Ranma 1/2: Localization

fanfic by Logan J. Goodhue ([email protected])

05 June 2001



This is an attempt at a ham-handed localization of the Ranma 1/2 story to the American Wild West. Seriously. Hey! Stop laughing! Um, wait a sec, it's supposed to be comedic... So, go ahead and laugh, enjoy any WAFF's that show up, and give me feedback, please!


Disclaimer: Ranma 1/2 characters, etc. are Copyright and TM Rumiko Takahashi. Characters appearing in this fic who are *NOT* obviously from the Ranmaverse (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) are copyright 2001 Logan J. Goodhue, most notably Xi Mei-Ling, Master Xiao Xien, and any self insertion I can't resist putting in. (I'll try to avoid the temptation, really!) Any real people in the fic have been dead for a long time, so they don't care and are public domain/fair use, anyway.


From the cobblestones and brickwork of the richer parts of the city, to the dirt roads near the edge of town, the streets of San Francisco were wet. A sudden downpour had just tapered off, and people were returning to their daily routines. A drunk was being thrown out of the Gold Strike Saloon for the thirtieth time that day. A teamster was steering a team pulling kegs of beer on a delivery route. A man and woman were arguing loudly. And Norton the First, Emperor of the United States of America and Protector of Mexico, was selling postage to curious travelers.

Nearby, the sudden scream of a horse signaled something was wrong. A massive brown, furry shape was thundering down the street, chasing a young girl dressed in loose-fitting buckskins and moccasins with her flame-red hair braided into a pigtail.

"EEEEEEEK!!!! A bear!" a woman screamed.

"Goldurn it! A grizzly!" shouted a man.

"What's that girl doing?" someone asked.

The girl turned and faced the bear, taking up a boxing stance.

"Alright, Paw," she said in a rough accent. "Put up yer dukes!"

To the amazement of the involuntary spectators, the bear did just that. Grinning slightly, the girl threw a terrific haymaker at the bear. The bear simply moved its head out of the way, and launched a brutal swipe at her. Ducking down, she avoided the swipe and landed an uppercut under the grizzly's jaw. It went flying back about a hundred feet.

"An arranged marriage?" she asked the bear. "We're Americans, Paw. We don't do stuff like that anymore!" She turned away from the bear and huffed. "Well, I ain't gonna marry nobody until our situation's taken care of. Chew on that, old man!" With that, she stormed off in the direction she had come from.

Unseen by the girl, but not by the panicked townsfolk, the bear got up and picked up a watering trough. On its hind legs, the bear rushed the girl and slammed the trough in the back of her head, knocking her out. Dropping the trough, the bear bent over and slung the girl over its back.

"Shouldn't we help her?" asked one bystander.

"Yeah," replied another, drawing his revolver. "Let's get it!"

Hearing this, the bear turned around and bellowed at the onlookers, scaring them off. Satisfied, it turned and began walking towards the Random Hill neighborhood.

Smiling softly, Emperor Norton turned to his customers and said, "That's why I love San Francisco, every day is a surprise!" Unbelieving, they just stared at him.


Sam Tendollar sat in his parlor, reading his copy of the San Francisco Chronicle. He was a handsome individual, but perhaps not classically so. Tall, with shoulder-length black hair and a handlebar mustache, his Indian blood was obvious. Silently scanning the columns, he found what he was looking for.

"Ah, Mister Twain, let's see what you've gotten yourself into," he said, more to himself than out loud. He enjoyed Mark Twain's wit, and was glad of the escape. It was the only thing , other than booze, that could keep his mind off the pain inside. The pain caused by the death of his wife, ten years ago.

"Father," his eldest daughter said from the doorway, "would you like some tea?"

"Yes, Cassandra," he said. "thank you very much." Well, maybe not the only thing. His daughters were a source of pride for him. She brought in the silver tea service and set it down on the low table in front of him.



"Mister Johnson brought us our mail, and it appears you have a Telegram." She handed the papers over, poured her father's tea, and left the room to return to preparing dinner.

A telegram? Who could have possibly sent him a telegram? Curious, he tore the envelope open and read it.





Tears began flowing freely down his cheeks. Robin was coming! He paused for a moment to let that sink in. Robin was coming! Finally, the promise he and his good friend Gene had made after the Battle of Gettysburg could be fulfilled. One of his daughters would marry Sayerton's son and carry on the traditions of his lost tribe's unarmed combat methods, and his boxing gym would continue after his death.

Smiling, he began to call after his daughters.

"Cassandra! Naomi! Annie!"

Cassandra entered the room first, wiping her hands on her apron. Then, before she could say anything, her sister Naomi followed, holding a rolled-up copy of the Wall Street Journal.

"What is it, Dad?" Naomi asked archly. "Did Mister Twain say something pointed about the Mayor again?"

"No," Sam replied. "It's something much better, but I want to wait until Annie gets here before I tell you what it is. Do you know where she is?"

"She's where she always goes after school," Naomi snorted. "She's pounding away on those bags in the gym."

"I'd better go after her, then," said Cassandra. "If it has anything to do with the telegram, then it must be important." She headed out towards the gym behind the house.

"Telegram?" Naomi blinked, then narrowed her eyes. "what's this about a telegram, Dad?"

"I'll tell you when your sisters are back, and not before."

"Fine," she replied icily, then regretted it almost instantly as she saw the beginning of Little Niagara Falls. Whatever it was, she knew she was either not going to like it, or make a killing in selling information.


Anne Tendollar was beating the living daylights out of her father's strength bag. The gym had been her refuge since her mother's death. Her sisters had each coped with the loss differently. Cassandra had taken over the running of the household, cleaning, cooking, and so on. Naomi had taken to balancing their father's books. Anne herself had taken up the unarmed combat arts. Admittedly, both Naomi's and her activities were a little unusual for women, but her father had been simply devastated by their family's loss. If Naomi hadn't begun doing the books, then they wouldn't have had a house. If Anne hadn't insisted on training in her father's arts, then her father would have become a drunk in a gutter. It wasn't something she wanted to dwell on right now. She had some frustration to work off.

Each blow she landed on the bag was release for pent-up anger. Anger at the boys who constantly tried to gang up on her. Anger at the teachers who let them. Anger at the world that said that girls couldn't stand up for themselves. Anger at . . . herself?

Behind her, she heard a throat being cleared.

"Oh, hello, Cassie," she said. "Do you want something?"

"Father has something he wants to tell us, Annie," she said softly. "Why don't you join us?"