Dragon Ball Z Uncensored

[Jason]

From space, you could see the smallest ripple on the surface of Lake Superior.

Pant... Gasp... Pant...

The moment of euphoria as he entered Earth's atmosphere was palpable, stronger than he ever could have expected it to be, but it lasted so briefly, as the relief of not having burned up upon reentry was replaced by a sensation of terror as the hatch of his ship careened off of the hull.

Keep breathing... you're getting closer... gasp... keep going...

He inhaled. The sound of hitting the water was deafening, a metal pod falling at the speed of sound suddenly submerging underwater. The terror didn't last long. It couldn't. Never in his life could fear inhibit his ability to survive. He kicked himself out of his seat and made an aggressive ascent to the water's surface. He swam a mile upwards, his lungs struggled and strained, as he stared at the sun, shimmering, in the sky. As his muscles tensed from lack of oxygen, his eyes went dark, and he thought of the very first time he saw Earth from space.

Don't stop... you can't stop...

Do it for them.

His first gasp as he made it out of the water was strong, but it was cut off as the tidal wave caused by his pod's crash emerged, burying him under the water once more. His second gasp weakened, as the water in his lungs limited his ability to breathe. He wiped his bulging, irritated eyes and looked around himself in a full circle. There. To his left, another two miles ahead. Land. He began to swim once more.

Do it for them.

[Jason]

The waves tossed him onto shore. He lay there, half-conscious, for a minute. The sun cast itself down upon him. Sand collected on his wet body and seaweed had already knotted in his hair and around his limbs. He clasped his fists together, then circled his ankles. His muscles ached unlike they ever had before, but his body understood its purpose. It wouldn't let him down.

He rolled over to his stomach and lifted himself up, his arms shaking as they supported his weight. He brought one leg forward, then the other, until he felt comfortably supported in a squat. Panting, he lifted up his head and the water and sweat cascaded down his sharp features. Then he stood, his legs elevating him with familiar grace, and let the oceanside wind greet him.

He brushed the sand off of his exposed skin, which was a lot, as his shirt had torn in many places. No matter. He unbuttoned it, slowly, and let it drop to the ground, kicking up sand in its moist weight. He roughly tore the strong seaweed off of himself and tossed it to the ground, save one giant leaf of it that had spiraled across his shoulder, bicep and arm. This, he removed intact. He hit it, testing its endurance, and it held. He squeezed it in his palms to let the water drain out of it, the lifted it to his forehead and tied it back into a makeshift bandanna. His wet, black hair fell above it.

He had lost one shoe in the swim, so he kicked off the other and peeled off his socks. He took one last deep breath and started to walk, away from the water.

[Jason]

The beach led into greenland. He walked for two hours in the same direction, the grass and soil giving beneath his feet with each step. He never paused. Finally, the green faded away and evidence of civilization began to form. He came to a road. Street signs were everywhere, but the biggest and brightest of them all had caught his eye. It once said:

Welcome to Superior, Wisconsin

Pop. 27,000

But over this was now angry, crude paint, announcing:

Welcome to Murder City

Pop. FUCK

He stared at the sign. There was blood on it. There was violent, obscene graffiti. Skin that was impossible to tell what animal it came off of. When his gaze went down, he saw an eyeball resting near one of the sign's steel legs. Before he knew it, he was heaving, out of breath. He kept staring at the writing on the sign as he vomited.

[Vinny]

This is pretty goddamned exciting!

[Yogurtman]

A post apocalyptic Superior would be insane.

Even today practically the whole city is bars!

[Jason]

He heard the footsteps gathering behind him as he wiped his mouth. There was a pause, and then he turned around to see them. Six men, ranging from almost seven feet tall and built like a brick house to a skinny one no more than five foot seven. One thing he could tell was that all of them were fighters. He clenched his fists almost instinctively but he knew that his body had nothing left to give him.

"Where is this place? Where am I!"

Then they descended on him.

***

A flash of black and red; he felt his skin rip and his tendons pulled in unnatural directions, but when his body should have broken, it wouldn't. They searched his pockets while punching his groin with every chance, and they cut him with knives. He had alcohol poured into his eyes and spit into his wounds. And there was movement, he was being taken, led down the long, barren road.

There were teeth staring at him. His eyes burned from all the pain they had withstood that day, and the overpowering, stinging smell made them water. The teeth were yellow, chipped. They were in a long, wrinkled mouth. They pulled away - a woman's face, her eyes darted around the room. A drop of saliva fell from her mouth and hit him beside his nostril. He tried to wipe it away when he realized his hands and feet were bound.

"He looks good, don't he?"

He couldn't see where the voice was coming from, but he watched the woman react in a mixture of excitement and fear, then scamper out of sight like a rat. The footsteps poured into the room, and soon a whole chorus of voices along with them. Talking, talking all amongst themselves, boisterously, angrily, hungrily. It had been five years since he had heard the voice of another person and the sound of these peoples' was making his stomach tense in queasy pain. He could feel the moisture of sweat and booze in the air, he could feel the heat of everyone's hatred.

"Who the hell are you people!"

[Jason]

The conversations went on and on, and the heat of the room became sweltering. Then what must have been a giant foot stomped down on the hard wood floor and everyone was silenced. He could hear those giant feet in their boots walk towards him, but saw nothing. They came closer and closer and then stopped. It was one of those still, disoriented moments where absolutely everything one thinks one knows about life comes into question.

Then from the very top of his vision came the face of the man to whom those giant footsteps belonged. He was standing right above him, bending down to talk to him face to face. He had never seen anyone else from quite such a position. The man had long, wispy dry hair and a burnt orange beard. His lips were thick and chapped and he was missing teeth. The smell of his breath was incredible and his eyes seemed as if they were looking out of his face through two holes he carved in his skin with a rusty knife.

"Well there boy, like the sign said, welcome ta Murder City," he said. Then he laughed, deep gusts of breath escaping his lips. Then he lifted a great bottle of beer to his lips and drank, sloppily, so it ran down his chin, wet his beard and dripped down. "Now wahz your name?"

He said nothing. He looked at the man as if he were the devil's father.

The man laughed. He turned his head to look at the unseen others in the room and they all laughed too. It was a sick, twisted cacophony that made every one of his muscles tense and he couldn't help himself but to scream.

"Well, wha-ho! Boy's got some lungs!" the man shouted, then leaned forward once more and got close enough to whisper, "Why don't I just rip those lungs out and eat 'em right here?"

And in that instant, all of the strength returned to his body.

[Jason]

His leg went flying upwards, breaking its binding, catching the bearded man in the face with its knee. His nose was broken instantly, and the beer bottle he had been holding at his mouth shattered, the glass embedding itself into his skin. He stumbled backwards. The others in the room took notice and began to come towards him. He could hear the sounds of weapons being revealed.

The binds on his wrists were stronger, and he couldn't break them. So he lifted his legs in the air, swung them from side to side to build inertia, and he flung himself over. It was then that he realized that he was strapped to a pool table, the weight of it on his back brought him to his knees, but he grunted and stood upright. He swung himself around, the table knocked back those closest to him. Balls flew out of the pockets and even caught a few in the face.

He tensed his right arm once more, screamed and bent it, finally ripping it from the ropes that held it to the table. The skin of his wrist was torn in the effort, and his left arm being the only appendage still attached to the pool table, it fell to the ground once more. Supporting himself with his right arm, he kicked up into the air at nearby attackers, then reached over and tore the ropes from his left wrist quickly. Finally free, he took a fighting stance against the circle, taking a quick count of them and seeing twelve.

[Jason]

He chose the first one because he was tall and thin. Too large to be dexterous and too small to have great strength. His eyes were squinted, he probably needed glasses, but had none. He smiled an almost entirely toothless smile and he was unarmed.

So he ran up to him and jumped, both his knees connecting with the tall man's chin. He instantly shot up, grabbed the tall man's neck between his stomach and forearm and twisted it until it broke.

The second one came at him from the right, so he side-kicked him in the groin and delivered three strong punches to his face, breaking his nose and jaw, then destroying the bone of his skull above his eye, half-blinding him. Some of the eye rolled out of his face, but didn't descend to his chin before he took a roundhouse kick to the face. It didn't kill him, but his brain hemorrhaged and he fell to the ground motionless.

He heard number three charging him from behind. He turned around to see three's arm outstretched, holding a hunting knife. He grabbed his wrist, kneed his elbow, breaking his arm, and placed his other hand in the man's underarm to easily throw him into a wall. He grabbed the dropped knife quickly enough to stab the oncoming fourth man in stomach, then sliced upward. Blood and the contents of his internal organs began to pour out of him. He stabbed the man twice in the throat before his fell.

The fifth man had anther hunting knife and went to stab him in the arm. The effort was blocked, and the parry left his chest open. One stab went through his rubs, puncturing his left lung, then another to the neck and downward.

Before the sixth man approached, he held his knife pointed outwards between his middle and ring finger. Then he punched number six in the face, the knife going straight into his right eye socket. He withdrew his arm, then repeated the motion, taking out his left eye. His brain stabbed twice, he fell at the man's feet, slowing his movement momentarily as the seventh man approached. Another punch to the eye halted him, and he turned his fist clockwise before he withdrew, taking the eye out of socket like a corkscrew. A similar punch to the nose and he left the knife embedded in the man's face as he dropped.

The skinny eighth man swung a pool cue at his head, but he ducked and grabbed the eighth man's testicles. The cue flew out of his hands, and he grabbed eight's shirt and hoisted him in the air by his collar and his balls and threw him into number nine. Their heads collided and he quickly darted over to the ninth man before he got up, stepped onto his neck and kicked his head as hard as a football.

The tenth man was hiding behind the bar. The sound of his body hitting the glasses and bottles gave him away. When he saw him coming, ten threw a bottle of liquor at him and missed. Another try, another miss. With the man in arm's length now, he attempted to smash a bottle into his face, but his arm was held in place and the bottle was slapped out of his hand. Just by the grip on his arm, ten was lifted up over the bar and thrown to the ground. He grabbed a bar stool and plunged it down into his chest, breaking rips, penetrating skin and organs until the stool's legs hit the floor.

Number eleven was coming out of the swinging double doors leading to the kitchen. In one hand he held a long, devilish roasting fork, the other a meat cleaver. He threw the meat cleaver at his head with experience, missed and it stuck in the wall behind him. Then eleven rushed him with the fork, but his legs were swept out from under him. He grabbed the fork in midair and stomped down on eleven's ankle, shattering it. He knelt down and stabbed the fork upwards into the roof of number eleven's mouth.

Number twelve was the bearded man. He was no less than seven feet tall, a true bear of a man, weighing at least six hundred pounds. He took a stance as twelve came at him. First, twelve picked up a chair and hurled it at him, but he ducked. The next chair came too quickly to avoid, but he was able to catch it before it hit, and he threw it right back. Twelve batted it away easily and was then standing toe to toe with him. His mammoth arm came down like a club on the man, who dodged out of the way and let the arm hit the bar, almost cracking it in half. Another attempted punch to the gut that he was able to avoid.

Twelve became frustrated, and he lifted the pool table that he had been strapped to above his head. He brought it down to the ground in an attempt to hit him, but was too slow. He tried several more times, chasing him around the room, until he came to the meat cleaver still stuck in the wall. He tore it out and, as twelve prepared for a killing blow with the pool table, rammed it into his stomach and sliced horizontally. Then again. Number twelve faltered and dropped the table, catching his breath.

The twelfth man tried to stand, but was kicked in the head. He held the meat cleaver to his cheek, prepared to slice his face clean off.

"Who are you?" they asked one another in unison.

The bearded man who was twelfth to die said "I'm Rust."

"My name is Reynold," he told Rust. Then he grabbed Rust's hair to hold his head steady, held out the meat cleaver, and brought it back down, cleanly lobbing off the top of Rust's skull. He tossed the top of it down atop the body as it fell limp.

End of Prologue.