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I just wanted to give you something to remember me by. Something you could look back foundly on, something to keep you warm and let linger like a fingerprint on your lips.

I just wanted to give you a kiss, Papa.

Can I call you that...? He does. But, as you've said before, I'm not your son.

Does that make this ok? Does that make it easier to justify--the fact that I'm not really yours?

Not that it matters to me either way. I can leave whenever I want. You, you're stuck here--a planet you hate, a woman you can't stand, and a rival so stupid that even the smallest of victories are lost.

Nothing to feed your pride, and an ego with a pudding support.

It sucks to be you, father.

That makes me feel better, in some sick and twisted way that I'm certain by now I inherited from you, the fact that, for all those years, I wasn't really missing anything not having you around. What could you have given me? A complex? Heh, you succeeded in that just being dead--a name that I couldn't identify with and a personality that everyone told me, in the most polite way possible, put feral monkeys to shame.

I've been there for the whole wild animal bit, and I must say that Goku-san is very nice. If you can get past the idiocy and fault line instability.

Yeah, nice.

You, you're a pain in my ass and all I wanted from you was a goddamn kiss.

Too much to ask. Every fucking thing is just too damn much. A sock in the jaw and a knee to the groin. How grand of you.

But I know, if not from everyone's repeated dictation on 'the way you are', then from watching you myself. I know. You epitomize the phrase about actions and words and screaming louder and fighting harder, and all that glitters...

You're a fucking cliche. Everything about you screams 'done!', regergitated, recycled, used...

The short man's complex and his compensation. The angry little boy that never got the toys he wanted for Christmas. The arrogant fasicious facade that's guarenteed to keep everyone at a ten foot, eye rolling radius.

Even I can contest that anything closer is just inking in the invisible bullseye that's inevitably taped to your victim's ass anyway.

You're a school kid's nightmare. Except it's not the lunch money you're after.

You know what they do to bad little boys like you, don't you father?

Why don't you just bend over and save me the trouble...

There didn't have to be all that yelling and threatening and powering up.

It's a good thing Kami's got a magic housekeeper or Popo'd be pissed about the way you mistreat this place.

I just wanted to give you a fucking kiss. My way of saying sayonara because I knew once we were around other people you'd put on the big dog bark and be impossible to talk to.

But, like all other things that concern you, it was too much to ask for.

It wasn't supposed to go this far, you know, but...

You said that thing about Okaasan being a whore, and well, no one talks about my mother that way. She was strong enough to do what you couldn't.

She survived.

And you...you're half dead. True, there was the struggle, the glitz, the glamour of being able to go gold.

But I've been doing that since puberty. Guess I just have a little more...

Practice at it than you do, ne, father? Not to rub it in or anything, but the time you spend in howling and bragging...

Gohan-san taught me to fight honourably. Attack straight on, be focused, and never let them see your desperation.

But Okaasan always said there were no cheap shots when it came to survival.

And I know all about the tail spot.

Like a rock, to further your trite existence. Down for the count.

One...

Two...

You tried to get up, using your curses of your bastard son as the balsa foundation you needed to raise your wounded ego.

But with three and four...

You crashed into the door.

Your cat spats of indignation were coloured crimson and I wanted so much to lick away the red defeat.

Never listen. If you don't watch that, you're going to get yourself killed.

Five...six...

I wanted to lick...mmmm...father...

You have taught me to take what I want, if only through your actions.

Ok. Unlike you, I listen.

Seven and eight...the seconds it took to rip the annoying blue of your spandex bodysuit down to your knees. I saw fear in your eyes then, hiding like a child beneath its older brother pride. And I liked it. Fed off it.

One kiss.

I lost count after that. Nine and ten bled with the decimation of your royal domination to paint Popo's pretty white floor a rather attractive tone of candy apple red.

And I got what I wanted.

Arigato, Papa.

...Can I call you that...?