When One Door Closes…

It’s all coming together…

Saul Fore wouldn’t take me in, so I had to find my own lodging. The good news is that I still had the dog tags he gave me. The bad news is that I could only afford lodging in the mutant part of town. It might be a while before the cash rolls in, so I’ve got to stretch these tags for as long as possible. I hope things pick up soon; my new Undying neighbors don’t trust me and are extremely sick.

I was trying to stay away from the apartment as much as possible. I started with a tour of the BLVD. It’s a big place, probably two or three thousand people. I can’t believe how many businesses there are around here. Aside from the blacksmiths, there’s cooks, doctors, tattoo artists, and even a dentist! All those are nice, but I had my own concerns. If I was going to produce a list of all the BLVD’s laws, I’d need some paper or maybe a printing press.

As fate would have it, I bumped into the weasel who writes the local news rag. He was a short guy in a grimy blue suit tearing at the shoulders. An ugly straw hat hid his red hair. He was so preoccupied writing onto his notepad that he bumped right into me.

“Hey! I recognize you. You’re that guy who got caught after curfew.” The pressman said with a sideways smile. “Care for an interview?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Oh. How rude of me!” the suited man cried, raising his hat “Mr. McGavin at your service. I’m the best journalist in town, let me tell you, and it’s not just because I’m the only journalist in town.”

I didn’t smile, but the sides of my mouth pulled tight. “Joe Junkman” I replied.

I noticed that the pressman had something hanging around his neck. It was one of those old cameras that spits out the pictures. I was surprised that he could find enough film to use it.

Mr. McGavin must have caught me staring because he immediately raised his camera and said “How bout a photo?” He paused “Only ten…er…only 15 dog tags! It’s a steal!”

“Oh it’s a steal alright.” I replied. “It’s highway robbery!”

Mr. McGavin and I both had a good chuckle.

I think we’ll get along just fine…

-Joe Junkman

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The Prodigal Son

Karma!

The trip back to the BLVD was uneventful, the way it was meant to be. No mutants gnawing at my ankles, no radiation storms, no dehydration induced hallucinations, and most importantly no bandits. The caravan guards were silent and stoic, but Saul Fore kept me company. I’m worried I’ll jinx it, but it’s true! Nothing bad has happened to me in a whole week!

We pulled up to the BLVD’s gates sometime after dusk. The guards greeted Saul Fore like an old friend. They didn’t even rough us up! I guess he’s a pretty popular guy around here.

Unfortunately, we had to go through customs. All my weapons, including knives, had to be shoved through a slot that said “BOOK RETURN.” For some reason, our guards were allowed to keep their shiny chrome rifles. My stuff was confiscated, tagged, and stored in an old bank vault. Saul Fore assured me it was standard procedure. Sure it is.

After a thorough pat down by two guys in S.W.A.T. armor, we were finally allowed inside. The BLVD was a long street illuminated by the alluring glow of neon advertisements. My ears immediately lit up to the slow strumming of a guitar. The sound was coming from a crowd had gathered around the rotting body of a car in the middle of an intersection. I couldn’t say how long it had been since I’d last heard music. I wanted to see what was going on, but Saul pulled me aside.

“Listen boy.” He whispered. “Boulevard ain’t kind to newcomers. Don’t go lookin for trouble.”

I gave him a thumbs up and wandered off into the night.

What’s the worst that could happen?

-Joe Junkman

Familiar Faces

Upsetting.

The doctor left me alone to “get over” my radiation sickness and broken arm. Without tags, I was out of luck. My contaminated water had been confiscated by the soldiers. I had nothing. No one would want to trade with me. All that time spent out in the desert was for nothing.  All that hardship and dehydration was worthless.

I now sat alone in a corridor-like room of the fortress hospital. The walls were lined with beds, mostly unoccupied. At prices like these, I can see why. I wish the doctor had given me a blanket or something. It was downright chilly in this place. A cloud of frozen white air bellowed from vents on each side of the hall.

A raspy voice caught my attention. “That you kid?”

I looked over at the next bed to see an older guy with horrifically burnt skin. His face was discolored and covered in scabs. I almost didn’t recognize him until I saw the faded anvil tattoo on his forehead.

“Saul?”

The other patient smiled at me. “What are you doing in here?”

“Radiation sickness.” I replied, raising my puke bucket.

Saul chuckled softly “Went off into the rad-lands, didcha?

I nodded and explained that I had been captured, robbed, and captured again and that all I had to show for it was a few gallons of irradiated water. Saul suggested that really write a “wasteland survival guide” to help people like me. If anyone was going to do that, it would have to be James Gray. He seems to be the only one who knows what he’s doing out here.

I rolled my eyes. I then told Saul that I couldn’t afford the anti-radiation medicine or surgery on my arm. The old man lifted an eyebrow; or he would have if it hadn’t been burned off. With an elderly groan, he reached down onto the floor, picked up a small felt pouch, and threw it at me. The thing was heavy and jingled with every movement.

“Take whatcha need.” he said, giving me a toothy smile. “It’s the least I can do.”

Good things come to those who suffer!

-Joe Junkman