Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Frieza's music ❯ Chapter 1

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

First, a quick glossary of musical terms used herein. You don't need to know them and can probably decipher them from context, but it might help.

piano: quiet
pianissimo: VERY quiet
sotto voce: low voice, quiet voice, gentle etc.
forte: loud
fortissimo: VERY loud
crecendo: a gradual change in music from softer to louder
overture, movements: longer pieces of classical music are usually arranged in movements. A good example is Vivaldi's Four Seasons, which has Spring, Summer, Winter, and Fall as its four movements. Often, there is an overture, which is like a prologue for a story.
finale: the end of the piece
pit: area underneath a stage where the orchestra sets up to accompany plays, ballets, etc. Not used for a purely orchestral performance where the orchestra takes center stage.
Takemitsu--famous japanese composer, very odd music
Bach, Mozart, Beethoven--you should know these guys, come on!
Stravinsky, Shostakovitch--Both fairly well known, Shostakovitch is much newer and stranger than Stravinsky, though some would disagree on my strangeness rating.

I think that the rest of the terms are fairly common. Enjoy!



Frieza's Music

By: Frozenflower
Archive: Yes, but be responsible for the sake of innocent young minds everywhere.


_________________________


Fucking bitter whore. Or a bitter fuck, more like it.

He noticed that his ass ached. It might have something to do with the fucking log slamming between his cheeks. In fact, that was quite probably it.

It was vaguely amusing that he could just hang here, listening to his own screams--screams he used to fight--and just be...somewhere else.

He supposed it came with practice. Now he felt the nails ripping at his shoulders, vile words hissed in his bloodied ears. Yes, that must be it, practice. Rehearse a situation, any situation enough times, and it became rote. Long years of rehearsal had lead him to this remote place where pondering was possible even as his screaming form was fondled and torn apart beneath those cold white hands.

It was always the same. Frieza and his cohorts sometimes tried to change the tune, but it always degenerated into cacophany. There was nothing of artistry in their motions. Subtlety was beyond their sway, something for which he felt a detached gratitude.

He knew what came next. Ah, yes. There it was. The piece was playing out as he recalled. Even chaos had a chorus if you listened long enough. Return from purging, or some other annoying mission ordered by the lizard. Take a shower--sometimes it differed here, showers weren't always in the time signature. Regardless, that snippet hardly diverted the melody. Return, be summoned, be chained, be beaten. Those four steps always composed the overture.

Ahh, Dodoria was going to take a turn, now. Frieza must be feeling creative. Usually the disgusting blob was stuck on percussion, destined to sit in the corner and chant vile epithets while laughing his fool head off. If he could feel his body at the moment, he had no doubt that disgust would have overwhelmed the pain. Dodoria's dick was a small thing, but long with a wiry, bristle shaped head. Admittedly, it was painful. His physiology wasn't suited to cope with the bottle-shaped appendage. Even worse, however, was being stuck to the gooey monstrosity for the thirty minute orgasm it took the creature to deposit his seed. Like some breeds of animals, Dodoria's cock swelled and locked within its victim's body as the creature finished. The rumbling, gutteral panting near his ear, the slick quivering against the pain of his back, the faint dough-scented fragrance--combined with the smell of rape and rut, it made him want to vomit. But he'd already done that, much earlier.

Dodoria was an odd first movement. Surely not something Beethoven, or Mozart would have approved of. Maybe Frieza was thinking modern. Stravinsky or Shostakovitch. Maybe even Takemitsu. Frieza always did think of himself as a refined classicist, but who knew? Maybe the lizard had dipped his fingers into something more interesting lately.

Speaking of dipping, it's a good thing I'm chained. Second movement is always on me, and I definitely need the support of these chains to pull it off. It's simple, fucking brilliant in its simplicity, really. Just stay alive.

See, that brings me back to the whore part. I always play the part. After the beating, which always comes, the rape, which always comes next. Rapes, really. They're so fucking formulaic that it'd make a statistician proud. Frieza mocks, pretends to ponder, claims disappointment, insults me, compliments my body, fucks me blind, then sits back to watch the fun. If it weren't vaguely amusing, and if half the fucking Ginyu force weren't sitting around, stringing their violins, I think I'd cry. Oh, I am crying already. Oh well.

I'm pretty sure that this piece only has three movements. I'm tired and I'm more than ready to get to the finale, but apparently Zarbon decided to go sotto voce on me, because he's standing there crooning and petting my head. Ginyu and Jeice are laughing--fucking idiots, ruining the quiet...yep, that's what I thought. Frieza just blasted them. They should know better. This movement is piano. Pianissimo even. For a second I thought Frieza was experimenting with modernism again, but no, this is a good old fashioned Bach sonata. God that fucking moron's so messed up about music. How could he even THINK about combining Bach and Takemitsu? Beyond tacky, really....

Finally. The intro is over and Zarbon's doing his solo for real, now. Fucking moron, lapping at the blood against my thighs, crooning in my ear, softly, so softly nipping my neck. He may be able to read the music, but the daft idiot's got hammers for fingers. Thinks he can trill--pathetic. His vibrato's like a castrated ox trying to fuck. Oh so sweet, so soft, so fucking out of tune. God damn, Frieza's fucking prima donna--good thing he has a captive audience. And THAT almost makes me laugh.

I think he saw it. Shouldn't have smirked like that, the third movement always ends badly--in like a lamb and out like a lion, you know.

Forte. FORTISSIMO. The crecendo at the end always hurts. Can't really feel it anymore, too practiced you know, but damn, I think the chains are breaking this time. Record attendance numbers, too. I think I just saw Radditz wander by--thankfully he didn't stop. Radditz has always had better taste in music than that fool, Nappa. I can see him standing in the back next to some alien freak, probably some emissary Frieza brought to watch the show. I wonder if knows that it's a threat. Enjoy the music and obey the conductor, or join the orchestra. Damn, he's laughing. I guess not. I wonder what sound he'd make. I can hear my own wild shrieking keen--kinda like a piccolo. He'd probably be an oboe, low and squawking, or a trombone, throaty and quavering.

Oh, there went the chains. I suppose I should try to fight back. Or at least get up. The curtain's drawn and Frieza's receiving his accolades. Oh, MASTER, great performance! A brilliant new symphony, vibrant and resonant! What fucking ever.

Aw, fuck. Someone's picking me up. I hope there's not an encore. Oh...no. No encore. Zarbon just said that I'm dead; I really hope so, but somehow I doubt it. Frieza doesn't let his whores die, at least not this cheaply. This song's played out too many times to end on such a brilliant note. Honestly, it's not that good of a piece.

Yeah, as I thought. I can still feel my body--not that I particularly want to right now. They're hauling me to a regen tank, there goes the mask, green liquid sloshing brown as it crawls across my legs. Funny, this liquid's always green from the outside, but everytime it crawls across my eyes, it's brown. Must be the blood, I guess. They usually clean people off before they toss them in here, but I guess that they never have the time, with me.

Finally. The part I relish. The orchestra's gone home, and I'm left alone in the pit. The audience has filed out to some reception, (cookies and koolaid, no doubt) the conductor off composing, friendly janitors rack the chairs and clear the stage. My presence is no longer requested and required.

Fuck the liquid burns against my skin. Regen tanks are like that, sharp and burning, sure as fuck not doing ME any favors. Takes a few minutes, but the sedative kicks in...that's more like it.

Black. Beautiful, aching black against my eyelids. Quiet. Even my thoughts drift off to leave me in peace. I sleep.

Music haunts my dreams.