This idea was originally built for the 2nd Bet, but I couldn't get 'er
finished in time...

A Second Bet Entry

Category: Fusion

By Dave Menard



Raiden, god of storms, strode purposefully up to Mimir's Well.

"I hear you've got another contest going," he thundered majestically at
Toltiir, watching in amusement as the static electricity he generated puffed
the little black cat-god into a little black furball.

"Yep. This one's for crossovers and fusions, though. You gonna enter again?"
Toltiir asked, trying in vain to keep his fur down.

"But of course! And I have a very clever idea, too."

"You do know that they've all gotta involve the Ranmaverse again, right?"

"Yes. However, instead of the aquatranssexual, suppose I focus on another
castmember?"

"Sure, knock yourself out."

"Marvellous. Observe."

A tiny bolt of azure lightning arced from the god of storm's finger to the
surface of the pool.



<MUSIC BEGINS: "Ride The Lightning" By Metallica>

Montage of jump-cuts from various samurai dramas and anime, as in the
foreground one blue-hakama-clad figure performs a series of kendo and
kenjutsu katas at blistering speeds in time with the hard-driving music.
Credits begin to roll, each name and title appearing in a burst of blue
electricity.

"Written by Dave Menard"

"Produced by Foxy God Films"

"Based on a concept by Gregg Sharp"

"Incorporating characters and situations created by Rumiko Takahashi and
XXXXXXXXX"

The same figure is present in virtually all the shots, posing nobly,
fighting bravely, receiving kisses from beautiful women, etc. A caption
appears, in foot-high kanji and kana seemingly formed out of fulminating
azure lightning:

"AOI KADUCHI: The Legend of BLUE THUNDER"

<MUSIC FADES OUT>








"My name is Kuno Tatewaki, age 39. I am. Nothing. A nobody. A hapless
salaryman. I live in the Nerima district of Tokyo, a two-hour commute from
my office. My home is a small three-room apartment on the third floor of a
five-storey building that is built on the land my family once owned, before
my useless sister squandered our estate on legal fees. Perhaps you've heard
of her? She founded the Church of the Black Rose. The ones who tried to slip
three-hundred litres of LSD into the Tokyo water system and wound up in the
Sanatorium or in jail. It was very well-publicised, for about six months. My
family and I visit Kodachi twice a year, on her birthday and on New Year's
Day, and rarely speak of her otherwise.

"My family? Ah. My wife's name is Mariko. We have been married for. fifteen
years, now. I have a son, Godai. He is. seven. Seven years old. I do not
understand them. Which is, I suppose, only fair, for they do not understand
me.

"Why, then, am I here, drinking sake at this. shabby excuse for a yatai? No,
I beg your pardon master barkeep, bring me another bottle, will you? Thank
you. Why am I here, instead of at home with my wife and child? I'll tell
you. This morning, my wife threw out my bokken.



A tinny, electronic beeping roused him from grey, shapeless dreams. A hand,
once callused and strong, now soft and weak, seemed to slither out from
under the blanket and switched off the alarm. Blearily, he blinked at the
clock face, fumbling for his glasses. The lenses in place, he peered
sleepily at the LED display.

Five a.m..

With a groan, he, pulled himself to his feet and shuffled to the bathroom,
sparing a brief glance back at his wife and child, still blissfully asleep.
Unlike him, they didn't need to be up for two hours.

Mechanically, he performed his morning ablutions and dressed, pausing
momentarily to let his wife edge by him on her way to the toilet.

"Anata." she murmured sleepily as she sat down, her eyes barely open, "It's
garbage day. Will you remember to take the trash out? The black bag is
burnables, an' the blue one is recyclables."

"Hai," he muttered as he stared into the mirror over the sink, debating
whether or not to bother shaving today. Mariko stumbled past his turned back

and poured herself back into bed. He started after her as he realised this
was the first time they'd seen each other awake in three days. "Mari-chan..?
Mari-chan, are you still awake?"

"Shh." she muttered into the pillow. "You'll wake up Godai. Aren't you late
for work?'

"Er." he glanced down at his wristwatch. Ten minutes before the bus was due.
"I suppose you're right."

"Don't forget the garbage." Mariko mumbled into her pillow, almost asleep
once more.

Kuno softly made his way into the kitchen and grabbed the bento and thermos
of lukewarm tea his wife had made him last night, just as he had every
morning except Sundays for the last ten eight years. He stuffed the lunch
and tea into his briefcase, grabbed the two garbage bags by the door and let
himself out.

Negotiating a stairwell with an overstuffed garbage bag in each hand and the
handle of his briefcase clenched in his teeth was no small feat, but he
somehow managed to avoid spilling anything and made it out the door. A
strange sound greeted him as he stepped out into the hazy Tokyo dawn.

"And One! And-two-and-three-and-four, and One! And-two-and-three-and-four,
and One!"

He looked around. And around. Then, he took a step out onto the sidewalk and
looked up. Three girls were standing on the concrete overhang above the door
doing. Aerobics?

He stared. He couldn't help himself. It was simply too bizarre. Three
gorgeous young women, scantily clad in the briefest of spandex workout gear,
heaving bosoms bouncing lightly, colourful legwarmers flashing as they
kicked their slender, well-toned legs in unison, then bent at the waist to
touch their toes, providing him a beautiful view of their spandex-encased
behinds. So pert. So firm.

His briefcase dropped from his suddenly-slack mouth. The trio of girls
glanced up as one, and smiled adorably at him, bringing a film of sweat to
his brow.

"Ohaiyo!" The middle girl called cheerily at him, the rising sun lending a
halo to her neatly trimmed cap of blue-black hair.

"Hiya!" Called the girl on the left, her long chestnut hair bouncing in a
ponytail held back by a pretty white ribbon.

"Nihao!" Chirped the girl on the right, her flowing lavender locks shining
in the sun.

"G-g-gyah!" Kuno responded, clutching his briefcase to his chest and
scuttling away towards the dumpster.

The three girls straightened, blinked at the retreating salaryman, then at
each other.

"What matter with him? You think maybe we do something wrong?"

"Beats me, sugar. I thought everybody in Japan was nuts about morning
exercising."

"He seemed a lot different than I'd pictured him. Could he _really_ be the
one?"

The three shrugged in unison, and went back to their aerobics, oblivious to
the stares they were drawing from early-rising passers-by.

"And One! And-two-and-three-and-four, and One! And-two-and-three-and-four,
and One!"



Kuno leaned back on the building wall and desperately tried to catch his
breath. Why on earth did he bolt from them like that? The was a time, he
recalled, when the sight of an attractive woman didn't send him screaming
for the hills. Back in the days of yore, when he was somebody, he mused,
instead of just a hapless salaryman, afraid of his own shadow.

He closed his eyes and remembered. The awestruck crowds cheering as he smote
his opponent well. The banners with his nom-de-guerre boldly written apon
them flapping in the breeze. The elation washing over him like a crashing
wave as he was declared victorious. The chanting.

KU-NO! KU-NO! KU-NO! KU-NO!

With a moan, he dumped his burden of trash, making sure than the black bag
with the bokken sticking out went into the burnables dumpster, and the blue
one into the recycling bin, then slouched off to catch his bus.





The bus ride into Tokyo proper was stifling, hot and close. His fellow
salarymen squashed up against him. He watched, half-fascinated,
half-disgusted, as another bespectacled salaryman slowly and with great
deliberation picked his nose, gazed at the extracted semi-solid as though
the mysteries of the universe were hidden within the greenish blob, then
wiped it along the handrail. Kuno shuddered briefly. Such sights were all
too common in the life of a hapless salaryman, a faceless cog in the great
capitalist machine.

He sighed and began to doze standing up, the roar of morning traffic lulling
him into a dream of the past. In the dream, he was young again. Captain of
the Kendo club, undisputed star of the high-school, and later college,
fencing worlds. None stood against him. Undefeated. Champion. Adored,
respected, sometimes even feared. He had been so alive, so strong, his
hakama bright and unsoiled by aught but the sweat of honest exertion, his
days and nights an unending progression of honourable, noble duels.

His hand tightened almost-imperceptibly on the pole he held, as in his dream
he firmly gripped the dark wood of his bokken, the weapon not merely an
extension of himself but an integral part of his body as he lifted it high
to deliver the coup-de-grace.

Bokken?

His eyes snapped open as he finally registered the fact that he had last
seen his noble weapon this morning. In the trash! The _burnable_ trash! The
selfsame bag he had, himself, placed out for the garbagemen!!!

With a howl of unholy terror and fury, he burst from the bus at the next
stoplight and ran for home.






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