Anger Management 6


Mrs. Briefs always prepared delicious, satisfying meals, but the baked spaghetti and green salad she had made that particular night was very good, and Vegeta actually went back for a third helping.

"Dad, won't your tummy pop if you keep eating?" Trunks finished his plate and wondered if he too could eat more.

"No," Vegeta scooped more hot pasta onto his plate, "our kind don't worry about that."

Trunks crinkled his brow and stared at his father, confused by what he meant, but soon turned around to see if his mother was reacting. When she seemed indifferent, Trunks returned to his dinner.

He missed the moment Bulma gave her husband a very sharp look of disapproval.

He has to know sometime, thought Vegeta. He scooped up several noodles at once and found his mouth almost too full.

Not like this, he heard Bulma's voice reverberating in his head, we need to talk about it with him together when he starts asking questions.

Vegeta gave a small nod of confirmation to the disembodied voice in his head and motioned for somebody to pass him the cheese, his mouth still too full to talk.

That night, Vegeta asked Bulma to brush through his hair with the finest comb that could manage to move through his thick mane, and with his head between his knees he felt Bulma's fingers parting his hair into small sections at the nape of his neck.

"So, about dinner..." Bulma slowly worked the comb through Vegeta's hair and pulled up with as little force as she could manage, "what was that about?"

"Come on, woman, ow!" Vegeta winced when Bulma pulled too hard on the next section of hair, "be gentle! You know the kid's going to have questions sooner or later. He's at that age."

"Sorry..." Bulma divided a section of the Saiyan's hair into two smaller parts, "I know he is... but... well, doesn't it make you nervous to talk to him about the fact that his father is an alien, which by extension makes him an alien? I just want my little boy to be carefree a bit longer, that's all... once he knows he's different from the other kids..."

Vegeta scoffed. "He's socialized as an Earthling- he'll be fine. He is a half-human, half-Saiyan Earthling who still has yet to demonstrate any of his Saiyan tendencies, aside from his appetite."

"Mm, about that," Bulma paused when she felt something in Vegeta's hair, "Trunks' teacher told me today that our son has become very interested in throwing different balls as far as he can. Today he threw a baseball clear across the playground and right into the backyard of a house. If that isn't a Saiyan tendency, I don't know what... what the hell, Vegeta? Is this a st- Vegeta, when did you get a twig in your hair?"

"Your mother asked me to help her find a tool she dropped into a bush. Guess that's what I felt pulling when I crawled underneath it. But that's interesting, about the kid. I guess that it's time to start training him."

Bulma ran through another section of hair. The back of his head always took a long time. "Training?! You don't mean in the gravity chamber, do you?"

"Jesus, woman! Do you think I'm an idiot? Of course not! Since he doesn't have a tail," he tone grew edgy, recalling his own sorely-missed tail, "I'll have to refine his balance first. Kid's fucking clumsy."

"He's not even four, Vegeta. Of course he toddles around- that's what toddlers do!"

Vegeta heaved a sigh. "I'm never going to get used to this planet."


After going to bed early, Vegeta slept fitfully before awaking shortly before six- a full hour before he typically got up those days. He tossed in bed and tugged at his blankets, eliciting a grunt of protest from Bulma.

"Mm, 'Geta... don..."

The Saiyan sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, and rubbed his eyes. Guess I'm up now, he thought, and I'm hungry...

A memory of breakfast samosas he'd eaten months prior passed through his mind, and Vegeta's stomach rumbled.

"I'm going for a walk. Do you need anything?"

"Cart'n... cigarettes..." Bulma rolled over and pulled the covers over her head.

Vegeta dressed, found his wallet and stuffed it into his coat pocket, and headed out. It was a few minutes after six, which meant the Saiyan could go out and about as he pleased.

He headed north to a small 24 hour convenience store, enjoying the crisp, cold air on his face. His hair still felt fluffy from the previous night's thorough combing-through, and when he saw his reflection in a darkened store window, he cringed at how out of control it looked.

The store doorbell chirped a happy little tune as Vegeta entered, and he nodded to the clerk behind the counter when he recognized him. "Hey, Samir," he gave the clerk a lazy wave, "do you have samosas today?"

"I am sorry, but it will be a seven minute wait, Mr. Briefs," the clerk gave his customer a friendly and apologetic smile.

"Vegeta. And that's nothing. I'll take a dozen. Also, I need a carton of cigarettes."

Samir looked through his extensive tobacco display, "you prefer Premiere brand, right?"

"Uh-huh," Vegeta took a wrapped stick of pepperoni from the jar on the counter and peeled it open, "it's for my wife."

Samir gave Vegeta the carton of cigarettes, washed his hands in the sink behind the counter, and went about putting a dozen fresh samosas in the huge oven at the end of the counter. While Vegeta watched this, another customer dressed in dark jeans and a torn leather jacket entered the store and looked through the beverage display case before approaching the counter, brandishing a handgun.

"Give me the money!" The would-be robber screamed at Samir while Vegeta watched on, half-eaten stick of pepperoni in hand.

"Not today, asshole," Vegeta set down his snack, snatched the assailant's gun and slammed it on the counter with such speed that he didn't have time to react before the Saiyan grabbed his wrist, pulling the robber's arm back as he practically swung himself around, snatching the other arm back and squeezing his wrists together while forcing him stomach-down onto the ground with the weight of one well-placed knee, "well, Samir? Are you going to call the cops, or just stare at me?"

The robber wailed in pain, his shoulders screaming at the awful position the arms had been forced to hold, and Vegeta simply laughed and leaned in deeper on his knee.

Samir tried to speak, but no sound came through. Finally, he stammered: "th-th-the silent alarm, I triggered it already!"

"Oh, good. I'm getting hungry," Vegeta leaned all of his weight into the knee he had pressed directly into the softest spot of the robber's lower back and grinned when the screams reached a new pitch, "I don't want to have to eat while holding this asshole down. Well? Was this a good fucking idea?"

"Nooo," the robber gurgled, "get off me, please..."

"Fuck you," Vegeta grabbed him by the hair, pulled hard and then pushed his face into the ground, "you inconvenienced me."

Vegeta held the robber down on the floor until the four police cars arrived, sirens screaming as they screeched into the parking lot and approached the store with their weapons drawn. When an officer spotted Vegeta holding the assailant down on the floor, he signalled for the officers to lower their weapons.

"That was an incredibly brave, but dangerous thing you did, Mr. Briefs," one of the officers sized up the petite man who had taken down the would-be robber in disbelief, "you were lucky that gun didn't go off."

"Guess it was reflex," Vegeta shrugged, more interested in the very hot, slightly burnt samosas he'd received for free (and "forever more" as Samir put it), "I just saw the gun and thought... not doing this today, you know? Fucking inconvenience."

Since nobody had placed Vegeta under arrest and Samir was quick to praise Vegeta to the officers, pointing at him and stuttering that his life had just been spared, Vegeta started to assume he wasn't in trouble.

The officer raised a brow. "You intervened because you were being inconvenienced?"

"Uh, yes," Vegeta took a bite of samosa, "I just wanted breakfast and my wife's fucking cigarettes, and that asshole got in my way."

"Wow..." the officer was stunned. Was the man before him a nonchalant hero or a psychopath?

"Well, well, nice seeing you again, Mr. Briefs," another officer approached, and Vegeta felt his blood run cold when he registered the voice as a familiar one.

It was the same officer who had arrested Vegeta several weeks prior, looking rather amused by the scene. The Saiyan's eyes grew wide in a mixture of surprise and horror, and he closed the box holding his breakfast.

"This can't be good..."


Mrs. Briefs set a steak so large it filled the entire plate before Vegeta, who was delighted at the sight of blood leaking from it.

"Our hero," Mrs. Briefs squeezed Vegeta's shoulder, "you are so brave!"

Vegeta rolled his eyes but wasted no time cutting into his steak. It was seared on the outside and totally red on the inside, just the way he liked it, and there was plenty of bread to mop up the blood after he'd finished his meat.

"Call for you, Vegeta," Bulma came into the dining room with the phone and passed it to Vegeta, "sounds like it's important..."

Vegeta brought the receiver to his ear. "Hello?"

A long stretch of silence followed, everybody at the table practically holding the breath (save for Trunks, who was very happy and quite occupied with the yummy cubes of steak Grandma had prepared) while Vegeta listened to whomever was on the other line, nodding and giving the occasional "uh-huh" or "yes, understood".

Finally, Vegeta disconnected the call and set the phone down. "Ugh."

"What's going on, Vegeta?"

The Saiyan rolled his eyes. "Tomorrow I get to see Ramirez to talk about this morning. Apparently some people are impressed that I intervened in a robbery, so I'll be teaching self-defence classes for my community service."

"You're not in trouble, are you?" Bulma seemed worried.

"Incredibly, no," Vegeta took another bite of steak, "he seemed kind of... I don't know, amused? But things aren't going wrong."

Trunks set his fork down. "Is Dad a superhero?"

Mrs. Briefs giggled and Dr. Briefs patted his grandson on top of the head while Vegeta and Bulma exchanged mutual looks of worry and grudging acceptance that they needed to talk with Trunks, and soon.


Ramirez stared at Vegeta with a large, mysterious smirk for several minutes when he entered the room. The Saiyan fought against the urge to squirm in his chair. Why was this human looking at him like that? It reminded him of when Raditz got drunk and started telling funny, filthy stories.

"Uh..." Vegeta finally broke the silence.

"That was pretty badass, what you did, Vegeta. I saw the security tape. Why didn't you tell me you were a martial artist?"

The Saiyan shrugged. "That part of my life is over. I quit fighting."

Ramirez let out a dry laugh. "Yeah, sure, Vegeta. Not with a form like that. You're a fighter."

"Still out of shape," Vegeta muttered, "I don't fight now."

"And maybe that's why you punched an innocent woman," Ramirez suggested, "but maybe that's also why you intervened in an armed robbery, as potentially dangerous as it may have been. I have never seen anybody take down with such speed and, well, grace. You're brutal, Vegeta, but you're also graceful. And, because you're on the smaller side, you're pe-"

"Smaller side? Thanks." Vegeta folded his arms over his chest, deeply unimpressed.

The probation officer smirked at his client. From his perspective, Vegeta was a scant five foot, four inches of compact fast-twitch muscle covering a bundle of tightly wound nerves. Ramirez didn't doubt for a second that the man could absolutely beat the hell out of him, yet at the same time his small stature took away any feelings of intimidation he may have experienced with a larger, equally skilled fighter.

"You'd be perfect for the self-defence class at the community health plaza, especially the senior women's class," Ramirez smiled, "I think some of the folks who come for the classes would appreciate an instructor who doesn't look like they ate a container of protein powder for breakfast. Although, you know, first time I met you, I kind of wrote you off as a gym rat."

Vegeta burst out laughing in spite of his irritation with Ramirez. "Are you serious? Who would I be teaching?"

"Little old ladies," Ramirez smiled, "and there will be a court-appointed monitor to assure your professionalism, Vegeta."

"And I have to complete five hundred hours of this?"

"Yes, Vegeta. You'll have one full year from your start date to fulfill your community service obligations as part of your sentence."

"How long is one class?"

"Ninety minutes."

Vegeta considered a few possible ways to approach his task: he could teach four days daily, six days per week, and be finished in under six months, or he could teach five hours, three times per week, and be finished in just over eight months.

The Saiyan clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Only seniors, huh?"

"Well, no," Ramirez reassured him, "there's different groups. You'll rotate through them each week. Seniors is just one class; there are also classes for teenagers, college-aged women, a general adult class, a women's only class..."

"And... I'll be teaching all of them..." Vegeta felt dread creeping up out of the deepest part of his guts.

"You'll be teaching different classes, yes. This will occupy about twenty hours of your time each week, which means you'll finish in about six months."

Vegeta shrugged. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

Ramirez laughed. "It's either this, or you power wash graffiti off walls, Vegeta. Take your pick."