Disclaimer: You know, just read the fanfic. If you still think I own DBZ after that, you need at least seventeen therapists.

This story occurs during the three-year "training for the Androids" period.

At 439 East District, where there was once a house, there is now a tremendous pile of busted wood splinters and smoldering furniture. A young boy named Gohan was collecting the biggest pieces in the hopes of helping to rebuild. Sitting indian-style in the middle of a less scorched part of the yard, in total shock, was the boy's mother. Her name was Chi-Chi. This is going to be the last time I introduce you to the characters like you don't know them already.

A man wearing a particularly bulky hazmat suit sauntered over to Chi-Chi. He was with a crew that was intent on both helping rebuild and trying to get to the bottom of what happened. "Now, ma'am, we really need to know what happened here."

"My husband."

"That's what you said last time I asked, an hour ago, and it still doesn't help. We need a complete story. Start from the beginning. What did your husband do?"

"Well, as you can see, he destroyed my house."

"Okay, look," sighed the man, whose voice was so muffled by the suit as to be barely audible, "let's just cut through the old shit cake here."

Chi-Chi stood, looking at the man's glass face with outrage. "How dare you?!" Chi-Chi snapped, and delivered a severe punch to the man's gut. To the housewife's amazement, the man was not affected in the least. "A normal man would have been crippled by that!"

"I'm wearing four hazmat suits right now, and I can still smell the lingering stench of whatever did this to your house," explained the crew man. "I'm probably going to get severely dehydrated from this, which is why I need you to explain, quickly, what happened here."

Chi-Chi bowed apologetically while Gohan, sensing some tension that had just now dissipated, rushed over to her side. "Well, you see," she started, "it all began when Goku was eating dinner…"


"Chi-Chi," Goku said through a mouthful of food, "I knew you could cook a mean dinner before, but you've really outdone yourself! These bean and steak fajitas are amazing!"

"Thank you," Chi-Chi half-sighed, her husband's exasperating table manners preventing her from fully appreciating the compliment. "But would you mind slowing down? Your crumbs are getting into my plate, and I'm sitting on the other side of the table."

"Mom," Gohan thought to himself, "you should know the answer to that by now…"

"Gohan," Goku said, totally ignoring Chi-Chi's request, "why aren't you eating? You're still on your first plate, and it's been three whole minutes!"

"I guess I just eat light…" Gohan said in an almost ashamed tone, in spite of the fact that he knew better than to envy his dad's notorious appetite, but he was a boy who truly aspired to be like his father in most every respect. But no way in hell was he going to get through seventeen of these burritos!

"You're on your 18th?!" Chi-Chi suddenly realized. She hopped up from her chair. "Goku, that's it! I'm cutting you off after you finish this one!"

"Aww, but Chi-Chi!"

"But nothing! Goku, can't you see that you're going to get fat if you keep eating like that?!"

"No way," Goku exclaimed, "because I burn off all that fat by shooting Kamehameha waves!"

"Wow," Gohan said, "so that means the Kamehameha wave is made out of fat?"

Goku looked at Gohan like his head just turned into a violin. "Not quite, Gohan…" he said slowly, before shoving the rest of his burrito into his mouth. Chi-Chi stood behind him, shaking her head. Even though Chi-Chi was as combative as she could be with her husband, he always won in the end. I mean, how do you even begin to win an argument with a guy who can cause a volcano the size of Yellowstone to erupt by spitting too big a loogie?

Goku reached for another burrito as soon as Chi-Chi turned away, but without a hint of warning, he fell to his knees clutching his stomach. "Aaaaoww!" he whined.

"Daddy," Gohan exclaimed, "what's wrong?! Is it your heart, do you need the medicine?!"

"No!" Goku gasped. "It's not my heart… it's my… AHHH!"

A terrible sound, like that of a foghorn having air forcibly squeezed out of it somehow, erupted out the back of Goku. The wall behind him, almost all of it, was completely destroyed, with shards of wood and glass flying as far as fifty feet from the house before landing.

Goku sighed with relief. "Feels a little better…"

"GOKU!" Chi-Chi shrieked in a voice neither Goku nor Gohan had ever heard in the many years they'd known her. "WHAT ON EARTH?!"

"He farted," Gohan said, stifling a giggle.

"I think I need to lay down or something… uh oh…" Goku doubled over in pain again and let another air biscuit, this time blowing a large crater into the kitchen floor. The house began to shake, its foundations no longer stable.

"GET OUT!" screamed Chi-Chi.

"Aww, but-"

Chi-Chi slammed her foot right into Goku's chin, not even fazing him, but stopping him from completing his sentence. "I SAID GET OUT! Go and get some Pepto Bismol or something and come back when you're done doing that!"

"Doing what…?"

"FARTING!" screamed Chi-Chi, and Gohan once again had to muffle a childish giggle. Bowing his head in defeat, Goku floated into the air at a 45 degree angle away from the house, ashamed. Unfortunately (or, heh, unFARTunately), his ass wasn't done yet. In one last accidental burst of freak power, another horrible butt blast went directly for Goku and Chi-Chi's house. Gohan and Chi-Chi barely had time to grab each other and scream like bitches before the rest of the house was completely and utterly decimated.

Goku turned and looked on in horror at the smoking ground zero where he and Chi-Chi's marriage house used to be. And I'll tell you, I may not be able to say what exactly's in that smoke, but it's the kind of thing that has little Vietnamese children running down the street naked, screaming that their skin is on fire.

"Chi-Chi! Gohan!" the Saiyan called the names of his loved ones in a despairing voice. If he accidentally killed his wife and son by farting… would he ever be able to live with himself? But, to his extreme relief, he heard the muffled, dulcet tone of his wife screaming "GO AWAY" at the top of her lungs from underneath a pile of rubble. Ignoring all of his instincts to help, he obeyed. As much as it hurt him to acknowledge it, it was better that he stay away for now. He was a threat to his wife… a threat to his son… a threat even, perhaps, to the entire planet.


"Oh, okay," the hazmat man said casually, "sure, your husband destroyed your house by farting. Why didn't I just guess that before?"

"This is no time for sass!"

"Fine. Where is he now?"

"No idea!"

"…My God…"