Fallout 1. Chapter 1

It all began the same way I suppose. Wasteland had a set of rules that were enforced by its very nature. Don't fuck with your neighbors. Don't fuck with the scorpions. Don't fuck with the drinking water. And definitely don't fuck with a Deathclaw. The list of don't fucks goes on for pages and pages, but most get the idea. There are a lot of things you shouldn't fuck with. People that violate these sacred scriptures, well, let's just say there's a reason why 200 years after the nuclear war the scavengers are still in business .

So when a 600 pound lumbering monster of genetic engineering marvel with skin tougher then power armor and hands sheathed in bladelike claws that could tear through flesh and armor like wet tissue paper, most people would run. Smart people would run really really really fast. No one ever accused Samuel Jackson AKA the kid from vault 101 of being stupid. With an IQ capable of frying an egg and boiling water after, it wouldn't be too far off to call him a genius. And most normal people would tell you that geniuses think differently, in strange and sometime incomprehensible ways. Some might even say they're so smart they're stupid.

So when the Deathclaw popped out from behind the broken radio tower, instead of turning tail and making for the setting sun as fast as his legs could carry him, Sam snapped up his hunting shotgun und unloaded into the grotesque biological warmachine's face. It paused the Deathclaw's charge for all of half a second maybe. Probably a little less. Now most people who did have the knee jerk reaction of shoot first then ask questions later, would probably be regretting the decision to piss off an already irritated death claw by trying to tickle its face with buckshot. Sam wasn't most people.

Agility honed from weeks of fighting supermutants, pounding in the head of raiders and terrorizing talon company mercs magically moved the lone wanderer outside of the death machines reach, just marginally avoiding being trampled and decapitated all in one moment. The shotgun boomed out twice more, the scattered rounds finding home in the creatures head. Let it not be said that Deathclaws are pushovers. There's a reason why Deathclaws are given bold text in the wasteland survival guide list of shit to avoid. Just about anything else in the wasteland would be dead and most likely without a head after having taken a couple twelve gauge rounds to the face. This unfortunate Deathclaw was currently staggering like a drunk nursing a weeklong hangover, but nonetheless it was still standing. These things were tough, worst than mold in a steamy shower stall.

Sam back-pedaled quickly away from the stumbling monstrosity and punched through the item selection menu of his pip-boy. The shotgun deatomized into nothingness, and a rocket launcher appeared in its place. Shouldering the missile launcher, he sighted the disoriented creature and let fly the explosive round. The resulting noise from the missile making contact with the Deathclaw was loud to say the least. When the dust cloud finally settled, Sam made out the fallen shape of the Deathclaw lying on the ground with one of its arms missing. Recalling the weapon to his pipboy, the lone wanderer retrieved the hunting shotgun once more before setting off at the same steady pace he had been walking at before the Deathclaw had decided it wanted an early dinner.

This deathclaw obviously hadn't read the wasteland survival guide list of Don't FUCK With, because at the top of the list in bold was the number one wasteland rule. Don't fuck with the lone wanderer.

**AN: Just for shits and giggles =)**


	2. Waste Land Justice

Lucas Simms was a simple man. He never learned to read or write too well, could count beyond his fingers and toes which was already above average for a wastelander, and wasn't too interested in much outside his town. Philosophy was not a topic that interested the man, and he had no time for the wasteland gossip that made it's way through the scattered population of DC like syphilis in a cheap brothel. He was the town sheriff of Megaton, a job he had inherited from his daddy, and a job his daddy had inherited from his daddy's daddy who had been one of the founders of the most well protected town in DC.

And now as he watched his little boy run around miming shooting at some of the other children that lived in town while playing sheriff and raiders, Lucas couldn't help the broad smile that crossed his bearded face. Just like his old man. Little John was going to grow up and be sheriff of Megaton too.

But before he could hand over the big hat and tin star to his son, he'd have to educate him on the one thing he did keep close to heart. Well, that and whiskey, but arguably this was more important. Waste Land Justice. Capital letters in front of all those words. Lucas wasn't a man who had much use for fancy talk or fancy thought. Only that one rule mattered.

What is Waste Land Justice you ask? Well it's a rather simple concept really, after all Lucas was a simple man as was his father and his father's father, and certainly the one rule passed down by the Simms patriarchs hadn't failed them yet. Waste Land Justice meant a bullet in somebody's ass. Some fool pulls a gun on you while you're walking outside to take a piss cause the town toilet's backed up and smelling like the devil's own shit and telling you to stick'em up? Waste Land Justice his ass. Some punk starts a scuffle in town after shooting off his mouth and pissing off everyone within hearing distance? Waste Land Justice his ass. Two residents quarreling over who did what to who's wife and pulls out some iron and starts trading pot shots? Waste Land Justice both their asses.

In fact just about every problem in the waste could probably be solved with a bit of Waste Land Justice applied liberally now that Lucas put some thought to it. Nothing a bullet in the ass can't solve. Course being sheriff wasn't always just about pulling his gun and shooting shit up fun as that was. There were a few other skills involve that he'd have to teach his son.

Second most important was the Sheriff Stare. Couldn't really be a sheriff without that. That's when you walk up to some stranger who wanders into town, make sure your hats on straight and the stars pinned on right and give them a look in the eye. No words needed to be exchanged, just a simple look that conveyed an entire conversation at a glance. It goes something like this.

"You don't cause trouble in my town you hear? You do that and I put a bullet in your ass and boot what's left of you out the door. Bars on the south end of town, don't get too drunk or I shoot your ass. Public toilet's to the right and left of the bar, don't go clogging shit up or stinking the hell out of the only latrine in town or I shoot your ass. Common rooms are below and cost ten caps a night, don't be doing no weird shit in the beds or I shoot your ass. You can resupply with Moria at the Crate, don't be stealing or getting fresh or her bodyguard will shoot your ass. Then I'll shoot your ass again after on the other cheek. Lantern's where you get food, don't be complaining about the taste or I shoot your ass. Doc's a little way down the path, he's the only practitioner in god knows how far so if you even fart in his direction I will shoot you. He will shoot you. Then the town folks gonna find out and they all gonna come in and shoot you too. Bomb at center of town if off limits to everyone, unless you're one of the nut jobs flock (and there's him and his wife so don't be pulling no funny shit on me or I will shoot you) and if I see you anywhere near it I'll shoot you. Have a nice stay."

One glance. That's really all it took. Takes a fair bit of practice before people got the whole message, but it's a skill that got better with practice. Yup just one glance.

The town gates groaned in agony as the flight propeller turned and wrenched open the massive gates. A boy who looked like he didn't' even need to shave stumbled in wearing the queerest looking blue suit with the number 101 stitched across the back and sporting a look of dazed confusion on his face that suggested he was a few eggs short of an omelet.

Picking up his hat from the table and placing it carefully on his head, Lucas made sure the star was fully visible. Time to go do his job. New boy didn't look too bright, but new folks were always a guarantee that Waste Land Justice was gonna need settling before the days end. Better make sure his guns loaded. Maybe he should take Little John when the shooting starts? Yeah it was about time that boy started his training.

**AN: Think I'm just gonna use this as my crazy dumping station. Let me know what you guys think! =p**


	3. Delicate

To many people, the Lone Wanderer seemed indestructible, undefeatable, a hero of untouchable proportions. Raiders, super mutants, enclave, deathclaws and all manner of critters and killers in-between fell before the wasteland messiah like a man's ego when his penis failed to stand at attention in the bedroom. The image of pure machine efficient like destruction was a mix of truth, gossip and propaganda peddling by Three Dog, but even the most rational minded skeptic in the waste could agree that the Lone Wanderer was one bad ass motherfucker you did not want to mess with.

But behind the façade of old world action hero straight off a cheesy action flick, there was a weakness that few knew of. If they thought about it really hard, it should hardly be a surprise that the man who had single handedly destroyed the Enclave, pushed back the tides of super mutant hordes and personally castrated the raider population with a rusty spoon had this one flaw. After all contrary to what most people would tell you, the man was still human.

It was not really his fault this one chink in a seemingly indestructible armor of badassness, not a flaw that could be fixed or overlooked. If anything to blame, it would be his soft upbringing in the cozy vault of 101 where food was plentiful and most certainly not decayed, irradiated, out of date, filthy, or just plain inedible. Yes that's right, the Lone Wanderer got the shits. Not the occasional oh crap what did I eat, or god damn move out of my way I'm gonna blow shits. No, these were the shits that came out hot and fast, barely digested and full of liquid squirting out your asshole and leaving it feeling like a burning coal had passed through your rectum.

They came fast and unpredictably, a sudden grumble of the stomach being the only warning sign before his butt hole puckered up and began vomiting out the sometimes visibly recognizable half digested meal he had last eaten. They left the one man army cold with sweat, knees shaking, vision doubling, mouth hot sticky yet dry, and light headed feeling that made him want to vomit except there was nothing in his stomach to heave out after the emergency express evacuation of his bowels.

These times when his pants were around his ankles while he squatted in misery over some poor piece of earth or rubble that suddenly got a new brown (sometimes green) makeover were his greatest moments of weakness. All his senses were drained to nothing as his body forcefully evicts his last meal through his backside, honed reflexes that could snatch a fly out of the air reduced to an undignified jelly legged incoherent moaning tremble.

He'd loss count of the number of times he'd nearly died when one of his crap attacks hit. Damn slaver had snuck up on him with a led pipe once while he was doing a fairly impressive fire hydrant impression with his ass and damn near killed him. It had been one of the most undignified fights of his life, two grown and dirty men rolling around in shit covered dirt, slipping and sliding on the smelly excrements while trying to strangle the other. The fact that he had his pants around his ankle was mostly to blame for why it took him so long to win. It had been a horribly humiliating ordeal that still burned his face when his thoughts strayed to that unfortunate day.

Then there was that time a herd of bloat fly's had caught scent of his fecal matter, that had been unpleasant as well. Beating to death puppy sized mutant fly's that spat out a burning acid while wobbling around with his pants acting as manacles to his feet was an epic feat in itself.

Super mutants were walking displays of stupid and a perfect lesson on how not to be stealthy (hell their skin was green and they could only speak in yells), but hell if they didn't manage to sneak up on him when he body wasn't trying to set the record for most shit without death by dehydration. People may know about projectile vomiting, but he'd definitely be the one to coin the term projectile shitting if it wasn't a phrase already. Hell some days he was tempted to check he hadn't managed to push out his intestines with the force and speed it came out at.

There had been this one time when he'd been tangling with a deathclaw when his stomach had given an unpleasant tug and he'd been fairly certain he was a dead man as soon as his knees shook and his vision trembled. What he'd learn that day was that deathclaws had very sensitive nose, because even though the mean eyed beast had been all set to tear him limb from limb, as soon as his crap left his ass the monster had taken one sniff, whined like a beaten puppy and turned tail and ran. Maybe he should tell Moria to come up with a shit scented deodorant as a deathclaw repellent?

Heaving a sigh, the Lone Wanderer continued his steady walk towards where he had received reports from the Brotherhood of Steel about where some of the remnants of Enclave forces had been spotted. They had formally inducted him into their ranks just hours ago before he had set off, granting him the rank of Knight Captain as appreciation for devastating their age old enemy. The small feast they had been prepared had been wonderful given the state of food in the rest of the wasteland, and they had been kind enough to set him up with a set of polished power armor that looked relatively unused.

The sun had already set below the horizon and only faint fingers of light still stretched out in a sky that was becoming darker by the minute. Stars shown brightly in the pre-evening heavens, and the Lone Wanderer allowed a rare smile cross his face as he enjoyed the cooling air of the DC ruins. While he had many regrets since coming to the surface, one thing he did not was being able to see the open sky and breath in air that wasn't recycled.

A familiar grumble shook his frame as his intestines announced their intentions or rebelling against the feast he had heartily ingested. The intimate feeling of dread washed over the Lone Wander and he rushed over to the side of the broken road, clenching his buttocks shut with the skills that came with practice. Reaching a relatively safe looking spot he reached for his belt only for his hand to clang off metal. Staring down at his armor with eye widening, he realized he had no idea how to remove the power armor. In fact from what he'd seen of the other brotherhood soldiers, it took two people to remove the damn thing even though a person could put it on by themselves.

"Oh shi-!"

AN: Poor Lone Wanderer ;p I'm sure we've all had these moments. Until next time! Watch


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Fallout, Humor