Well, due to a highly unfortunate chain of events, I haven't been able to
get back to AofC for a while, and it looks as if I might not be able to for
many days yet. So, I'm posting the little teaser of the next chapter.

Previous chapters can be found at http://sofwes.0catch.com/fanfic.html,
along with a whole other truckload of my junk. But AofC is at the TOP, you
see.

Anyway.

Agent of Chaos
Chapter VII: In Which Spandex Flies


Ucchan's was in trouble.

At first, it was the plain and simple fact that Son Goku had never actually
cooked anything for himself in his entire life--that is, besides the
occasional dinosaur steak, and fish. Lots of big fish. More fish than most
men care to see in a lifetime. Tons of the suckers; so many, normal people
couldn't even think of it.

Did we happen to mention he likes to fish?

Yes, well anyway. Before long, his deep knowledge of the art of fish began
to dry up as orders poured in, ranging everything from Saut�ed Portabellos
to Rather Odd, Glowing Mutagen to--*shudder*-- Meatloaf. The crowd of hungry
wackos might have gotten quite nasty if he and Gohan hadn't been able to
convince Vegeta to take over cooking.

"All right, all right!" the Saiyan Prince snapped, stalking over to the
counter. ANYTHING to get you two to stop whining at me! But if you even
THINK of trying to get me to wear that stupid apron, I'll blast you into the
next dimension!"

Goku smiled reassuringly, immediately crossing his fingers behind his back.
"Would I do that to you, Vegeta?"

Vegeta snorted and grabbed a spatula. "You had better not, Kakarot."

Ten minutes more of nagging, and he was wearing a bright pink one with the
words "MR. BAD" in yellow surrounded by hearts on the front. The expression
he wore would have done battle with Nabiki's best
cut-heart-out-one-paper-cut-at-a-time death gaze.

After the surly new chef took over, things got worse. Even though it turned
out that Vegeta was an excellent cook, Goku had to constantly stop him from
obliterating customers that so much as looked at him. Then there were the
problems of stopping Goku from eating out the restaurant, figuring out the
prices for the several thousand different menu items, Goku's attempts at
being a greeter--people were still nursing broken fingers--and worst of all,
more customers pouring in by the moment.

Oh yeah, Goku thought, and then there was the thing with that guy with his
big gun.

He had been a tall man, with very pale, short-cut blond hair and hard blue
eyes, dressed in strange red and white skin-tight clothing. His black gun
had a long, square barrel with the words Colt .44 engraved darkly on its
mirror-bright surface, and a single round lay resting in its first chamber.
After calmly ordering and eating his meal, the man had slowly stood up and
made his way to the counter, where Vegeta was busy arguing with a
blue-haired, pointy-eared fellow as to whether one was sent to the next
dimension or the Void. It was getting quite spirited, as both men were
glowing.

"Can I help you, Mister...?" Goku asked, smiling slightly.

The man looked lazily up at him, and carefully un-holstered his gun.
"Knives," he said cheerfully, slowly bringing that large pistol upward, "and
yes, you can do something for me."

Goku blinked. "What?"

Knives' Insanely Evil Grin widened, and he pointed his weapon at the
Saiyan's head. "Die first," he chuckled, and pulled the trigger. There was a
loud crack and a puff of smoke, and Knives threw back his head, his laughter
chilling the air around him. Slowly opening his eyes, he looked down at his
latest extermination of this flawed, pathetic human race.

He stopped laughing quite abruptly.

"Ouch," Goku complained weakly, rubbing a tiny spot on his forehead. A ghost
of a frown came to his lips. "Now, that wasn't very nice," he said
disapprovingly, shaking his head. "I don't know what's okay where you come
from, but here, that's just not polite."

Knives boggled a moment that anyone could call being shot in the head "not
polite" and then gained control of himself. His eyes narrowed in
concentration, and the top part of the end of his gun shot off, hitting the
floor with a solid-sounding clink. The device inside began to glow softly,
and many odd and rather ugly faces turned curiously toward the disturbance.
It soon shone brightly even in the day-lit restaurant.

The man's Madly Evil Laughter continued as if it had never ceased, and the
gun slowly shifted and changed in his hand, spreading up his arm and
expanding, the light growing more intense by the moment. Soon, the weapon
grew to about thirty times its original size, with long black feathers
spreading out behind and the brilliant light breaking through the front of
the barrel.

With a final schizophrenic giggle, the gun fired right at Goku, filling the
world with a blinding, cleansing white.

After what seemed forever--or at least until next Tuesday--the glow faded
from the little restaurant called Ucchan's, and people blinked away the
funny stringy thingies and little dots that were floating in front of their
eyes. It seemed that the last to turn his head was Knives, who always liked
to relish the massive devastation he caused, the pain and suffering he had
inflicted on these insects, the--

The little ruffle in Goku's hair.

The man in orange and blue was otherwise untouched. Well, maybe if you
looked really, REALLY close, you might see a few spots of dust on the corner
of his left boot, but he would probably move by the time you were able to
get a magnifying glass big enough to make it out clearly.

"W-what... how...?" was all Knives could gasp, the gun shrinking back to
normal size. Goku shook his head sadly, and casually grabbed the Angel Arm
and rolled it into a tiny little ball.

"Listen," Goku said reasonably, rolling his new steely in one hand, "I know
you're probably pretty strong for most people around here, but... I think
you should leave while you can." He smiled and gave a friendly clap on
Knives' shoulder, which immediately went limp.

"Try training some more," Goku suggested, "and then maybe next time, you
might be able to singe my clothes."

Knives, with a rather large amount of sweat flooding down his neck, decided
it was time for a good old-fashioned military maneuver. Anyone who can
appreciate Mr. I.M. Superior squeaking like a girly-girl and running for his
life say "Aye!"

Owie... There go the ear drums...

***





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