Bringer of Death

Otherworld Saga, Part 7: Prizefighters

Otherworld Saga, Part 7: Prizefighters

A low buzz of murmurs, as if from a very large crowd, could be clearly heard even from several blocks away as Roshi and his students approached. Sure enough, when they rounded a corner, the gang was shocked by just how many people had turned out for the event. "This is ridiculous," chuckled Krillin. "What a crowd, and all for that insufferable blowhard."

"No kidding," agreed Yamcha. "He wouldn't be so bad, but this guy's now the face of all martial arts around the world. It ought to be someone more worthy—like myself," he added with an awkward laugh. Before the others could retort, he quickly went on. "But no, I'm serious; they should be looking up to someone who is really worthy of respect. An actual master, like Roshi."

The former bandit turned to address the turtle hermit directly, but realized he was gone. The group looked around just as the lecherous old man's familiar laugh sounded nearby; they spotted him ogling the rear end of a young female reporter. She turned, noticing him, and he immediately asked her something unintelligible—at which point she predictably slapped him in the face.

"Youch, you've got some fire in ya!" Roshi complained, a bright-red hand print tattooed on his cheek. "Come on, sweet thing, all I meant by 'ride me' was I'd give you a boost on my shoulders so you could see over the crowd!"

"Yeah, as if I'm some idiot bimbo. I know exactly what you're interested in, dirty old codger," the reporter grumbled, stomping off around the crowd.

"...on second thought," Krillin sighed, "it's definitely best Master Roshi isn't surrounded by reporters and journalists all the time—lest he find someone who's actually dumb enough to ride the 'Roshi train'."

"Haha yeah, he clearly doesn't have the natural charisma of someone like me," Yamcha smirked. "Oh hey, look. Is that Piccolo over there?"

Krillin followed his friend's gaze. Piccolo Katanaji was indeed standing in the shadows near the edge of the crowd, ignoring occasional questioning stares. "Hmm... We didn't tell him we were coming or anything. Wonder why he decided to show up." They were about to wade through the spectators toward the tall Namekian, but the press of spectators began pushing them forward as a familiar voice blared from a bullhorn.

"Your attention, everyone! I, the Martial Arts Champion of the World Hercule, have heard your pleas for explanation. Curiosity is only natural," he said, his seemingly unhindered by nervousness, "and I'm convinced it's only fair I explain to you some of the secret techniques I used to beat Cell."

The crowd hushed, most wearing faces of eager excitement, while a few maintained puzzled or skeptical gazes. News cameras panned in close on the prize-fighter's gleaming smile.

"Today's the day, so I hope you're all ready to witness my amazing and unprecedented feats! Of course, I had to keep most of it under wraps when preparing for the Perfect Tournament. I've been secretly working on most of this stuff for years, saving it for a time I might just have to use it. It's only natural to question the level of power I possess—this stuff isn't your ordinary run of the mill fighting. So, here's my question...are ya'll ready to see firsthand just what I did to Cell?"

The people roared and cheered, jostling and bumping up against the warriors standing in the outskirts of the crowd.

"Haha, well then...far be it from me to deny my loyal fans what they want! Here we go, watch...and be AMAZED!" Hercule boomed, his face taking on an extremely comical (though his supporters might have said "serious") look of concentration. He bent slowly, his afro and gi rippling slightly, and then suddenly lifted into the air a few inches above the stage. The crowd murmured in awe. On the corner of the stage, the Z Fighters could see Borbonne smirking.