On a Wednesday, in the summer of Age 782

"This Pineapple Fried Rice… it says 'first time served on Earth'. Is that true?"

"What number?"

"Forty-seven."

"Yeah, first time. What else?"

"Uh, that's it."

"Address?"

"NBI 8250012 B."

"It'll be about thirty-five, forty minutes."

"Make it snappy. I'm starving!"

Hanging up, Oolong twirled the Coconut Thai menu into the air before casting it aside like a used napkin. Unfortunately for Roshi, he didn't have a clue that the pig knew where he hid his zeni. He had kept it in the closet behind his turtle shells for (judging by the dust) longer than Oolong had known him.

The skies were clear, the sun was bright, the air was salty, and sand stuck to his sweating flesh. He was hankering for some pineapple. Polishing off another sukebe magazine and feeling the heat, the poor porker retreated inside for juice. Having been left in charge of Turtle, he was Master of Kame Island. The old man wouldn't be back from surgery for another three days, and until then, he could have as much juice as he wanted.

There had been plenty of time to relax—too much time. He found himself pacing, slapping his shirt straps against his sallow skin just to feel something. Sipping from a straw, he watched exercise tapes, but they grew boring without company.

Wandering up to the second floor, he remembered that Launch had forgotten some clothes in the bedroom dresser. Pressing one of her shirts to his snout, sand falling from a sleeve, he could think of only the warmth and softness that had once lurked behind the fabric. Her scent—flowers and cilantro and gunpowder—took him back to a time long ago, when he and Goku and Krillin and Yamcha and Roshi and Launch had teamed up to take down the Red Ribbon Army. Those had been the days.

He slipped the shirt back into the drawer, lamenting that there weren't any panties in there. To expect such would mean not knowing Roshi, but still, a pig had his greed, and so he had his hope, however foolish it was. Oolong returned to the window. His flesh was now quite cool. A plane, flying low over the water, was approaching from the northwest. His stomach yowled like a milk-starved Puar.

"That'll be Ƶ6700."

After paying, he tossed the kid another Ƶ50 coin. "That's on the house," he snorted.

The delivery boy bowed. "Thank you very much, sir."

A smoking-hot teen had delivered to them previously, but after several incidents with Roshi (he was no sinless pig either), this guy had taken over the job. He drove the same faded pink and green airship she had. He never lingered long. Sand sputtered up in a dusty cloud around his plane before it shot off over the ocean, and Oolong felt relieved to be alone again. He exhaled, and in a puff of smoke, returned to his normal form. Over the years, he'd gotten pretty decent at transforming into Roshi.

Running to his favorite chair, he cracked open the cheap wooden chopsticks that had come with his meal, didn't say his thanks (swine though he was, he was no slave), and dug into the fried rice. Its flavor was sumptuous: savory and sweet, with enough spice to make a seasoned veteran like himself reach for a tissue. Lying in the shade with his rice and his juice (still three-quarters full) and his magazines, a cool sea wind hitting just right, was the life.

And yet, at that moment, a great misfortune fell upon Oolong from the sky.

He could recognize Yamcha's ship from four hundred eighty-two meters away. Frantically closing the carton (of which he had only consumed three mouthfuls), he jumped through the window, spilling his juice in the sand, and sprinted upstairs. The perfect hidey-hole was in the bedroom. Launch had stored some weapons in there back in the day (a rocket launcher, two rifles, a machine gun, and a few boxes of ammo remained), although, in more recent times, Roshi had converted it into a vintage sukebe magazine storage container. The left floorboard always seemed to creak, so he was extra careful when entering. Ever paranoid, Oolong transformed into a Piggies Gone Wild magazine.

"Huh, I guess they're not here, Puar…" Yamcha's voice trailed up through the floorboards from the kitchen below.

"I told you. Didn't you see that ship fly off a couple of minutes ago? That must have been Master Roshi."

"Yeah, I guess so. Oh, well. Shame we didn't get here sooner. I wanted to take them clubbing in West City, hah!"

"I'll go clubbing with you, Yamcha, don't worry."

"Yeah, yeah, Puar, let's go. Man, something sure smells good around here. Were they having a barbecue?"

Their inane chattering went on some while longer as they returned to the beach, and Oolong could no longer hear them clearly. Only when he heard the rumble of their ship's engines did he peek out from behind the false wall. Letting out a sigh of relief, he opened up the carton and resumed his feast, watching the airship vanish over the watery horizon. That was some good entertainment. He liked clubbing as much as the next Z Fighter, but he preferred neither the company of Yamcha nor the tattle tail who had gotten him kicked out of kindergarten.

"Barbecue, eh?" Someone had written 'PFR' in black marker on the side of the carton. Growing curious, he peered inside and noticed that, while there were numerous chopped vegetables and fried bits of egg and clumps of rice in there, he could not find a single pineapple amongst the lot. Recalling the Coconut Thai's menu, he remembered what the only other type of fried rice that started with a 'p' was. "Huh, how about that."

Scratching his chin, Oolong took another bite, looking out over the water. While he relished this feeling, some small part of him missed the old man. Things were more interesting with him around. A larger part of him wanted more juice, but the fridge was all the way downstairs, so he quickly abandoned the idea and suffered on.