Buffalo Gals
By: Bulma16

********* ****

(The Flapper: By Dorothy Parker)

The 1920’s…a time of great change for those not of the generation. Gangland violence became the norm, due to the 18^th amendment in which Alcohol manufacturing and sale was prohibited. Rather than ending crimes the government had thought were committed due to alcohol, Prohibition created a $40,000,000 market for bootleggers, who could acquire the booze from Canada and sell it to private buyers and speakeasies—or illegal bars—all over.

So why are the 20’s considered so important? True, the Red Scare, the rise of the KKK, and the Stock Market Crash were not small matters, but what really stands out in the minds of that generation is the dramatic change in what was accepted as socially acceptable. After the war, large #s of Americans wanted to forget about the troubles of Europe, so they chose to amuse themselves by increased investment in the stock market, illegal liquor, short skirts, and what was seen then as shocking morals. The young people involved in this were called the Flaming Youth. Before WWI, women had worn long hair, ankle-length dresses, and long cotton stockings. In the 20’s however, they wore short tight, tubular dresses, and rolled their silk stockings down to their knees. They also usually wore their hair in a bob, flashy lipstick, cloche hats (derived from the French name for ‘bell’) strands of pearls, goggles, colored scarves, leather jackets, and other vintage items. These women were known as Flappers.

*********** *******

*Buffalo, New York*

An eighteen year old boy by the name of Vegeta stood on the street-corner outside of Truman Villas’ Business Office, hands in his pockets, gazing intently at the stars. His handsome young face filled with all the confusion and pain he’d experienced during his lifetime. His life seemed to be constantly changing; as soon as he got used to one thing, something would happen to change that. He was used to things being different. Hell, he himself was as different as they come. He’d known since the moment he was capable of independent thoughts that he was different from the other boys his age.

~*~*~*~* Flashback ~*~*~*~*

When he was 6 years old, a group of the older kids had been taunting him as he’d been walking to school one day. One of them just happened to set off his temper—which he’d become very good at hiding over the years—by insulting his mother’s unwed status. Vegeta had coolly taken off his hat and jacket, placing them where they wouldn’t get dirty, and set his lunch down on the grass beside the folded bundle.

"What are you going to try to do, Bastard? Beat us all up?" the leader had said, laughing with his friends.

The small boy meticulously proceeded to teach each and every one of those boys a lesson without mussing his clothes one bit. His mother hated when he got his clothes dirty, and they had to be worn 3 times a week, since they could afford no others. Vegeta didn’t stop ‘teaching them a lesson’ until he was sure that every one of those boys would leave him alone for the rest of their lives…but by then, he’d already attracted an audience, including the enraged principal, who immediately got a policeman.

"Thank the powers that be you’re an only child," his mother had muttered to herself many a time after Vegeta had gotten himself into a particular bit of trouble. She said it again as she and Vegeta were ushered out of the police station about an hour later. They walked in silence for what seemed like a long while to the stony faced youth, until his mother stopped him and crouched down so that she was looking directly into his stormy black eyes. "Listen here, Vegeta. I know those boys attacked you and you were only defending yourself…but…" she bit her lip, her soft brown eyes growing moist as she remembered her son’s father. "You aren’t like other little boys; you’re different. Do you understand what I’m saying?" she asked, giving him a little shake as if to accent her point.

Her only child nodded, infinite wisdom in those eyes that saw much and betrayed nothing. "I know. I’m stronger than them all." The boy frowned as he thought of something. "Am I an alien?" he asked, carefully watching his mother’s face.

She flinched at the word and rose slowly so that she was standing erect once again. "Your father was—wasn’t from this country," she finally admitted, looking into his inquisitive young eyes. "But you must never let anyone know that. As far as they know, you’re American straight through. Do you understand me?" she asked, her voice sharp.

"Yes."

His mother nodded in satisfaction and they began to walk again in companionable silence back to their small residence on Clark Street, until Vegeta spoke again. "Am I alone?"

The tired woman sighed, opening the dilapidated gate and holding it open for her only offspring. "Of course not. I am with you, Vegeta."

"No," the youth said impatiently, waiting for her to find the key to their front door. "Are there others out there like me?"

The keys fell to the ground, and a rather shaken woman picked them up again, clearing her throat and hastily brushing strands of hair from her face. "I hope to God that there aren’t."

~*~*~*~* End of Flashback ~*~*~*~*

And now he knew there were others…or at least one other like him. It brought him an odd sense of comfort to know he wasn’t the only one of his kind.

~*~*~*~* Flashback ~*~*~*~*

He’d met Kakkarot when he was about to turn 14 years. He remembered only because Roger Terran had been blathering on and on about his finding some ‘action’ in celebration of his birthday instead of ‘being content to stuff your maw with a damn bloody cake, sing fucking pointless songs and open crappy presents. Don’t expect none of that happy-go-lucky shit here, brat’ the old man had warned.

Vegeta hadn’t. He’d gone outside of Roger’s nicer neighborhood late that night with his pay, and just like every other day he went home from ‘work’ he began to despise his own run-down neighborhood when he began to notice footsteps coming up behind him. Vegeta had immediately deduced that it was a mugger—and why not? He was living in NY for goodness’ sakes—and when he’d turned around, ready to administer another painful lesson if need be, he found one boy, an unreadable smile on his face.

"The name’s Kakkarot. I have the feeling that you’ve been looking for me."

Vegeta was temporarily rendered speechless. "What the hells are you talking about?" he demanded in his pre-pubescent voice.

The boy—for it was obvious this Kakkarot was at least a year younger than Vegeta—held out his hand. "Let me show you."

Reluctantly, the 13 year old grasped the stranger’s hand finding nothing extremely dangerous about this Kakkarot, and was immediately overwhelmed by how tightly the boy was able to clench his hand. "Enough," Vegeta ordered, gingerly withdrawing his hand. "You’ve proved your point." The more he looked at this boy, the more he found himself relating to him. "So you are somewhere near my level of strength," he said thoughtfully. "So there are others…"

~*~*~*~* End of Flashback ~*~*~*~*

And now, Vegeta, at the age of eighteen, knew how to play the games of those who he’d worked under for the past four years. He and Kakkarot worked together under Truman Villas ever since Roger had died three or four months after Vegeta’s 14^th birthday.

At the elderly man’s death, the youth had found himself actually feeling remorse—the old man was more like a grandfather than a boss. His mother had been sad to see him go, not just because it meant the end of her son’s job, but because Roger had looked out for her and Vegeta while he’d been living in small ways—‘just don’t let that brat know what I’m doing for you’ he’d grumbled each time. She’d respected him as a person and was glad that Vegeta had had some kind of male role model.

Roger Terran had been a totally legit businessman, but Vegeta’s next boss was clearly not. He tried not to get either Kakkarot or Vegeta involved in the more colorful side of his business dealings, which was a credit for him.

Kakkarot nudged Vegeta in the ribs with his elbow. "Hey, where’s Truman?"

The young man shrugged indifferently, quickly coming out of his reverie. "Damned if I know and damned if I care." He extracted a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and tapped the bottom, letting two fall out onto his palm. "Want a smoke?"

Kakkarot raised his brows. "Since when have you smoked, Vegeta?" He didn’t hesitate however, taking the offered cigarette from his friend.

The handsome youth shrugged. "Since now." He quickly lit his cigarette with a match and lit Kakkarot’s.

Both men watched one another for a moment as they put the cigarettes to their lips, inhaled, and then began coughing simultaneously.

"Damn," Kakkarot said, putting his out beneath his shoe, and coughing. "I don’t see why this is so popular."

Vegeta put his cigarette out also, a look of irritation on his face. He coughed for a moment and then glared at his friend. "This never happened. Do you get what I’m saying Kakkarot?"

The good natured 15 year old nodded. "You’re the boss," he said, putting his cap on his head as he got a look at the time. "I better get back to my house. See you tomorrow."

The older boy nodded. "Yeah." He waited until Kakkarot left until he walked out of the night air and into Villas’ office and began to furtively look through Villas’ business papers…{Just as I thought. Truman has been ripping off Magaddino}. He frowned, his unhappiness growing. {Sooner or later, Magaddino will figure it out and he’ll have us all killed}. He closed the folder and put his arms through his jacket as he left Truman’s office. {There are only two options; either I tell Magaddino what Truman has been doing, or I can use what I know to get Truman to do whatever I want.}

Vegeta’s black eyes glittered as he thought that over. {But Truman is a hard ass. He’ll kill me before he lets me get away with either option…unless he dies first.} The streetlights on the Buffalo street shone dimly, illuminating his way home, and Vegeta paused beneath the light of one them, looking up at the stars, as he and Kakkarot did often when out together on a mission at night—it was almost instinctive—the wheels in his head turning at an alarming speed. {If I kill him though…I’ll be responsible for all of his activities.} He crossed his arms over his chest, deep in thought. {Do I really want to be in that position?}

****** ***

*The Wealthy side of Buffalo*

She was his first and only child. And for that he was glad. Both he and his wife had no time for raising more than one child. They’d decided while the girl was still in the womb that their child would be quickly married off. ‘The last thing we want is spinster daughter lurking around our house well into her 40’s’ they’d agreed.

So when Bulma Briefs was born beautiful, they’d been grateful. No exorbitant dowry would needed to be attached to the girl, they were sure, since her looks would act as bait enough for men.

When she was 12 years old, Bulma was educated in proper etiquette, and dancing; due to her mother’s request and she was also educated in proper English—including Literature and Grammar—and also science and mathematics at her father’s request. ‘Just something to keep her busy’ he’d said when his wife had voiced her disapproval.

Bulma was preposterously wealthy and she knew it. All her life, she knew she need do nothing more than ask for something and she’d more than likely receive it. Over time, this bred a certain resentment for those who attempted to ‘keep her quiet’ by bribing her with candies or chocolates—which her nannies and the servants did on many occasions— and for those who were quick to bend to her will, that continued on well into her adulthood.

She met a girl one day when she was 15, who changed her life. The girl’s name was Chichi. She was a sweet little thirteen year old girl with no mother, who was raised by her loving yet overprotective father who simply went by the name of ‘Ox’.

Bulma was intrigued by this girl who seemed to quickly be able to analyze her and her lifestyle. ‘I feel sorry for you,’ the girl had said a short while after meeting her. ‘It must be hard living as you do, knowing that your parents will basically sell you to the first man that asks for you.’ The other girls at the picnic had gasped when the little middle-class brunette had dared to say this to Bulma Briefs—one of THE Briefs, the most wealthy people in the state—and had quickly taken their leave, not wanting to be witness to Bulma Brief’s famous temper.

Bulma had opened her mouth in shock at what this Chichi had said and then smiled. ‘I’ve finally found someone who understands,’ she had said gratefully, hugging the startled girl. From then on, the two girls had become close friends, nearly inseparable.

Surprisingly, Bulma’s strict mother had approved of their friendship and sometimes even encouraged the two girls to attend parties and other events together.

Right around her daughter’s 17^th birthday, she’d begun to receive offers of marriage from many eligible bachelors who’d either heard of her wealth, gotten a glimpse of her beauty, or both. As happy as both she and her husband were to receive these offers for their beautiful daughter’s hand in marriage, they found that the idea of losing their only child left an extremely bad taste in their mouths. So they turned all offers down, except for those of the particularly ugly suitors, certain that their daughter would turn them down; which she did, being a particularly shallow child at the time.

It was in this way that Bulma’s parents kept their daughter close to them for the next few years, until a certain suitor caught their eyes. A rich young man by the name of Yamcha, who they found their darling Ice Princess had developed a slight crush on…

******* **

*Briefs Residence; Buffalo, New York*

(Present)

"Isn’t he wonderful?" Bulma gushed to Chichi, gazing at the handsome young man from across the room.

Chichi dutifully glanced at the man, and then looked back into her friend’s enraptured face, her own face full of doubts. "I suppose," she said slowly. Living in the ‘middle class’ part of town, she knew what Bulma and her parents did not. She’d been around to hear testimony and the lamentations caused by this man’s sexual conquests. She only hoped this man would take one look at her friend and be intimidated by her beauty and money. {If he hurts her…I don’t know what I’ll do}.

As if sensing the disapproval being directed toward him, Yamcha caught her eyes for a second, his face full of arrogance. Chichi stiffened, and scowled most unbecomingly at him, her hatred for him and for all of his kind quite evident. The lad merely moved onto the next unsullied female…who just happened to be Bulma. A smile quickly came to his lips as he seemed to sense her child-like innocence and he seemed to magically appear at her side.

"Miss Bulma Briefs," he said, taking her hand in his own and kissing it tenderly, his bright eyes shining. "How long has it been since I’ve last seen you?"

Bulma felt herself blushing. "Two and a half weeks," she answered quietly, feeling as though she was walking on air.

Yamcha grinned, sitting next to her, turning his back to her disapproving friend. "I hope you don’t mind if I sit here," he said, suavely.

"Oh! Of course not," she reassured him quickly, gazing deeply into his black eyes. She decided right then that black eyes were going to be her favorite for the rest of her life. "I’m so glad Scott invited both you and I to the same party. It really has been a long time."

"Yeah," the rich man said slowly, taking his eyes off of a woman he’d seen standing behind Bulma and returned his attention to her deep blue orbs. "Yeah," he repeated softly, feeling a trifle more affected by those blue eyes than he’d ever been by any woman. {This girl’s different than the others…my God…do I love her?} he wondered, his black eyes filling with fear. He stood abruptly, startling the young woman. "I…excuse me." He left.

Bulma watched him leave, feeling her hope deflating. As hurt as she was by his abrupt departure, she was determined to brush it off. She was a Briefs. She could take this as much in stride as anything. She lit a cigarette quickly affecting the Ice Princess façade that she usually reserved only for when she was telling a man in no uncertain terms to ‘sit on a tack’ and ‘get lost’. She knew Chi was close by, and wanted no pity from her long time friend. She tossed the pack to her friend. "Smoke?" she said, her voice steely.

Chichi shook her head, putting the nearly empty pack in a nearby garbage can, her views on smoking clear. "No thanks." She cleared her throat, sitting in the chair Yamcha had just vacated. "You know Bulma, Yamcha isn’t the kind of guy you’d want to be associated with anyway."

The Briefs heiress raised her blue eyebrows languidly. "Is that so, Chi?" She put the cigarette out in a nearby ashtray and cursed herself for letting herself submit to that particular weakness of hers. "I don’t disagree with you, but if he comes by again, I won’t refuse to see him." Bulma reached in her handbag and handed Chichi a newspaper clipping that was mostly text, but that featured a medium-sized picture of several women dressed in short skirts with short hair. "Times are changing Chi. We must change with them or be left behind."

Chichi glanced at the picture that accompanied the article, and raised her own brows in an imitation of Bulma. "You’re not suggesting…" she trailed off, and glanced at the title of the article, a sense of foreboding settling over her.

******* ****

YAY! I finished the Prologue. I don’t really like to write these, but I wanted to provide some crucial background information for everyone. So, it’s a necessary evil, okay? Okay! Questions? Comments? Send them all to me at: Aaliyah0123@aol.com and I’ll do my best to explain anything if necessary.