The year was 1946. The world was at the pinnacle of its international war. Newspaper headlines contained nothing but information about the animosity between foreign countries. Far from the hustles and bustles of paranoid citizens within the large cities, a lone dark blue sedan made its way through the bumpy roads on the hills of West Virginia. Its tires struggled against the protruding rocks and potholes of the path, which led to a small town untouched by modern life. When the car reached its destination, it stopped beside the town’s general store. Slowly, its driver emerged from the vehicle, savoring the feel of the morning sun upon his scarred and wrinkled face. He brushed off the dust that had accumulated on the surface of his olive colored suit before running his fingers across his graying hair. He gazed at the fields upon fields of corn and wheat surrounded by wire fences stretching throughout the land, the wind making the plants sway like waves in the sea. He set his inky eyes on the town’s general store. It looked like a casual western salon, but it looked very well maintained and modern against all the other small houses around it. Beside the store, was the gate to a vast corn and wheat field, the distant house of the land’s owner barely visible through the tall crops. The harmonious sound of guitar strings caught the attention of the town’s visitor. Sitting on the porch of the store was a young man in a dirty white shirt under denim overalls, his face obscured by the huge straw hat on his head. His boots patted against the ground as his fingers strummed against his banjo, producing melodious country music.
"That’s some nice playing there, kid," the man commented, making the young man look up at him with brilliantly blue, narrow eyes.
"Thanks, mister," the boy smiled. "Anything I can help you with?"
"I’m Yamcha Jones," the man smiled back. "I’m looking for a payphone. Do you know where I can get to one?"
"Your in luck. There’s one in our store. Come."
"Oh. So you own this?"
"My family does," he slung his banjo on his back and opened the door for the man, pointing to a telephone beside the store’s counter, where two young ladies, a tall blonde and a short brunette, stood talking.
"Hey Pan, Marron, how ‘bout a bit of drink for me and our guest here?" the boy hung his musical instrument on a nail poking from a wall.
"Anythin’ fer ya, Docter T," the girls said at the same time, giggling as they prepared two glasses of ice cold water.
"Doctor T?" Yamcha raised a curious eyebrow.
"That’s what they call me," the young man gave a queasy smile, his cheeks turning red. "I’m studying medicine so I can be a doctor someday."
"Here’s yer wata boys. Enjoy yerselves, hear?" Marron, the blonde girl handed the glasses to the two men and left with Pan, the young brunette, to handle another customer.
"You know kid, you don’t sound at all like your friends," Yamcha noticed. "You don’t have that…uh…"
"Hillbilly slang?" the blue-eyed teenager continued. "My parents don’t take it lightly when I slur my diction. Another factor would have to be influences from my college buddies down the city."
"Oh," the middle-aged gangster sipped on drink, allowing the liquid to cool his parched throat. He pressed his lips together and pulled a piece of paper from his coat. It was a newspaper clipping from almost twenty years ago, in which the disappearance of Vegeta and Bulma Briefs was reported. The clipping was so old, the couple in the picture was unrecognizable.
"So, what brings you to our town?" Doctor T asked.
"Well…I’ve been sent to look for a couple," he slipped the paper back in his coat. "I heard they came here less than twenty years ago and—"
"A couple you say?" the juvenile interrupted. "I heard something about that story. The old timers tell it to kids all the time."
"What is it about?"
"I don’t know all the details but I’ll try," he cleared his throat and began the story. "There was a blizzard that time. One man was off huntin’ for some deer when he bumped into a car none of the townspeople have ever seen before. The car’s window was all foggy. When he opened the door, he saw two people, a man and a woman, clinging to each other," he paused for a moment then continued. "Froze to death they say; but everyone knows of the bullet holes in that vehicle. The scene was pretty gruesome."
"Can you describe how they looked like?"
"I don’t know. No one really remembers," he finished his glass. "But the whole town felt sorry for them and took the couple as their own, burying them side by side in a cemetery not far from here. Some people say their spirits still wander the woods at night. That’s why I never go there when dark sets in."
"Can you take me to the cemetery? We could use my car."
"What?!" the boy sputtered. "Why? You haven’t made your phone call yet."
"The call can wait. I have to see their graves."
"What are you? A detective?"
"More like a Private Investigator."
"Okay. Pan, Marron, you take care of the store while I escort Mr. Jones here to the ole Willies cemetery, hear?"
"Sure thin’, Docter T! Ye can count on ‘t two of us!"
Yamcha knelt down at the pair of wooden crosses that stood beside each other. Fresh flowers had recently been put in a vase between the graves. He reached down and gently touched the mounds with his bare hands.
"People often come here to pay their respects to these two lovers," Doctor T explained. "They bring flowers and prayers to ease their tormented souls. Haven’t seen their ghosts yet but I ain’t lookin’ forward to it."
Silence spread throughout the acres of crosses and tombstones like the chilly breeze that blew around the only two living persons invading the land of the departed. Through the dreariness of the cemetery, the rays of sunlight came down to kiss the ground, the birds chirping to signal the coming of spring. Finally, the gray haired man stood up.
"I’d like to take that phone call now."
"Are you…crying, Mr. Jones?"
"Let’s go, kid."
"Lord Freiza, its over…Yes. I’m saying I found them… No, I didn’t. They’ve been dead for quite sometime… Yes. I’m sure… They were shot dead… I told you. It’s true. I’ve just been to their gravesite. I’ve also asked a lot of locals and all of them have the same story…Yes…Sorry, I can’t go back…I quit. I don’t want to do this anymore…I have my own money. Your years of glory have come and gone, Freiza. I’ve served you for too long and now, I’ll be following Zarbon and Dodoria’s footsteps…No! You listen! You broke up the group with your obsessive desire to eliminate the only man who stood up to you and now, you are left with your own men standing against you!…Goodbye, Freiza," Yamcha hung up the receiver hard, causing the people in the store to turn his way.
"Had it tough with your boss, huh?" the azure-eyed youth questioned.
"Yeah. Listen…Doctor T, how much do I owe you?"
"Three bucks would be fine. That’s for the long distance call. It’s a buck a minute."
"Here’s a fifty. Keep the change."
"Huh!? But Mr. Jones…wait! Mr. Jones!" he followed the scarred man to his sedan.
"You deserve it, kid," he took his hat and put it on his silvery crown. "See you around," the engine purred, the wheels turning as the vehicle pulled up from where it was parked.
"Thank you!" the young man waved, the car disappearing through the cloud of dust from behind it. He stared at the large amount of money in his hand.
"Great! I’ll have enough money to buy a present for Ma and Pa’s anniversary!" he walked over to the side of their store, passing the gates, which lead to his home. He strode merrily down the dirt path, whistling the tune he had been playing with his banjo moments ago. He stopped halfway through the trail and took off his straw hat, setting his lavender streaks free to dance with the wind as it blew into the crops of their farm, the sunlight highlighting the blue of his eyes. Then, he caught sight of an orange striped tabby cat, galloping towards him.
"Prescilla! Come here!" he picked the tabby up. "For a moment there, I thought you were your mother. Let’s go home," with the cat secured in his arm he continued on his way. At the end of the trail, a head of emerald fuzz poked through the towers of corn, a pair of inquisitive turquoise eyes staring back at him.
"Oh, oh, Prescilla! You found her!" the little girl cried, clapping her hands together as she ran with open arms towards the purple-haired lad.
"Trunks, Bra, the cookies are ready!"
"Coming, Ma!" the siblings said at the same time. Trunks bent down to pick up his little sister. Bra took the cat from him and hugged it to her small chest while her brother hurried towards their parents.
There, standing on the porch of a nice country house, was a woman of short jade locks, clinging to a man of flaring ebony strands. They watched their two children rush towards the house with youthful and jovial faces.
"This is the life…ain’t it, Vegeta?"
"Yes…Bulma. The life…"
"Happy Anniversary," Bulma smiled lovingly at her husband.
"You too," Vegeta bent his head down and pressed his lips against his wife’s. With wide smiles, they walked over to their children, the fresh morning air greeting the family as a flock of springtime birds above them flew towards the heavens.
Author’s notes: I’ve finished it! Yes, yes, yes!!! Finally! After weeks of sleepless nights! Anyway, I really hoped you enjoyed that. No slangs here though. It’s the 1940s. This is so far, my longest fanfiction ever, and so far, my best written since I put a whole lotta time on it. I think I need to sleep now. Don’t forget to check out my site athttp://vbsanctuary.cjb.net and if you’d like to give me some feedback, you can do so by e-mailing me at email@example.com