Vegeta
"Oh. My. God. You look exactly like Vegeta."
He got this a lot.
"Yes. So lots of people tell me."
He verbalized this fact.
"Oh..erm...you don't have his voice though," the girl pointed out.
He blinked slowly before replying, "..I know."
They never knew his talking voice. Idiots. Morons. Bloody, filthy mongrols of infectious puss that weren't even worthy to be eaten by maggots. He felt complete and utter rage. It was a good thing he felt this way all the time, otherwise he wouldn't be able to handle it. "Well then.." the girl faltered, unsure of what to say, but obviously uncomfortable. Quickly, she waved and backed away, "I have to go...Nice meeting you!"
Liar.
He didn't wave back.
He didn't care.
He continued his stroll along the boulevard, walking slowly with his hands in his pockets. For an instant he wondered what a cigarette tasted like. That woman smoked them. He wondered what it felt like to inhale toxic chemicals - letting them coat over your lungs to inhibit your breathing and eventually cause cancer. But as quickly as the thought came, it vanished.
He didn't care.
Not about anything.
He wouldn't tell anyone though.
His hand pushed the door open and he stepped partially inside the shop. "What time is it?" he demanded sharply, his eyes fixed in a glare.
"It's six fifteen," replied the shopkeeper, about to continue before he noticed the young man was gone.
Six fifteen.
Band practice was at seven.
Band practice.
Feh.
Ultimately, he decided he would, once again, either be late or just skip it completely. It was humiliating. He didn't need to practice. He didn't want to practice. He could just go home instead, and grab that woman by her shoulders, throw her onto the bed, ravish her, and them smoke one of those damn cigarettes afterward. Not a bad idea... Practice was a joke. He hated it as much as performing. He hated everything. Even the money he made and enjoyed. Somehow, he hated this the most. But he hated band practice. He hated practicing and he hated practicing with those people.
Especially Kakkarot.
Those clumps of bile and waste called him Goku. Goku. Son Goku. Goku Son. Goku. He hated that name more than he hated the man and he hated that man more than he had ever hated anything in his entire life. More than Freiza, more than fate, more than failure. Kakkarot was his failure. Kakkarot was the one who MADE him fail. He did this with a smile and tried to act like friends when they were enemies. He hated this, and somehow he managed to get stuck in a band with him.
Him, and his son, and his friend. Outcasted. He was a loner, he hated it, but less so than not being alone. He hated many things. He didn't want to try to think of something that he didn't hate because he didn't want to frustrate himself.
Orgasming.
The thought shot through his mind before he realized exactly what it was that he had realized.
An orgasm was something he didn't hate. It was one pure moment when nothing else mattered and your entire entity was filled with beautiful unyielding, utter bliss. One moment when nothing mattered. One moment when you had no mind. One moment when there was nothing to hate.
Six twenty-three.
The clock read six twenty-three.
He wanted to go home.
He wanted to go home and forget. He wanted to forget that he selled his soul for money. He wanted to forget he had no soul to sell in the first place. He wanted to forget the sheltered childhood he had lived and how his race had been obliterated down to himself and that lame-brain Kakkarot over the course of a few years. He wanted to forget that he could never go home because his planet had been blown into small, tiny bits of dust. That the race he was so proud of, the race he was supposed to lead someday, was nearly extinct because of one demented fuck who happened to kidnap him, raise him, and kill his father. He wanted to forget that he was never powerful enough to kill that psycho bastard.
Damn.
It.
All.
He wanted to smoke.
Six twenty-nine.
Band practice was at seven.
He sighed. Band practice...sex...band practice...sex...
He sighed again. Why couldn't he decide? He thought the choice was simple: Band practice..or sex.
..Or band practice. Or smoke. Or kill, or blow something up, or wreak havoc. Or commit suicide - that sounded like fun!
Stop.
Breathe.
Go.
Just go to band practice, go and forget. Forget it all...and go.
He went.
"Oh. My. God. You look exactly like Vegeta."
He got this a lot.
"Yes. So lots of people tell me."
He verbalized this fact.
"Oh..erm...you don't have his voice though," the girl pointed out.
He blinked slowly before replying, "..I know."
They never knew his talking voice. Idiots. Morons. Bloody, filthy mongrols of infectious puss that weren't even worthy to be eaten by maggots. He felt complete and utter rage. It was a good thing he felt this way all the time, otherwise he wouldn't be able to handle it. "Well then.." the girl faltered, unsure of what to say, but obviously uncomfortable. Quickly, she waved and backed away, "I have to go...Nice meeting you!"
Liar.
He didn't wave back.
He didn't care.
He continued his stroll along the boulevard, walking slowly with his hands in his pockets. For an instant he wondered what a cigarette tasted like. That woman smoked them. He wondered what it felt like to inhale toxic chemicals - letting them coat over your lungs to inhibit your breathing and eventually cause cancer. But as quickly as the thought came, it vanished.
He didn't care.
Not about anything.
He wouldn't tell anyone though.
His hand pushed the door open and he stepped partially inside the shop. "What time is it?" he demanded sharply, his eyes fixed in a glare.
"It's six fifteen," replied the shopkeeper, about to continue before he noticed the young man was gone.
Six fifteen.
Band practice was at seven.
Band practice.
Feh.
Ultimately, he decided he would, once again, either be late or just skip it completely. It was humiliating. He didn't need to practice. He didn't want to practice. He could just go home instead, and grab that woman by her shoulders, throw her onto the bed, ravish her, and them smoke one of those damn cigarettes afterward. Not a bad idea... Practice was a joke. He hated it as much as performing. He hated everything. Even the money he made and enjoyed. Somehow, he hated this the most. But he hated band practice. He hated practicing and he hated practicing with those people.
Especially Kakkarot.
Those clumps of bile and waste called him Goku. Goku. Son Goku. Goku Son. Goku. He hated that name more than he hated the man and he hated that man more than he had ever hated anything in his entire life. More than Freiza, more than fate, more than failure. Kakkarot was his failure. Kakkarot was the one who MADE him fail. He did this with a smile and tried to act like friends when they were enemies. He hated this, and somehow he managed to get stuck in a band with him.
Him, and his son, and his friend. Outcasted. He was a loner, he hated it, but less so than not being alone. He hated many things. He didn't want to try to think of something that he didn't hate because he didn't want to frustrate himself.
Orgasming.
The thought shot through his mind before he realized exactly what it was that he had realized.
An orgasm was something he didn't hate. It was one pure moment when nothing else mattered and your entire entity was filled with beautiful unyielding, utter bliss. One moment when nothing mattered. One moment when you had no mind. One moment when there was nothing to hate.
Six twenty-three.
The clock read six twenty-three.
He wanted to go home.
He wanted to go home and forget. He wanted to forget that he selled his soul for money. He wanted to forget he had no soul to sell in the first place. He wanted to forget the sheltered childhood he had lived and how his race had been obliterated down to himself and that lame-brain Kakkarot over the course of a few years. He wanted to forget that he could never go home because his planet had been blown into small, tiny bits of dust. That the race he was so proud of, the race he was supposed to lead someday, was nearly extinct because of one demented fuck who happened to kidnap him, raise him, and kill his father. He wanted to forget that he was never powerful enough to kill that psycho bastard.
Damn.
It.
All.
He wanted to smoke.
Six twenty-nine.
Band practice was at seven.
He sighed. Band practice...sex...band practice...sex...
He sighed again. Why couldn't he decide? He thought the choice was simple: Band practice..or sex.
..Or band practice. Or smoke. Or kill, or blow something up, or wreak havoc. Or commit suicide - that sounded like fun!
Stop.
Breathe.
Go.
Just go to band practice, go and forget. Forget it all...and go.
He went.