Author's Note: Alright. I really don't want to continue Generic Brand right
now. No urge, ya know? And, anyways, this idea sounded pretty good to me. I
hope to get this one to finish and complete and I am mapping out the ideas
completely. I really have to do that -plan- or else I don't ever get
finished and I work myself into a complete corner. I forget that I married
so and so and then I make 'em just dating later. It sucks. Anyhow, I hope
you enjoy and please review!
Don't Rightly Know
R For Violence, Language, Nudity, Sexual Content, and Adult Themes
The West has been settled and formed by a wealthy young family and now their only daughter has run off from the confines of her world, off to see the outside and escape the civilized town, into the true Wild West. Bands of outlaws and wild Indians won't be her only concern as a dangerous entrepreneur with an illegal alternate lifestyle sets his eyes on her.
Chapter One
Gah. She was what? Twenty-five now?
And yet, her feet still itched for adventure, for the quest of searching out all the unknown. She was practically settled down with Yamcha, a once daring young bandit but now a pompous city slicker, and she could almost see the ache in his eyes to settle down like the rest of their social circle, to start a family. Most of those other once-beautiful girls were now swollen with their third child, talking about diapers and wet-nurses, not about galas and decorators like they had used to.
It was driving her stir crazy.
That must have been why she had escaped the manor. It made the most sense.
She had always been a rambunctious child, contrary to her mother's efforts in "lady etiquette". She climbed trees, terrorized the house cook, and created general chaos about the place.
And look where it got her: on a long, dusty road in the middle of Kami- knows-where, lost and alone, with a twenty-some-odd gang of outlaws holding her captive, discussing something along the lines of her worth and her "uses". It did not sound pleasing to her in the least.
"Yeah, I say we ought ta untie 'er and let 'er sing a purty song fer us a 'fore we do nothing else. Ya'll all heard 'er voice. It sounds down right purty and I'd like ta 'ear a song. I'm a sure she can dance right nicely too. What d'y'all say ta that?" The first one said. He was rather heavy set and rough looking, with a bit more than a 5 o'clock shadow shading his chin. He greasy hair was pulled up under a large brimmed hat, but she could tell it was dark colored and hadn't been combed in a long time.
"I reckon that sounds mighty nice. Can ya sing good fer us, missy?" The youngest one said, blushing slightly as he directed his comment at her. His golden hair glinted in the sun as he leaned in closer to hear her answer. Blue eyes flashed slightly under his brim, but the young woman couldn't tell from what. It had an almost ominous tint to it.
She nodded meekly, her throat too dry to give a real answer. It had been hours out in the hot sun since she had had her last drink, her water canteen emptied shortly after the start of her trip.
Late August had not been the best choice of months to decide to start out on this little expedition of hers to "re-see" the world, before the now "gentleman" Yamcha could marry her and she would be forced into the correct role of a high class lady worthy of her position.
The young man who had asked her to sing gestured at a third man and pointed to the canteen of whiskey held at his waist. In response, that man twisted on the cap and tossed it over to him. The blonde caught it gracefully and then undid the top, pouring some of the burning liquid down her throat to help clear it up for her upcoming performance.
She gasped. Even that tad bit of liquid, not entirely designed to quench thirst, help to satiate it, if only for a while. She flashed a smile at the man tending to her and watched as a deeper blush formed across the bridge of his nose.
She chose to ignore it, and instead asked him kindly, her sweet voice ringing across the quiet prairie, to please untie her bounds. He did so obligingly.
"Now, miss," began the greasy haired outlaw, the one who seemed to be in charge of the outfit, "If yer song don't please us, we ain't gonna be very happy wit' ya, ya 'ear? I 'spect ya ta sing a right nice song, one that might remind of us home or somethin'. Well, get on wit' it!" He nodded towards the buggy they had stolen from her, expecting her to stand on the back as if it were a stage.
Wincing slightly at the wounds on her wrists from the tightly bound ropes that had just recently been removed, she climbed up on the makeshift stage and began her routine, singing songs her mother had taught her as a child. They were those sweet, sad songs of romance gone wrong; of beautiful women and brave men; they were the things fairytales were made of, but they had always been a hit.
She sang until the sun began its descent in the sky, lying down to sleep in a soft bed of crimson silk.
Her throat ached and her voice was slightly hoarse, yet the men didn't seem to notice. They continued about setting up camp and, every once in a while, a man would stop and listen to her. She had long ago taken a seat from her standing position on the back of the buggy, and had slowly dwindled to a stop as the sun completed its decline from the world of men.
It was her favorite part of the day and her favorite part of the west. The cowboys and Indians had excited her as a child as they moved from the bustling pioneer town of East Capital City to the untamed wilderness of West Capital City. Her father had helped shape the town, form it into something respectable, and they were by far the richest in the area. Every man in East wanted her hand, hoping to earn a tie to the wealth of gold and other precious metals hidden in the western lands.
However, it was that former bandit that had caught her romantic heart, and so she was now forced to settle with him. She had, after all, accepted his proposal.
"That'll do, miss," the young man said, acting like a gentleman as he raised his hand to help her off the cart, escorting her to the makeshift tent they had kindly set up as her quarters for the night. It seemed that maybe her "uses" may not be what she had interpreted them as. "This is yer room fer the night. I s'pose it ain't 'xactly what yer used ta, but it'll do. I hope ya sleep a'right. Good evenin', and thank ya fer the purty song. It touched me somethin' deep." And with that, he excused himself, leaving her inside, alone.
Bulma lay her pretty little head between her knees, hands covering her face, and sobbed herself to sleep, wondering why she had chosen to leave the comfort and security of her home in the first place.
Don't Rightly Know
R For Violence, Language, Nudity, Sexual Content, and Adult Themes
The West has been settled and formed by a wealthy young family and now their only daughter has run off from the confines of her world, off to see the outside and escape the civilized town, into the true Wild West. Bands of outlaws and wild Indians won't be her only concern as a dangerous entrepreneur with an illegal alternate lifestyle sets his eyes on her.
Chapter One
Gah. She was what? Twenty-five now?
And yet, her feet still itched for adventure, for the quest of searching out all the unknown. She was practically settled down with Yamcha, a once daring young bandit but now a pompous city slicker, and she could almost see the ache in his eyes to settle down like the rest of their social circle, to start a family. Most of those other once-beautiful girls were now swollen with their third child, talking about diapers and wet-nurses, not about galas and decorators like they had used to.
It was driving her stir crazy.
That must have been why she had escaped the manor. It made the most sense.
She had always been a rambunctious child, contrary to her mother's efforts in "lady etiquette". She climbed trees, terrorized the house cook, and created general chaos about the place.
And look where it got her: on a long, dusty road in the middle of Kami- knows-where, lost and alone, with a twenty-some-odd gang of outlaws holding her captive, discussing something along the lines of her worth and her "uses". It did not sound pleasing to her in the least.
"Yeah, I say we ought ta untie 'er and let 'er sing a purty song fer us a 'fore we do nothing else. Ya'll all heard 'er voice. It sounds down right purty and I'd like ta 'ear a song. I'm a sure she can dance right nicely too. What d'y'all say ta that?" The first one said. He was rather heavy set and rough looking, with a bit more than a 5 o'clock shadow shading his chin. He greasy hair was pulled up under a large brimmed hat, but she could tell it was dark colored and hadn't been combed in a long time.
"I reckon that sounds mighty nice. Can ya sing good fer us, missy?" The youngest one said, blushing slightly as he directed his comment at her. His golden hair glinted in the sun as he leaned in closer to hear her answer. Blue eyes flashed slightly under his brim, but the young woman couldn't tell from what. It had an almost ominous tint to it.
She nodded meekly, her throat too dry to give a real answer. It had been hours out in the hot sun since she had had her last drink, her water canteen emptied shortly after the start of her trip.
Late August had not been the best choice of months to decide to start out on this little expedition of hers to "re-see" the world, before the now "gentleman" Yamcha could marry her and she would be forced into the correct role of a high class lady worthy of her position.
The young man who had asked her to sing gestured at a third man and pointed to the canteen of whiskey held at his waist. In response, that man twisted on the cap and tossed it over to him. The blonde caught it gracefully and then undid the top, pouring some of the burning liquid down her throat to help clear it up for her upcoming performance.
She gasped. Even that tad bit of liquid, not entirely designed to quench thirst, help to satiate it, if only for a while. She flashed a smile at the man tending to her and watched as a deeper blush formed across the bridge of his nose.
She chose to ignore it, and instead asked him kindly, her sweet voice ringing across the quiet prairie, to please untie her bounds. He did so obligingly.
"Now, miss," began the greasy haired outlaw, the one who seemed to be in charge of the outfit, "If yer song don't please us, we ain't gonna be very happy wit' ya, ya 'ear? I 'spect ya ta sing a right nice song, one that might remind of us home or somethin'. Well, get on wit' it!" He nodded towards the buggy they had stolen from her, expecting her to stand on the back as if it were a stage.
Wincing slightly at the wounds on her wrists from the tightly bound ropes that had just recently been removed, she climbed up on the makeshift stage and began her routine, singing songs her mother had taught her as a child. They were those sweet, sad songs of romance gone wrong; of beautiful women and brave men; they were the things fairytales were made of, but they had always been a hit.
She sang until the sun began its descent in the sky, lying down to sleep in a soft bed of crimson silk.
Her throat ached and her voice was slightly hoarse, yet the men didn't seem to notice. They continued about setting up camp and, every once in a while, a man would stop and listen to her. She had long ago taken a seat from her standing position on the back of the buggy, and had slowly dwindled to a stop as the sun completed its decline from the world of men.
It was her favorite part of the day and her favorite part of the west. The cowboys and Indians had excited her as a child as they moved from the bustling pioneer town of East Capital City to the untamed wilderness of West Capital City. Her father had helped shape the town, form it into something respectable, and they were by far the richest in the area. Every man in East wanted her hand, hoping to earn a tie to the wealth of gold and other precious metals hidden in the western lands.
However, it was that former bandit that had caught her romantic heart, and so she was now forced to settle with him. She had, after all, accepted his proposal.
"That'll do, miss," the young man said, acting like a gentleman as he raised his hand to help her off the cart, escorting her to the makeshift tent they had kindly set up as her quarters for the night. It seemed that maybe her "uses" may not be what she had interpreted them as. "This is yer room fer the night. I s'pose it ain't 'xactly what yer used ta, but it'll do. I hope ya sleep a'right. Good evenin', and thank ya fer the purty song. It touched me somethin' deep." And with that, he excused himself, leaving her inside, alone.
Bulma lay her pretty little head between her knees, hands covering her face, and sobbed herself to sleep, wondering why she had chosen to leave the comfort and security of her home in the first place.