Hi

Hi! The fuzzy nosed wombat has returned for Chap. 2! Thanks so much to those of you who reviewed, I really appreciate it.

To clear up some confusion: the Piccolo in this story is the one we see in DBZ, but with some minor changes in order to make the story more manageable. For example: In the story, he grows up at a regular human rate instead of the ridiculous age in the series, where he's actually only about 8 years old when he starts training Gohan. I know that making him older seriously messes with the time line, but if you don't think too much about it, it should be okay. There are also a few other changes that I'm sure you'll pick up as the story progresses. Does that clear it up, Ysabet?

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From Hell, With Love

Dear Someone,

Well, that's not so bad. One gets used to writing drivel after a time, it seems. I'm back. Does it surprise you? It sure surprises the hell out of me. I have to do something, though, or I should certainly go mad in this place. Writing is one way to alleviate the boredom and reading is another.

After doing some of this reading, I have to say I don't agree with a certain Mr. Shakespeare. What's in a name indeed! I would say that there is much to be said for a name. I have had many. Take Majr, for example. That was my name when I lived in Cairo. I grew to hate that name, and I discarded it as soon as a better came along. The choice was simple for me: Majr was a slave, Piccolo was a king. The second I had a chance to realize my origin, and my destiny as a King of demons, I jumped at the chance to become more than the Desert Prince of the Bedouin, or the wood god of various jungle-dwelling, African tribes.

They had all feared me for my sudden rage, or for my desperation when cornered, or the fact that I would be discovered sneaking into camps at night to steal only enough water to fill my bottle and wet my throat. They would oppose me, and I would flee, easily overpowering them with this new energy that I had discovered inside me the night I ran away from Cairo. Some tribes loved me for what they perceived as my unusual wildness, and the way I would slip away, ghostlike, into the trees, never to be seen again until months later as if in a vision. They worshipped me as a sort of minor god or devil, to be honoured if I was the one, to be placated if I was the other, and I laughed at them for their foolishness either way.

No, neither of these things was for me. I longed for the darkness now, for that unspeakable thing that could make me great. Listening to the words of a certain short, chubby little man who rides a flying carpet, I learned of my father: of his evil deeds, of his power, and of his desire to have a son.

Slipping into the Steel Palace, my father's answer to Kami's Lookout, I took the title, the name, the power, and the memories of my father, who had once been a King.

I walked slowly down the hall, the tapping of my feet echoing loudly through the vaulted arches of the ceiling. Silver, gold, and all manner of precious stones glittered around me from the walls of the palace, providing light in the fundamental darkness that formed the interior of this monument to evil. I swung the doors wide open to look upon a room that had lain undisturbed my entire lifetime.

It was beautiful. The darkness inside seemed to stretch out forever. Infinity lay encompassed in that space, waiting for me to join it. It confused the senses and played tricks on the mind. I looked up and marveled at the stars set high above me almost as though they were caught in a perpetual night. They were cold, however; they sent a chill down my spine. They lit the room with their constant, silvery light.

And then I felt it; clear as if a hand had touched my shoulder. There was a presence in this room. There was incredible power to be found somewhere in here, just waiting for me. I recognized it for what it was, the terrible power of the Demon King, the power of the darkness, the power that would soon be mine.

As I opened myself to it, everything around me, the tap of my boots, the familiar swish of my cape, even the brilliant starlight above me grew pale and dim when I touched this power. I was oblivious to everything but the pulsating energy that surrounded my body.

When I heard the Demon King's laughter echo through my mind, I was afraid. I knew in that moment exactly what it was I had done. A horror went through me as I realized I was one with my father. I fought it at first, but soon lost the will to do so in the rush of energy inside me. I never heard his voice again, but I did feel his wants and his desires, and for a long time, they ruled me.

My father's memories were meant to madden, it seemed. He was a cunning bastard, knowing well what kinds of images he wished to leave behind to his son. He would live on through my actions, and take his revenge with them also. These memories inflamed me with a lust for blood and carnage that has never completely released its hold upon my soul. I desired revenge on all those who had ever wronged me with a passion that I found terrifying, yet irresistibly compelling.

Was it possession? I don't doubt it. My father had all kinds of magical abilities working for him. I did too, however mine were much more raw and uncontrolled. I wasn't experienced enough to ward off the attack, or to even recognize it for what it was: imprisonment and yet another form of slavery. All I had wanted was the power to defend myself against my enemies, and to find a new life for myself, away from those who hated me. I got my wish, though it nearly destroyed me.

This compulsion naturally took me to Cairo, the site of my greatest pain. I destroyed it, burning it to the ground. I heard the screams as though they were far away in a dream. I was so cold that I felt nothing as I killed. This only made me stronger as I ignored the pleading cries of the people begging for mercy. I destroyed most of the Egyptian nation, I believe, and to this day I cannot truly say that I regret doing it.

I don't regret anything I've done, despite the fact that most people seem to want me to. They expect repentance, it makes them feel more comfortable knowing that I'm sorry for all the bad things that I've done and I'm just waiting to turn over a new leaf and start anew as a sweet, loving little Namek.

Makes you sick. If I looked back at every decision I've made to wonder if it was the right choice, I wouldn't get anywhere. I'm a pragmatist; it's as simple as that. If it works, I'll do it, and I'll follow up with the appropriate actions. It gets the job done. No regrets.

I've also never been afraid, never done anything embarrassing, and never needed help from anybody.

I'm an excellent liar, don't you think?

From Hell, with love,

Piccolo Daimao

P.S.: I like the sound of that, don't you, Someone? From Hell, with love. It's almost perfect.