How To Act Like a Professional Mercenary

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They had gone to Planet Frieza 62 to pick up a second rejuvenation tank for his father’s ship, as the one they already had was of inferior quality. Most of his father’s elites were out on assignment, conquering some planet or another, leaving only Zarbon, Gichamu, and several dozen low-level soldiers, none of whom possessed a power level above three thousand, to man the saucer. Though he thought little of Zarbon, there was no one more capable in this group, and that included the man who had invented scouters.

Once this was finished, there would be an unopened carton of space crab ice cream, imported from his homeworld of Arcose, waiting for him in the space fridge. A gift from his papa, to be sure, for enduring Zarbon’s foulness.

An egghead with purple and blue spots by the name of Appule was to install the tank. With the operator were four space-badgers, black-furred and dark-eyed and looking half-feral, who had been tasked with carrying the bulky contraption into the ship in three trips.

His father’s most pompous bootlicker had everything under control. The princeling grew bored with the tedious operation, so while Zarbon was busy bitching at Appule about the proper place to put the tank, he snuck off the ship to give Planet Frieza 62 a visit. That would annoy Zarbon, but what could he do about it? His father would ground him for a week or two if he vaporized the bastard. Sometimes Kuriza was tempted. Two weeks wasn’t all that long in the grand scheme of things.

62 was a world covered in vast, deep oceans with a few shreds of sandy, sparsely-vegetated land. The single outpost was a meager, bobbing thing, holding a garrison of no more than four hundred, featuring a series of towers that rose several hundred meters from the sea. This being a hospital outpost, rejuvenation tanks and operating rooms took up much of the real estate.

He ventured inside, slapping the door guards bloody when they asked him for identification, and soon found a cafeteria that served on-call doctors. The cooks, sweating through their clothes, gave him a dinner platter without asking for payment (not that he was going to demand a free meal). It consisted mostly of space seaweed, with chunks of some kind of deep fish that looked appetizing at least on the advertisement, yet in person and up close, who the hell would actually eat that?

He found a seat and, refusing to say ‘itadakimasu’, he scarfed it down, trying not to gag too much, for he was in public. He couldn’t imagine having to eat this everyday. Luckily, the table next to him was having a heated conversation, so he didn’t need to be so quiet.

“Governor’s out again.”

“He called in sick ten days ago. What’s the matter with him?”

“Same as last time. Fucker’s addicted to titty juice.”

“Blimey. But what’s that got to do with it?”

“The rumor going around is that last week, he went to his usual spot beyond imperial space. Found himself a Sobren whore. You know how it goes.”

“Those ape-looking ones? Never found ‘em too attractive, meself.”

“Yeah. I heard he drank some of her milk. Should’ve known better. Hell, he’s the expert here, not us. Sobren milk will make anyone who’s not Sobren seriously sick.”

“Blimey, what a pig.”

“Not too many whores still practicing while they should be home with babies on their teats. It’s an expensive fetish. I’d wager no one else was lactating when he made his visit. Desperate fool.”

“How the hell is he running things around here? That’s what I want to know.”

“No idea, mate. It’s fucked.”

He would have liked to stay and listen some more about 62’s unusual governor, but his scouter went off, alerting him of the Ginyu Force’s arrival. He had not expected them to return until papa’s ship had reached Planet Frieza 79 in about three days from now.

Kuriza had always fancied himself an honorary member of the Ginyu Force. Their style had always rubbed him the right way (he could usually only last a minute), and he enjoyed coming up with secret dances and poses with Ginyu in the closet on his father’s ship. He would see them soon.

Before he did, he noticed an abandoned, untouched tray on a nearby table. Maybe a doctor had gotten a call during his dinner break and had needed to rush off to save a patient. He would certainly be hungry, and certainly be stressed out, and certainly be returning for that bowl of space lobster bisque as soon as he could. The Arcosian, nonetheless, was still hungry. The deep fish, as wretched as it had been, had just not done it for him. Bless the cafeteria cooks’ hearts, but they were absolute shit. He should have executed them then and there for their lack of quality. Regardless, he did not want his father to yell at him. He wanted to play with the Ginyu Force.

So he did what any self-respecting prince of the Planet Trade Organization would do in that situation. If this planet did not exist, if everything here was reduced to space dust this very second, it would be only a minor inconvenience for him, his father, and their empire. He would own this place someday.

The boy took the bowl in both hands and slurped it up, letting it spill down his chin in excess. He could feel their eyes on him. That was good. They would think he was just awful. When he finished, he threw the empty bowl at a wall and marched out without a word. That would give them something to talk about.

The second he was out of sight, he raced to the ship with all the speed he could muster. Though he secretly considered himself a spice boy, he had not been ready for that bisque. Tears streamed down his face. His mouth was on fire; he could hardly breathe.

Slowing to a reasonable pace upon reaching the saucer, Kuriza was met by the panicked scattering of three space-badgers, who were fleeing the ship on all fours, terror trembling down their snouts. Seconds later, three blue balls of energy shot out of the open door, vaporizing the vermin before they were able to re-infest 62.

“Lord Kuriza, is that you?” Zarbon called from the opening, where he was most comfortable.

“What can I do for you?”

There were no tears, no panting, no sweating, no sign of the inferno in his mouth. He would never let this sniveling sod see him suffer.

“Where have you been?!”

“Do not raise your voice at me,” he replied in a sharp tone, before adding in a venomous gaze. “You are but my father’s servant. Do not think you can be disobedient within my presence.”

Zarbon scrunched up his face, his lower lip going blue, and looking as if it were about to explode. His earrings swung about; his face turned a deeper shade of green. He let out a breath, inhaled deeply, exhaled again, and calmed himself. That was semi-professional of him. “The rejuvenation tank has been properly installed. Appule will be staying aboard with us from now on, as he is the technician for the device. Do you wish to see it?”

He wanted to vomit, his mouth was burning so bad. He needed that ice cream. At the same time, he needed to inspect the tank. If he didn’t, Zarbon would tell his father, and his father would whine to him about it, and there would be an issue. Such drama drained him. As long as this was quick, he would be alright. He would never allow the spice to win.

“Take me there, Zarbon.”

The man did not appreciate being ordered about by a child. That’s why Kuriza made him oblige so often. It must have been tough for him. Arcosians aged slowly, so he was bound to be ordered around by the prince for at least the next fifty years. If only he had been apathetic about it, as he was with the boy’s father, it would not have come to this. Zarbon was not professional around him (he thought he could get away with more than he really could, and he thought he was smarter than he really was), and thus he deserved to be regularly trolled.

It had been placed in the medical bay. That was neat; he hadn’t expected that. The prince almost wanted to applaud Zarbon’s face. Appule stood at a monitor, finishing up the installation. Everything appeared fine. He wanted to get out of there. Nodding, he waved the green man away.

“Inform my father of your great success, Zarbon. I am confident he will be adequately satisfied with your management.”

“Very good, my lord.”

The bastard did not even bow. As he left the room, Kuriza’s focus drifted to the corner of the rejuvenation tank, where the smooshed remains of a space-badger were clearly visible. Zarbon had said nothing of it; Appule was not going to, either. How the man’s sanitary standards had fallen, he would not forget. His father would know of Zarbon’s treachery soon.

He flicked his wrist and vaporized the gory remains before walking out.

---

The kitchen had been left a filthy mess, as if a horde of Saibamen had come through, spoiling for tasty treats. The carton of space crab ice cream lay empty and on its side, at his feet, and boy was he mad. His mouth still burned to high hell.

Prince Vegeta and one of his Saiyan teammates were rummaging through the refrigerator. That peeved him. With a shout of ‘sorah!’, Kuriza threw himself at the two. Vegeta, his reflexes sharp, ducked out of the way, allowing the poor Arcosian to careen into the empty cooling box, shattering its shelves.

Tumbling out of the refrigerator with all the broken glass, he landed on his feet and scowled at the apes with immeasurable ire. “You barbarous beasts ate my ice cream!”

“No we didn’t. That’s the Ginyu Force’s fault. They got here before us. They’re meeting with Lord Frieza right now.”

“Yeah, those guys ate everything in here,” said his friend. “I’m starving! Where’s all the food?”

Thus his temper cooled momentarily. Yet, in the next breath, sweet baby Kuriza realized he had been royally fucked by the Ginyu Force, and his blood boiled again. They had even drained the carton of space milk, though in their piggish ways, had left enough inside to spill onto the carpet. The janitor would have to clean that up, and by Frieza’s tit would that be annoying.

“Very well,” he said, masking his embarrassment. He was quite angered to have forgotten his cape. Seeing the monkey wearing one, and Zarbon too, chipped at his pride. “I shall be retiring to my chambers. It would be best for you to leave soon. There are always more planets to be conquered, Saiyans.”

Vegeta gave him a long look. He was probably thinking something apish about Kuriza. He looked as if he needed to relieve himself. The spoiled brat was probably used to doing that anywhere he wanted. He broke his gaze and the two walked off.

His tongue burned; his mind raced with thoughts of revenge against every Ginyu Force member. They were his friends, so he would have to get them good–where it hurt them most. Firstly, they would have to get him another tub of space crab ice cream, which could only be purchased halfway across the empire on the boy’s homeworld. No doubt, they would be given some mission by his father. They would have to juggle that with his request.

His tail slapped against the empty container. They were supposed to be his father’s soldiers. They were supposed to act with grace and dignity and respect towards the little lord’s things. He would teach them how to be proper mercenaries, but not before he got them good.

---

The Ginyu Force had promised to meet Kuriza at Planet Frieza 79 on the way back from their latest mission. He had told them to go as quickly as they could, lest he murder them. That seemed to work, as a mere eleven days after departing, they were already on their way back.

By then, he hadn’t really had a craving for ice cream in a while, so he left it in the fridge. As luck would have it, his father had yet to assign them on another mission, so for the moment, the Ginyu Force were stuck on the outpost while the saucer refueled.

This was the first opportunity the princeling had to make things right. He was not about to squander the opportunity.

It happened one moment without warning–Recoome’s favorite candy bar (Chef Zarbon’s double chocolate fudge packer two-pack with the tip’s skin pulled back) was replaced with Doctor Malaka’s quicktime energy bar for the uncontrollably morbidly obese. Comprising almost exclusively of space nuts, it contained neither sugar nor chocolate.

Down the hall, the Arcosian listened in on old denture-mouth begging Burter for some chocolate or some money (he had spent all of his on a new ballerina outfit the night before), but the Blue Hurricane flatly refused to give him anything. Sulking out of the room (Kuriza was hiding behind a vending machine), Recoome muttered to himself, “Meh, they could taste worse…” before devouring eight or nine Malaka bars in the span of a minute. The boy could hardly contain his laughter.

Then, the prince sent Burter an anonymous message over the scouter, telling him that some loser named Appule had beaten his record time of flying one mile in 5.3681804096619401946395862971024575105822041727280544195935712155220940768296445936626420997121767655154007243238822023573766371152423662617175144859733922459934585338611274382898653295687213174500164 microseconds, posting the astonishingly quick time of 5.3681804096619401946395862967755560716510753582733558960983354657913832854377544080845454152206829662192834092160517523029068678272438516443476703586614003806331815448476921540448045977114731721624999 microseconds. He spent the rest of the afternoon down at the track trying to beat that time. Kuriza followed him there, clutching a bag of space popcorn. He had also messed with the timers, which made Burter appear to be going even slower than usual. The best he could manage was 5.4539028609366392753629110029758492118349247070482019538203696230934072369023087013017602187609127359812735982679679386490178630217263081276001995032062638979175813679101239865210001907222308760109443 seconds (in reality, his best time was 5.3681804096619401946395862989609809283470901632975612093756182736512018736508123857612083576123085120012875086278238728837285701620817653817620538712630587556876876208768078603899938277138917162987521 seconds). He grew distraught at his slumping form and by nightfall, gassed and sweating, ran back to his room crying.

That night, Jeice showered, as he often did. He used his usual shampoo for his lusciously long hair. Nothing wrong with that. It was only the next day when he noticed that it had turned his hair blond like Salza’s. Kuriza listened from the hallway. Jeice swore at the top of his lungs, for when he tried to wash it out, he realized in horror that the dye was permanent. Within the half-week, Salza would know that he was copying him. And should Jeice try to fix the error by using white hair dye, the chemicals in this dye would react with those, causing his hair to fall out. Kuriza prayed to all the Arcosian gods that the Red Magma would be vain enough to try.

And then there was Captain Ginyu. Kuriza did not get him until the next morning, when a message was sent from Lord Frieza’s secure channel (the prince had learned of its passcode long ago on a night when his father had had too many glasses of chillrose) directly to Ginyu’s scouter with the following message: ‘Ginyu, I have reviewed your team’s most recent poses and have deemed them to be utterly shambolic. These poses disgrace the Planet Trade Organization and lack style. You have until midnight to come up with better ones, or the Ginyu Force will be summarily executed.’

That right there spooked him good. That got him real hot under the collar.

He was not finished, however. His next prank would be the worst of all. It would be foul and necessary. They had to learn respect. They were like animals. Punishment was required to correct their savage ways.

---

That evening, he found the Ginyu Force congregated in the kitchen nearest their dorms. They looked glum. He could hardly hide his satisfaction.

“Good evening, Ginyus.”

“Heya, Prince Kuriza,” Recoome said. “What’s up with you?”

“I baked space chocolate chip cookies. Would any of you care for some?”

With a sheepish grin, he showed them the basket he had been carrying behind his back. They could smell it now; their faces softened; he knew he had them.

“Hang on, mate. When did you learn to bake?” Jeice asked.

“Oh, about four hours ago.”

Recoome was salivating. “Makes sense to me.”

“Heh, nice job kid. They smell delicious. Now that’s what I call a good friend.” Ginyu patted him on the shoulder. “Go on, soldiers, take your rations.”

“Don’t forget the space milk. There’s some in a pitcher in the fridge. Please, it’s the classy way to eat these.”

They didn’t need to be asked twice. He gave them their laxative-laced cookies. They dipped them in their glasses of Sobren milk and ingested.

The boy’s smile morphed into a scowl. “Now, captain, explain to me exactly why you and your men ate my space crab ice cream? That was very rude.”

“Huh? What are you talking about, Kuriza? We didn’t eat your ice cream.”

Recoome grunted, finishing off his cookie. “No way. That flavor sounds disgusting.”

“Foul for us,” hissed Burter.

Jeice and Ginyu were nodding in agreement. The room was spinning a little. He wished he could see those monkeys again. His knuckles itched and his breathing quickened.

Not thirty seconds later, the Ginyu Force, barely having had time to lick their lips and congratulate him on his precocious baking skills, began vomiting profusely all over the floor. They tried their best to stop, but that was an impossible battle to win. Then they felt it in their stomachs and ran off to the restrooms, vomiting all the way there, getting it on the carpet, the walls, the tables, and down their armor.

Lord Frieza would be furious. Zarbon would be too. Somebody would have to clean it up. Wouldn’t be Kuriza.