Chapter 3

Incoherent Slogans

He wasn't talking. Nope, that was it. Vegeta had just run out of things to say. The prince of saiyans had run out of moves in general, actually. After being rejected by his wife in finality, he had little to look forward to.

Trunks watched his father as he sat on the couch, laying there motionless, his head cocked to one side, and seeming so still that he might be dead. It was almost as if he really were dead—but any qualms that Trunks had concerning that notion were put to rest, as Vegeta periodically took a long sighing breath.

Father and son sat there unbothered, watching TV, until a commotion drew them from the bore of the near silence and news television.

There came a loud rapping on Trunk's apartment door, and the whispered shouts from outside, "Let me in, dude, let me in!"

Trunks got up and answered the door quickly, sensing the insistence in his friend's tone. He swung open the door, and a muscular saiyan, his hair glowing blonde from his perpetual super saiyan state, rushed inside, nearly knocking Trunks over.

The saiyan was tall and corded muscles in his arms and legs stood out tremendously, and his shoulders and chest were also incredibly large with muscle. He was the Legendary Super Saiyan, and was shunned by his people when he was young. Broly followed his father Paragus for years as they traveled across the galaxy after they escaped the destruction of planet Vegeta, but when he met Trunks, he discovered that his father was only using him for petty vengeance and he subsequently killed him. He joined Trunks in life on Earth, where together, they developed a partnership in selling narcotics. When competition became too stiff, the two picked up and brought their goods to the past.

"God damn it!" he growled, coming inside and shaking his fists. "Fuck this shit, man!"

"What?" asked Trunks, grabbing Broly's arms and turning the angry super saiyan to face him squarely. "What's wrong, bro?"

"We haven't had any customers… For too long!" he roared. "Someone's out there with some new shit...! This is what we wanted to get away from, remember? All the violence and competition!" Broly was hyperventilating, clenching his fists and shaking them wildly.

"Calm down, Broly!" cried Trunks, pulling Broly by his monstrous arm. "Dude, chill out!"

On the couch, still unmoving, was Vegeta, staring blankly at the arrival of Broly. The Legendary Super Saiyan! The destroyer of worlds, the greatest saiyan power in the universe! The prince was completely afraid and he finally got up the courage to stand up and leap behind the couch.

"Broly is here…?" whimpered the frightened saiyan prince. Vegeta gave a yelp and cried out "We're seriously totally dead!"

Thinking quickly (and irrationally), Vegeta scrambled over to the telephone and dialed 9-11.


Sitting in a single chair, Dark Vegeta held his head in his hands.

All of his money and valuable possessions had been stolen—by Lunch, he figured sadly. His apartment/dressing room had been completely sacked and drawers and other furniture were upturned and scattered in a confused mess.

Indeed, he was left with nothing.

"Dark Vegeta!" called a voice suddenly from behind his door. "Sir! Your match is starting!"

Dark Vegeta didn't answer.

"Sir?" asked the voice.

"I'm not going!" conceded Dark Vegeta harshly.

"You must!"

"I'll never fight again!"

The man on the other side of the door blew an audible sigh and left.

Dark Vegeta returned to his sulking, lowering his head once more. He had killed someone in a professional match. The thought turned his gut.

Minutes passed, and Dark Vegeta heard a key being turned in his door, and so he sat up straight to view he who would interrupt him during his private reflection.

"Okay," said Hercule, striding inside. "I can understand that you're guilty about what happened," he said, nodding.

"You wouldn't understand." Dark Vegeta replied coldly, looking away.

"Years ago, people were killed here left and right!" Hercule argued. "You only killed one guy!"

"I've killed millions of people! Millions!" Dark Vegeta roared back.

"Didn't know you were that messed up!" said Hercule offhandedly, and the renegade saiyan slumped anew.

"Dark Vegeta, we love you!" said Hercule. "The kids love you!"

Dark Vegeta looked to Hercule confusedly for a moment. "I don't have children," he reminded.

"No!" said scolded Hercule. "The kids from that PSA we shot in book 2—you remember!"

The saiyan wasn't even listening anymore. There was nowhere he could be without hurting anyone.

There was no escape from his bloody nature, it seemed.


The obnoxious sounds of sex and television were a constant burden on Krillin as he laid there on the wood. To make things hurt more than they already did, Goku, who had helped him before, now shunned him as everyone else did. That knowledge wracked his sensibilities, and he vowed to escape.

And so, buckling down with the firmest resolve he had ever had, Krillin came up with a fool-proof plan to escape.

He waited until nightfall, and then waited a little more until he knew that Roshi and his wife had fallen asleep.

Hours passed, but he eventually heard the silence that signified that his tormentors had retired.

And so it began.

Krillin started bite at his left arm at the shoulder, tearing skin from the limb. The pain was nearly overwhelming, and as the diminutive martial artist's arm trickled streams of blood, he nearly swooned. But he was far too determined to escape the life of ridicule and torture he was bound to if he were to stay.

So there he was, gnawing continuously at his arm until he was chowing down on bone. Krillin bit back howls of pain as he ground his teeth against ligaments and nerve endings.

He was lying in a pool of blood by the time his arm began to come remotely loose. Delirious from blood loss, Krillin decided to look around, and he saw that the sun was just beginning to rise in the distance.

Deciding that he had little more time to carry through with his plan, Krillin tore viciously at the last of the ligaments in his arm, and then began to try to shoulder loose of the ropes. Thankfully, his efforts did not prove futile, for the loosened arm allowed the ropes to catch on his torn, bloody arm.

With a lot of painful wriggling, the little arm eventually popped out of socket and subsequently fell off, tangled in the rope. Krillin was then capable of kicking out and crawling out of his binds.

Krillin got to his feet and began to shuffle in the direction of Kame House.

He pushed the door open slowly to keep the creaking at a minimum. The martial artist groggily tip-toed his way to the kitchen area, where there laid a sack of old senzu.

Krillin snatched it up at once and consumed one.

Immediately, his severed arm wound closed, all the injuries he'd sustained from his beating from Master Roshi disappeared, and his vitality and blood was restored.

The martial artist walked around and considered the situation with a clear head.

In consideration of the fact that he had lost most of his powers and energy, he figured that it might not be a good idea to try flying back to West City…

If he could find a raft of sorts…

Just then, the empty shell of Turtle crept into Krillin's line of sight.

That was his answer!

After donning some clothes, Krillin hobbled out of Kame House, dragging along with him the empty shell of the late Turtle and a sizeable spoon, which he planned to use as an oar.

The tiny bald man tossed the shell into the water and hopped inside. He took hold of the spoon and started oaring into the West. Always. Into the West.


Bang-bang! The door was being slammed on, and Trunks and Broly turned to it with incredulous expressions plastered on their faces.

"Open up! It's the police! We have you surrounded!" droned a megaphone from outside.

Trunks stepped back cautiously. "Who called the fuckin' cops?"

"They can't know about this, or everything we've worked for is gone!" cried Broly, panicking really hard.

At that moment, three officers kicked open the door, shouting "Police officers!" as they crouched into a seemingly heavily rehearsed formation, brandishing their pistols and taking aim.

Broly leapt into action at once, rushing at the officers and scooping them up with both arms, lifting them all from the ground. The officers screamed as they were being crushed by the great hug and let fly some bullets from their guns.

At that, another group of police charged in and open-fired.

Bullets bounced off of Broly's skin, and in annoyance, he squeezed the men, breaking their backs, and he let them fall to the ground in broken heaps.

Trunks leaped to intercept the officials. "Fuckin' pigs!" he screamed, grabbing hold of the officers and snapping their arms, which disarmed them in a spectacularly painful way.

He then tossed them to the side, where they smacked painfully against the walls.

More police poured into the small room, guns blazing, and the bullets ricocheted loudly off the saiyan skin, some of the missiles bouncing back to hit the police, even. They were being killed just as fast as they were entering, for Broly and Trunks waded through the building throng, crushing skulls with inward-double-slaps, breaking bones with offhanded punches and kicks, and sometimes obliterated altogether with "ki" blasts.

From the other side of the room, with a blanket over his head, Vegeta watched the massacre in frightened paralysis. "He's killing them!" he yelled to himself monotonously. "And then he's going to kill me! ...Oh my Goooooooood!"

"How did it end up like this?" roared Broly above the clamor.

"You're right!" agreed Trunks in the midst of removing his fist from the inside of a dead police officer's chest. "This is really fucked up!"

It was indeed, and the purest, most unholy and one-sided massacre of police ensued, and the slightly peculiar way the police kept flooding in to their doom made the whole occurrence all the more surrealistic.


Where was he to go?

Krillin shuffled along the sidewalk of West City, unperturbed as a bum rushed up to him and snatched the sea turtle shell from Krillin, which he'd been dragging along with him since he'd arrived.

He shook his head constantly. He'd escaped the torment of his wife and former master, but could he survive the mind-ravaging distress of the city?

There was one with whom he could relate when he was this size, though. He remembered her name clearly, and it passed his lips in a quiet whisper as he made his way through the city.

"Puff," he said.

He walked for what seemed like hours, and periodically, people would walk up to him and simply spit on him, shooting him cold scowls. That happened for a while, but Krillin finally came upon the Red Light District, as the kids say.

It wouldn't have really caused Krillin any grief otherwise—because what business would Krillin have trying to purchase time with a hooker? Really! But a strange sight gave the weak, diminutive Q-ball pause.

Gure was short—really short, perhaps two and half feet tall. Her arms and legs were skinny—like literal steel rails—and her big head, which seemed to be much too large for her small body, was round and pale and ugly.

She was posed absurdly, her legs half bent and spread wide, and supporting herself with her hand on a street lamp, she continually popped her knees and swung her hips from side to side. Her lips, dark with a thick layer of lipstick, were pouted, and her weird, white head was on a swivel, searching absently for any potential customers. On her neck was a voluminous furry scarf, and she was swinging a purse about with the arm that wasn't supporting her.

"Puff!" called Krillin, and he hobbled toward her in a rush, in terms of how quickly his tiny limbs could carry him.

"Krillin!" observed Gure—or Puff—and she quickly stopped her perpetual seduction dance.

Krillin tried to embrace her, but Gure backed out of arms length.

"Have you forgotten about that little incident?" she asked curtly.

The little bald man looked to his feet, recalling the occurrence with an expression that revealed more than a little remorse. Krillin, after reuniting with his daughter and regaining his powers, went to Trunk's apartment—where he and the creature lived together temporarily—and beat her down, consequently turning his back on her.

"I'm sorry!" Krillin said, trying to patch up any bad blood between them with that ridiculous claim. "We can't exist on our own, though! We both are ridiculed and hated, for reasons that deny logic!" he reminded.

At that moment, a man walked toward them and offered a disgusted look. He popped the plastic lid from his cup of soda he'd gotten from McDonalds and poured it unceremoniously over Gure's bald pate.

Gure, soaked from the sugary beverage and used to such treatment, only lowered her head and sighed.

Krillin watched as the man spat at the ground and stomped away. He then turned to Gure once again. "Puff, we could get away from this!"

"I've heard that before," she said, rolling her eyes. "Then what happened?"

Krillin opened his mouth as if to reply, but was cut short.

"When you got big again, I thought it would open a way to a newer, brighter future! But that pathetic dream—and how pathetic it was, to dream in this world that despises us—that dream was dashed when you literally beat me!" tears were welling in her eye-holes. "And sent me running into the streets!"

Krillin couldn't think of anything to refute that with, and so he just gave a profound sigh and turned around. Half-turning, he dramatically muttered, "Goodbye, Puff,"

The tiny man walked around West City for a long while, periodically being verbally abused or spat on by passersby. It wasn't long before he realized that he couldn't survive for long in a world like this—especially with an arm missing.

Krillin knew that he no more roads left open to him.

There was but one option left to him.

Before long, Krillin was at the Capsule Corporation building rooting around the tool shed outside, since the gardener Jorge didn't approve of locks. The diminutive little martial artist eventually had a rope and a handwritten suicide letter.

He climbed up onto the roof and secured the rope on a nearby edge, which was handy, and hook-like. Krillin then tied a noose with the rope, then put it around his neck. He then adhered the note to his chest by some means that were convenient, and he stood at the edge of the roof.

Krillin muttered a few heartfelt last words, then stepped forward, flinging himself into the air below.

Time seemed to slow as he descended, and he braced himself for the impact of his neck breaking.

This would end it. This would bring an end to the injustice and turmoil that he was forced to suffer for so long.

As Krillin fell, a strong breeze wafted in from below, which slowed—even halted Krillin's decent, and sent him instead swinging into the nearby window.


Piccolo brought the spoon to his lips and slipped it into his mouth, tasting the sampling of dip that was on it. The Namekian rolled his eyes upward thoughtfully for a moment, then quickly removed the utensil from his mouth and made a sour expression.

"S'crap," Tarble observed, reading Piccolo's face.

"It's way too strong," Piccolo confirmed. "I told you that you put too much onion powder in."

"I'm telling you, dude," Tarble interjected. "It wasn't too much."

"How much did you put in"? asked the Namekian curtly.

"Three spoonfuls."

"See, you put too much! You only need two spoonfuls!"

"It was three small spoonfuls," sighed Tarble.

"Now we need something to get rid of that fuckin' zing," said Piccolo, heading for some cabinets.

The two were in the kitchen, which was on the third floor of the Capsule Corporation building. It was a pretty big, with a whole lot of storage space—which was mostly filled with all kinds of foods and ingredients and other reagents and equipment used for maintaining a kitchen.

In an upper cabinet, Piccolo studied the assortment of bottles and boxes in the cubed space, and he found a box with a mouse—was it a mouse? It looked pretty big to him, and it had X's for eyes, but that wasn't important. Piccolo opened up the box and dipped his fingers inside and licked them to taste the substance.

It was bland, but it had a distant bitterness to it. In fact, it was rather lemony. Piccolo pursed his lips and brought the box over to the cooking area.

"Let's put this in there," Piccolo decided, shaking some of the contents into the mix.

"I'm gonna taste this," said Tarble, reaching for a spoon.'

Suddenly, the window a few feet away broke apart noisily as a small, human form crashed violently through it, sending scattered shards of glass in all directions over the tile floor.

Piccolo was about to rush over to the aid of the humanoid figure but stopped when he discovered the identity of the person in the wreckage.

"Damn it, Krillin!" roared the Namekian. "You broke the window!"

Krillin lowered his head dejectedly, and was ordered by Piccolo to pick up the mess.

Shaking his head in annoyance, Tarble turned his attention back on the experimental dip. The saiyan picked up a spoon and scooped up a little of the thick concoction and placed it in his mouth.

He swirled it around with his tongue for a few seconds, then a tear came to his eye.

It was the best thing he had ever tasted.