NOTE: Okay, this is the first work of Fan fic I have ever submitted. I know this maybe a new add, but I would appreciate some constructive criticism and perhaps a lil praise, where necessary.
Thanks, peace and hair grease. This has been long delayed. But here's my contributions... So enjoy. More to come. This will be a weekly or bi-weekly affair, so come, grab a Nuka cola and pack of smokes and enjoy. Now on with the show.
---Rama
Wasteland Pulp Fiction
By: Rama Toulon
AKA: Rama Stryfe / Carib the Nuka Cola Chaser
INTERLUDES
INTRO #1: Three Isn’t Company
The post apocalyptic sun was now high at noon day in Californian Sierrain mountains, just twenty five kilometers from Vault City, along the unkempt and unmaintained highway which was once used during the pre-war times, it was said thousands of vehicles passed the might asphalt highway that stretched on forever. Those must have been glorious days. Those days ended when the Chinese and Americans got tired of talking. Now it was a battered and pot hole ridden highway plagued with slavers, mutated fauna trying to make a meal out of you or the disenfranchised trying to relieve you of your hard earned goods.
Along the way there is a quaint Poseidon Gas N’ Go station, one of very few remaining intact after the post war days. It even had two gas bots still functioning, though they bzzt now and again. It was even amazing they still had fuel, which was rare like gold.
It was truly quaint, it still held old magazines from before the war, old liquors, and even the occasional happy pie, a pre-war treat that was guaranteed to never spoil or go stale.
Of course, getting there was easy, you followed the road and you’d find it, getting service was another matter. Inside were five figures, two behind a counter, and three attempting to get some descent service. Heated voices were being pitched; one was from a dusty old man with bulging grey eyes and wispy white hair. His white shirt was laden with grease and dark red substance, possibly blood. His eyes were magnified by his equally thick glasses that seem to enlarger his already hateful and pessimistic eyes. In his hand was an antique widow-maker double barrel shotgun , it wasn’t held in a threatening manner, but in the old geezers experience, you didn’t trust people, especially people who didn’t have your same skin color or carried around a tribal and a freak in a mask.
No matter where you went in the wastelands, be it in the mountains, the ruined cities, the deserts or forests, there were always two types of people: assholes and bad asses. The man with the nuka cola hair and bronzed flesh was the latter and he had his fill from the old bastard and his equally ornery son.
�Listen here, you old fuck wad… me and my friends here just want some supplies which we will be happy to pay for. We want no trouble, we just want some goods and we move along. Whatever racial angst you may have are yours. I don’t give a fuck if you care for swell guy, tribals or muties. Business is business.� Carib said, attempting to be civil with the bigot. It was strain because he knows his brother in, the large man in the hockey mask was trying to go forward when the small tribal girl placed her hand on his arm, giving a nod of her head.
She whispered, “Easy big fella. Let your brother do the talking.� She gave a warm smile, trying to give Smitty assurance that it would be alright and there would be no need for bloodshed. Smitty tightened the grip of his machete. But he would obey the tribal, the small light brown skinned tribal with tattoo markings of her people that extended on her left arm to her wrist. A few other tattoos dotted her body, two death claw paw marks on each of her bosoms. She was embellished in a dusty looking leather jacket, cut sleeve desert fashion. Her long, straight hair was at her mid spine, tied together with strings and brahmin sinew. She had a round petite face and slender body. Even in her clothing, she still looked like a tribal. She wore dark shades over her eyes. During the day she never took them off.
�Okay, swell guy.� The old man said, as if thinking it over, “we’ll deal. Jus’ keep an’ eye on your lil tribal trash and the mutie. I don’t take kindly to freaks. A god fearin’ Christian can only be sooz forgiven. You fuck up, and my son Bart will have your balls for breakfast. You got me ‘boy’?� The old man sneered, his man wet with salvia, having a lack of teeth do that to you.
�Sure thing pops. Just keep your fuckin’ drool in your mouth.� Carib retorted.
�Watch who you be addressin’ swell guy? My old man is better man then your black ass would be ever be you stupid monkey. Whats wrong with your lil tribal bitch?�
�Watch is cracker.� Carib retorted. “we came to shop, I didn’t come here to waste words with some inbred fuck whose mother is probably his sister. Besides, the light hurts here eyes ass hole.�
Bart went on, mush to Carib’s disgust and Smitty’s silent rage. �Too bad they didn’t kill all the swell guy before the great cleansing, hell, this would be a better place without some jungle buddies goin’ about an--“ The words were cut off when Smitty’s hand was now empty and the blade he was wielding was now hilt deep into Bart’s flat chicken chest. No one didn’t even see the blade soar through the air and piercing through bone and flesh.
His mind couldn’t comprehend as his white shirt darkened with his own blood. Death at the hands of mutie.
Carib didn’t even wait for the old man to draw his shotgun. It was duck and cover time, the tribal Roadrunner diving behind some book shelves, Carib firing off a shot at the old geezer and ducking. Smitty was standing when the twelve gauge went off and sent hot buckshot into his chest, knocking him over.
�You jus’ killed yourselves boy!� The old man drawled, salvia dripping from his maw. “You killed my boy you fuckin’ freaks!�
Carib looked and saw Smitty was on the floor, no real blood, but the wind was knocked out of him. Thank goodness for padding and mutations. The masked figures eyes merely stared upwards, like when a baby stares at the ceiling from his crib.
Carib elbowed the showcase, dropping a roll of toilet paper into his palm. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a bottle of rotgut, on the label it read: Really strong drink or cleaning fluid, you be the judge. Pouring the strong smelling liquor on the paper roll, satisfied it was thoroughly soaked in the beverage.
Carib whispered to the tribal girl named Roadrunner, “Take a shot at the dude’s bottles behind him. When I give the word fire at them, forcing him to duck and I’ll chuck this is way. Old bastard. Okay?�
She nodded, pulling out the off black Colt 6520 from her belt, a pistol that looks like it had passed in far too many hands. It was a gift from Carib, one that she cherished like how her people cherished their weapons of war.
�ONE!� Carib shouted.
The old man was right in-between reloading the shotgun when the tribal popped up from her hiding place and fired at him, the old geezer took cover, not knowing the plan was to smash the bottles behind him. The hollow points spattered the bronze and clear liquors all over the floor and all over the old man. Hard earned booze which he swindled and killed for was now soaking his already reeking person.
�Fuckin’ Tribal, that was my best liquor.� The old man shrieked as his life’s worth of booze was now wasted.
�TWO!�
�What the hell?� The old man rasped as he thumbled the last shell.
�THREE.� The next sound was a flicking of lighter, and an ignited paper roll flying through the air and landing right where the old man was crouched. The flames touched the liquor and the next thing the geezer feels is his body being covered by flames.
Smitty began to rise, dusting his body and looking to Carib, who was giving him a stern look for his action. Roadrunner came running to the two, attempting to block her ears from the old man’s wails of torment and woe.
The old geezer sprang up, ablaze, his lungs wailing so loud, all Carib and Roadrunner could do was raise their guns and fill him with hot lead. Two shots and he was down, burning on the ground.
�Sorry…� Smitty said, his eyes down cast, not wanting to look his brother in the eye.
Carib sighed, placing his hand on his brother’s burly shoulder. “its okay, Smit. Just relax next time okay. Do that somewhere else and we might not have made it out alive you know?�
Smitty nodded his head, Carib smiled at his little brother with approval, patting Smitty’s broad shoulders . “Good. Let’s blow this pop stand. Take what we need and let’s move before someone notices and our reps take a nose dive.�
Roadrunner took a basket, and cleared the rack of Happy Pies and a few other accessories. Carib reached at the scorched desk and nabbed a dew Jimmy hat condoms. Always good to be prepared for anything. No one knows what diseases are floating around these days.
Smitty just grabbed one of the double bladed axes hanging on the wall, and taking a few rounds of .44 JHP and AP rounds to boot. Filling their duffel bag of survival gear, extra shotgun shells, some nifty magazines and road maps, they reach outside, seeing their jeep parked as it was before. A gas bot was watching over it.
The jeep was an old military jeep, most of the old olive drab colored had flecked away, though the spare tire remained in tact, only a few bullet holes made it stand out. Having dodged various excursions in the wastelands.
�Thanks, tin can.� Carib said, passing the gas bot, popping the trunk, dropping the loot in the back trunk.
�Your welcome Bttzzz. Sir. Have a nice trip.� The bot said in its synthetic voice. It was made to sound fair and civil to all customers, which was both a comfort and at the same time creepy. The bot didn’t even realize that Carib and his friends had just massacred his masters. Well it didn’t mean anything to Carib. They started it, Carib finished it. One less ass hole to bother this already disturbed world. He sighed inwardly as he got on the drivers side, Smitty in the back seat and Roadrunner at the passenger side.
Twitching the ignition, Carib got the 4x4 Jeep started and headed towards the east, getting a footing on the 160 year old unmaintained road. Thank goodness for four wheel drive. “We’re off to good ol’ Vault City. This time, Smitty, no slicin’ and dicin’. The people at VC don’t know better.�
�I don’t like Vault City, Carib. They’re assholes.�
Carib gave a chuckled as he patted Roadrunner’s tattooed hand. “I don’t like ‘em any more then you do. But hey, they asked us to come over and so we shall. They have a nice job… besides, we off to see Doc Hill and Zoe. So that should be enough.� Carib starting picking up speed down the highway, zooming pass the endless highway, the long faded markers on the road, long erased by time and indifference.
Roadrunner leaned back, removing her reflective shades and quickly closed her eyes. “Tell me when its night fall.� And she closed her eyes as the shades were removed, not even allowing her sensitive pupils to be blinded by the glare. Smitty remained in the back seat, sitting erect and looking just as intimidating, staring far ahead.
It would be a long drive, but they’d get their soon…. Very soon.
Still Carib could see the violence as it unfolded just a few minutes ago. Apart of him was disgusted at himself for being so off handed about it and another struggled to see what the big deal was. Death was something we all had coming.
�We all have it comin’.�
TO BE CONTINUED....
Wasteland Pulp Fiction Mini_Series updated Weekly...
