to investigate, Saiyaman.” They laughed, together, rolling into more frolicsome positions. He splayed facedown, nose amid dewy-dappled grasses, and she sat astride him, supple and smooth-skinned. Fingers grazed his rear, sizzling with energy, teasing skin before they thrust inside his backside to elicit pleasured screams. “Holy fucking hell!”
“BUU FIND VIDEL!” Gohan rolled over, eyes hoisted skyward, beholding a blimp, a pink nightmare circling overhead like a carrion eater. He scrambled, seeking clothes to cover himself. Videl did likewise as the sound of copter blades whirred, loudening as they lowered down to earth. The pink nightmare plopped aground first, just as Gohan pulled on his undershorts--without teddy bears!--and Videl tied the neck of her evening gown. “BUU FIND VIDEL!”
The gaudy, glitzy copter hovered ten meters overhead when Mr. Satan leapt out. He dropped onto his hollow head. He clawed and crawled onto his clown feet. Each step seesawed while his eyes spun like whirlpools. He stumbled over, slowly, allowing enough time for Gohan to don a shirt.
“Buu find panties!” the pink nightmare squealed, her leopard-striped panties strapped to his head as he hopped around. “Buu find panties!”
"Dad" Videl yelled, face aglow with overt embarrassment. "What are you doing here?”
“Is my little girl okay?”
“I can clearly take care of myself!”
“Well, I got a call,” Mr. Satan explained, gazing at the ground, redness gathering in his face. “An anonymous call. He said you were drugged and taken hostage by a sex maniac who--”
“That fucking assshat!”
“But I see you’re okay since you’re with that skinny kid.” Mr. Satan laughed stupidly as his eyes lifted. “Now, you two, y’all better practice safe sex. I don’t want y’all having little fighters before y'all ready to train them.”
“DAD!"
“Marital arts aren't as easy as martial arts!” He chortled like a canned sitcom laugh track. “I should know. See, I had three wives before Videl’s mother. And after her, well, too many ex-girlfriends to count. Now you need to train hard. Really, really hard like--”
Like why did everything always go wrong with date nights?