I hope the last chapter was satisfactory. I just… I'll be honest, kids. I'm procrastinating. Frankly, the last reviews… Well, sucked. For THE DENTIST, people. Everyone loves The Dentist, right? I mean, come ON children. Ack, it doesn't matter. I don't own Dbz.

-

"Uh huh… You don't speak very often about your father. Why is that, Piccolo? Are you afraid to realize you have been holding resentment against him these past few years since he's passed on? Or is there something else?"

What the hell does he want me to say? He probably wishes I could spout off something interesting like saying my father beat me everyday for sneezing. 'Something else', feh.

"Actually, I don't speak about him because other than a source of funds, he didn't play a large role in my life." Which was true enough. Don't get me wrong, now. I would have been sad to see my father die as a child. It's not like I wanted him to get cancer. But I didn't cry when I heard the news. Of course I was disheartened; my father was a decent guy. Just not particularly…fatherly. I can understand why. He was a busy man, with lots of patients to take care of. He was a neurosurgeon in demand, and he did his best to fulfil his career obligations. Sometimes that interrupted what little family time we got, but… he had a job to do. I wasn't going to play the saddened child who cried because their parent didn't have time for them. I rather enjoyed being at home without my father having a close view on me. I think it made me independent.

"So he was more of a bank than a person?" The word 'asshole' in the dictionary features this dick's face as a prime example. Briefs was watching me over his small reading glasses, and I swear I could see him fighting back a smirk. I felt blood rush to my face at the nerve of the small man.

"Of course not! We just weren't close." I leaned back on the sofa and tried to calm down, and shift my thoughts away from the smoke coming from Brief's cigarette. I remember a time when I was a kid, back when I was maybe eight or nine. My father took Nail, my grandfather, and me to a Yankees game. As a kid, I loved baseball. Nail was always better at it, but I wasn't that bad myself. Anyway, Poppy (my grandfather) had also loved taking us to games. However, what made this time special was the fact that my father was there. I was so surprised that he didn't rush away on an emergency call that I couldn't help but grin at him. I remember he smiled a little back, as if to say that he, too, was happy to be with me. Nail, however, seemed a little skeptical. 'Give it a few minutes. Somebody is bound to be dying somewhere.' I remember hissing back that this time was different. And for the first three innings it seemed to be. However, my father's mobile phone once again rang, and he was gone with a wave. Nail had grinned at me as if to say 'told you so', and Poppy just sighed and patted my head.

'"Your father is a busy man, Piccolo. You know he loves you, but he's got duties."

In many ways, Poppy was more of a father than Piccolo Senior. I loved him like I would a father, anyway. He was a quiet, wise man of some fifty years, who loved golfing and fishing in his free time. I spent a lot of time with him as a kid, come to think about it. I cried like a small child when I learned he was killed in a car accident. A fact I later felt guilty for as I stood dry-eyed at my father's funeral, about two years later.

"Obviously that's not a subject you can discuss comfortably." Briefs said quietly, that damned smile pulling at his pale lips. It felt as I were being challenged by the guy. Why shouldn't I be comfortable with it?

"What do you want to hear?" I shot back, catching him off guard. He raised his eyebrows and almost shrugged, but caught himself and smiled softly.

"Did he live another life? One that didn't include you, or work?"

What the HELL was that supposed to mean? "I'm not sure what you are suggesting, but my father was a straight guy. He didn't 'live another life'. He did what he said he did. He was an honest man, and raised us the best he could." To the point where he could be predictably boring, as a matter-of-fact. As far as I knew, he never tried to replace my mother, even in his thoughts. The man never dated to my knowledge, for obvious reasons: Too little time, two boys, ect. He was probably never relaxed enough to meet a new woman. I can't blame him; that damn phone was going off every time he got comfortable, seems like. He had back pain a lot, from being so uptight the whole day. I know he didn't sleep well, either. I could always hear him a little after midnight, pacing around his study. I'm not sure he knew this, but I saw him looking at a photograph one of those nights. Strange that I remember it now. He had a look on his face that I'll never forget: Pain. Like his heart was twisting in unbearable ways, and I felt guilty forming one sentence in my mind.

He looked so human, like he actually had feelings.

The next morning I had naturally tried to find the picture, being very curious about what was on it. I remember searching through several of his drawers before coming across a locked one. I had tried to tug it open, but I must have made noise because my father walked in the room, looking confused. He looked at me and asked me, quietly, what I was looking for. I lied and said I needed a stapler or some kind of office appliance. He looked so strange when I said that, like he knew what I was really looking for. His expression made me wonder if he was about to cry or not, when suddenly he hugged me tightly in his arms. I was shocked at first, feeling his heart pulse through his chest. His voice broke a little as he told me that he didn't have one, and just continued to hold me there. He might have shed some tears; I wouldn't know, because at the time, I only reached about the bottom of his chest. All I know is that my father had gone through a lot more than I had given him credit for. I'll never forget the next words he said, because it would be the last time I would hear them for quite some time.

"I love you son. Just…never forget that I love you."

Vegeta checked his watch and sighed. "Well unfortunately Piccolo, we're out of time for today. I think you really thought some things over, and I'm very happy with the progress made in here. You'll be coming next week same time, won't you?"

I sat up from the comfortable couch and stretched slightly. I stood up and straightened my jacket, then nodded at my psychiatrist. "I'll be here." Asshole asshole asshole. Words can't express how much I hate this man.

-

I like writing this story, because 1) it gives insight to Piccolo's character, and 2) it's easy as buying a gun in Pakistan. I have one review so far, but hopefully that number will at least quadruple in the next couple of days.

-Ace