Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Satan Video ❯ Delivery of What's Earned ( Chapter 12 )

Hey guess what? It's finally cold enough to wear a jacket! There are some perks to living in Texas after all. Okay, enough of my sarcasm. I had originally intended to dedicate this chapter to a friend of mine who told me the other day that he was diagnosed with HIV about a year ago. Reality really slapped me in the face with that one. Even though your brain knows the statistics of it all, I guess there's always the naïve side that doesn't want to believe it. Maybe it's just that you thought that person would have been more careful, but then you think back to your own previous carelessness. You then laugh at your own stupidity when you realize it's nothing more than luck of the draw. Anyway, my point is that I really wanted to write something that would encompass all the hell he went through before getting sober and gaining a better perspective of his situation. Unfortunately I failed miserably. I admit I'm no good at writing dramatic things, so I'm sorry if this is awful. Maybe it isn't. I don't know, but I know it's not what I want it to be and that irritates me.

DISCLAIMER: Do I need to say that the characters are owned by Toei Animation and originally created by Akira Toriyama? I don't think so. I also do not own The Doors or the rights to any of their music.

Chapter 11: Delivery of What's Earned

This chapter is not dedicated to Jerry, because it is not worthy of dedication.

"WHAT!!!???" The three little syllables were the apocalypse on his sanity, his spirit, and even his life. In one instant every hope, dream, goal, and desire, even ones he never knew he had, went swirling down the drain only to be replaced with shock.

Positive.

He was sitting in a chair directly opposite the clinic counselor, the foreseer of his death, though it would not be immediate. He was completely numb physically and mentally as he tried to absorb this information. He stared ahead, not focused on anything in particular, not hearing a word the woman was speaking, nor a single thought registering in his mind. Time seemed to halt in this alternate universe that could not possibly be his reality. The only movement his body made was the light twitching of his hand that uncomfortably gripped the armrest of the chair.

The counselor was beginning to grow concerned. He did not respond to the increased volume of her voice. She waved her hand in front of his face, and he didn't even blink. He only stared straight ahead, focused on something she could not see. She stood up and walked around the desk to place a hand on his shoulder. The only response she received was a blink. Realizing that she was going to need help dealing with him, the woman left the office.

The sound of the door shutting pulled Yamcha's consciousness back to the present. He blinked several times before realizing he was alone in the office where he had just be given his death sentence. It was then that he noticed how sweaty and shaky he was. `I've got to get out of here.' He stood up too quickly and became dizzy. Unfortunately it was then replaced with nausea. He stumbled into the bathroom across the hall, barely making it to a toilet before he lost control of his stomach. The involuntary heaving did not end when the last of the contents were discarded. He dropped to his knees and grimaced as his rested on the seat of the toilet. It was then that the morbid thoughts entered his distraught mind. `It's not like I have to worry about catching anything,' he almost laughed.

Once his stomach was finished heaving, he got up onto his still shaky legs and walked over to the sink. He turned the water on and splashed his face, ridding it of the sweat droplets and bits of vomit. He gargled some water, an unsuccessful attempt to vanquish the putrid taste in his mouth. Turning off the faucet, he grabbed a paper towel and slowly dried his face, all the while staring at the reflection in front of him.

`Is that really me?' He wondered if in fact it were another version of himself, maybe from an alternate timeline, the one that had done things differently, the one he was supposed to be. Was he the man that got married, had children, and later played ball with his grandchildren? Then he thought of her.

"Bulma."

How could he tell her about this? The only thing that soothed his tormented soul was the fact that they had not been together since the incident; therefore she was not at risk. He didn't want to tell her about the infidelity he couldn't recall committing or that they could no longer be together. Neither had thought much about their future, but now they had no chance for a family, for happiness, a lifetime together. He wouldn't do that to her. Even if she chose to stay by his side, he wouldn't allow it. It would be too painful to even look at her. She deserved to be happy, but even more so, she deserved someone better than him.

He looked at his watch and realized he had been in the restroom a lot longer than he cared to admit. He tossed the paper towels in the trash and headed out the door. He left the clinic as quickly as he could, hoping to not bump into the counselor that had given him the news. He knew she was just doing her job by trying to help him, but right now he just needed to be alone. He needed time to think and allow it all to sink in, even though he didn't want it to. All he wanted to do was wake up from this nightmare that his life had become, but he couldn't, so he settled for the next best thing: alcohol.

He drove to the liquor store and bought two bottles: southern comfort and tequila. He drove back to his house and went out to his hot tub with his new best friends. He didn't even bother with a glass, just drank it straight from the bottle. He took a big swig of southern comfort and shuddered. `Nothing comfortable about it,' he complained, but that didn't stop him. After a few more drinks, his mouth and throat were numb so it didn't matter anyway. It wasn't long before he was completely shit-faced and things became a blur. Not just that night, but the next day as well. He had some pain killers left over from when he sprained his shoulder a few months ago and was eating them like candy, washing them down with alcohol.

The following days were pretty much the same. They seemed to run together similar to when you fast forward through a movie. Some scenes completely blur as others seems to be discernable at points. It's almost as if he were a third party watching the madness, unable to affect it whatsoever. He had called up a `friend' of the baseball team. He was so smashed he didn't even remember when the man delivered the plethora of escapes now in his possession.

Yamcha had never taken any drugs that had not been prescribed to him by a doctor prior to this episode. He didn't know the difference between tabs and blow, and he didn't care. He just got whatever that guy tried to sell him; of course he wouldn't be able to recall it later. He then holed himself up in his house, wallowing in depression, and taking everything imaginable to forget his personal torment.

Yamcha spoke to no one, not Bulma, not his teammates. Hell he didn't even bother going to practice. He didn't care. He was going to die, and he just wanted to forget it all. Hey if he was lucky, he might kill himself in the process and not have to go through all the suffering in the end. Bulma had called a few times and left messages on his answering machine, assuming he was at practice or something. She never realized he was right there listening to her speak to the machine. He couldn't bring himself to talk to her, let alone tell her the hell he had fallen into in such a short time.

"Ha. She's better off this way," he convinced himself. He went into his game room where he wouldn't be disturbed by the phone anymore. He was so messed up he could barely walk, and nothing he looked at would come into focus. He turned on his CD changer before collapsing onto the couch. He stared up at what should've been the ceiling, but instead appeared to be some sort of vortex swirling just above him, or maybe he was the one that was spinning. He couldn't tell, but it was amusing yet disturbing all at the same time. He thought he heard some noise coming from somewhere in the house. He paused a moment to wonder what it was before his drugged mind quickly forgot what he was thinking about. He shrugged and went back to his hallucinations.

"Yamcha?" The voice seemed to echo within his head. He looked toward the door, but couldn't tell who it was. In fact, he wasn't even sure if it were really a person. All he could see was a blur of blue. "What the hell are you on?" the voice asked him.

"Don't know. Too much. Can't remember." A gasp interrupted his ramblings, and this annoyed him.

"Sshh. This is the end, beautiful friend. This is the end, my only friend. The end………. I'll never look into your eyes again." He tried to sing along to the music, but failed miserably. The only thing he got right was the words, although he forgot several of the lyrics in between. Even in his current condition, he was able to think about the words he was singing and their significance. He began to sob uncontrollably. "I don't want to die," he choked out as the blue came closer and seemed to engulf him.

*The blue bus is calling us.*

Yamcha shot up completely confused in his bed, sweat pouring from his body. He blinked a few times before glancing at his alarm clock. It was 9am and the radio was on.

*And he walked on down the hall.*

Things started slowly clicking together before a grin softened his troubled face. `It was just a dream, a horrifically realistic dream.' He started laughing hysterically as he jumped out of bed and danced around the room. "I don't have HIV. I'm not going to die." He sat back down as the realization hit him that although it was a dream, it was still a very distinct possibility of his future. He could only pray to Dende that he be lucky.

*It hurts to set you free.*

He slammed his fist on the alarm clock/radio, shutting it up. He shook his head, violently trying to empty his head of thought. He got up off the bed and walked toward the bathroom, pausing only to punch a hole in the wall out of frustration at himself and his current situation.

Meanwhile…

Goku was awoken by noise in the kitchen. He groaned as his stiff neck objected to sleeping on the living room floor. He sat up, knocking an empty bag of chips off his chest. There were unidentifiable chunks of food still stuck to the side of his face. He then realized what woke him. Vegeta stormed out of the kitchen with a glass of water.

"Damn. We shouldn't have eaten all of that food last night. I'm starving."

"Don't worry about it. It's Friday."

"So," Vegeta replied. Goku just smiled at his roommate's lack of knowledge.

"Today is PAYDAY!!!" he screamed excitedly. Vegeta winced at the volume of the statement, but did not allow that to sway his now pleasant mood.

"Well get up off your lazy ass and let's go already." Goku got up and started walking to the door. "Kakarotto, you filthy slob, go wash your face," Vegeta spat out in utter disgust. He could understand food taking precedence over showering. Changing clothes was questionable, but for the sake of Kami, at least make sure there were not chunks of anything stuck to you. Goku grumbled something inaudible as he stormed to the bathroom.

One minute later the pair of starving Saiyajin was in the air on route to their place of employment. Visions of steaks, pizza, and hamburgers bounced around in their minds as their mouths salivated and stomachs began to growl in impatience. Upon arriving at their destination, all Popo saw was a blur as they ran in, grabbed the checks, and ran out.

When the bank teller handed them the cash, Vegeta grinned and stuffed it in his pocket. Goku, on the other hand, couldn't resist making a scene. He ran around the bank lobby, holding his cash in the air, and repeatedly yelled, "We're gonna eat," as if it were some sort of mantra. He thought he actually heard, "Hallelujah," reverberating in his head. Vegeta just shook his head as he walked out into the parking lot, leaving his moronic roommate to embarrass himself.

Ten minutes later, Goku finally exited the bank to find a more than slightly annoyed Vegeta leaning against the building.

"It's about fucking time! You can keep dancing around like a baka if you want, but I have more important things to do. I'm going to that all you can eat place." He blasted off at an alarming speed.

"Hey, wait up Vegeta!"

Later that afternoon…

Bulma arrived at work shortly after five, only to find it was just her and the guys tonight. `Great,' she thought. It wasn't that she didn't like working with them. In fact it was more than entertaining. The problem was that the nights when bad things tended to happen were when those four were working. Of course out of them all, Vegeta and Piccolo were usually the instigators, but this never stopped the other two from joining the fun.

Of course everyone else was already there when she got there. Popo had already set up cash drawers for all of them, so she didn't have to worry about that. She took care of her usual tasks she had to do at shift change without being bothered much. Vegeta walked behind the desk next to her with a ten dollar bill.

"I need some quarters." She looked up at him and was surprised to find him smiling at her. She grinned as she walked over to the safe and grabbed a roll of quarters for him. He was holding his hand out when she returned. She placed the roll in his hand, quickly removing hers from such close proximity. They were at work, and she did not want to risk anyone suspecting anything less than professional transpiring between them. He only raised his eyebrow before going back to his register. Bulma responded with a very appreciative glance at his backside before scolding herself.

`I'm at work, damn it! Must rid head of bad thoughts.' She went back to work and things went by as normal for the next few hours with the exception of the fact that business was slowing. It was 7 pm Friday night; there should have been a line to the back of the store, but there wasn't. It was slow enough that she was able to finish receiving the boxes that came in that afternoon without anyone bothering her. `Strange,' she thought as she wondered if there was something going on tonight that she was not aware of.

Just then Vegeta walked by and the mischievous thoughts reentered the blue haired woman's mind.

"Hey Vegeta, can you help me put these boxes in the back?" He nodded and went to grab the stack of larger boxes. Bulma grabbed the two small boxes and they went into the back room. She tossed her boxes on the table and pointed to where she wanted him to place the ones he was carrying. As he bent over to put down the load, Bulma couldn't resist the urge to give him a light slap on the ass. He quickly jerked upright.

"Woman, what the hell do you think you're you doing?" he asked as he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her against him.

"I don't know what you're bitching about. All I did was bump into you," she stated innocently as she rested her hands on his muscular shoulders.

"Oh is that right? Why don't you just admit that you can't keep your hands off me?" he whispered in her ear. She felt herself growing hot, and she wasn't sure how much could be blamed on their boldness. Of course it could just the fact that she was near him.

"Me? I believe it was you that put us in our current position," she whispered as she lightly brushed her lips over his neck. His hands slid down to her butt, and he pressed her body against his even more. He buried his head in her neck, enjoying her lavender scent as he lazily ran his tongue up her neck toward her ear. It was at that precise moment that someone knocked on the backroom door. They groaned as they slowly released each other before Bulma walked over to the door. Peering through the peephole, she could only see the top of Krillin's bald head, and opened the door.

"Hey what's up?"

"You have got to come see this. Remember those church nuts that have been calling all the time lately? Well, they're here at the store, protesting. They've got signs and everything." He almost couldn't contain his laughter as he delivered what should have been disturbing news to his boss. The three quickly walked back to the front of the store, and Bulma couldn't believe her eyes. There in the parking lot were around fifty people parading around with signs that said everything from, `Down with Satan' to `Sold Your Soul for a New Release.' Bulma began laughing when she realized one of the women in the front of the crowd was one of her regular customers. When she noticed the confused looks on Krillin's and Vegeta's faces, she tried to suppress her laughter so she could explain.

"I'm sorry. I just figured that all of these idiots would at least be intelligent enough to not protest a store they attend regularly. That woman in the pink muumuu comes in here at least three times a week." The hysterical laughter took over again, and the others looked back out the window at the spectacle in the parking lot. They were harassing every person that walked up to the store, successful in about half of their attempts to dissuade people from the store. Krillin noticed this and uttered the one sentence that sealed their fate that evening.

"We need to get those idiots out of here." Vegeta was standing next to him and Piccolo was sitting at the other end of the counter, but both heard the statement that was not meant to even be spoken aloud. An evil grin quickly spread across the faces of the two devious aliens, as the glanced at each other. Before Bulma could even complain, the two were out of the store plotting some sort of retaliation. Krillin shook his head, Goku shrugged, and Bulma grabbed a newspaper and began looking for another job.

That's it for tonight. Ha, I bet you thought Bulma was going to get some action at work, huh? Sorry, the backroom has been used already in this story. I have to keep things original you know. Anyway, I have always found The End by the Doors to be a very disturbing yet beautiful song. I happened to be listening to it when I wrote the first half of the chapter and couldn't help but quote it a few times.

Next time: Vegeta and Piccolo scare the hell out of the insanely obsessed protestors.

Don't forget to review. Come on, everyone's doing it. Please.