"I Shot A Man in New Reno Just To Watch Him Die": Dehumanizing Stories of Excess From The Wastes

The Vault-Dweller ducked into an alleyway and hid behind a garbage can as the Bishop family's cronies ran past. They were ardently searching for the man who had fought his way into their casino. The man in question was easy enough to identify: He wore a blue cloth jumpsuit with a leather jacket over the top of it, and carried a dizzying array of weapons on his back, including a .44 Magnum, 3 different shotguns, a rifle, 2 sledgehammers, 10-15 pairs of clothes, and 6 sets of brass knuckles. This was, of course, in addition to the thousands of rounds of ammunition he was carrying for each weapon.

Even in the dangerous post-apocalyptic world they all shared together, the weaponry that Vault-Dweller carried would be considered overkill, but when questioned about why (or how) he was carrying that much equipment, his only answer was, "I need something to barter with."
As the footsteps of Bishop's men faded, the Vault-Dweller slumped back against the ruined brick wall. It was astonishing to think of how his life had changed since the Elder had entrusted him with the task of finding the Holy GECK. Yes, he had left his primitive, but wonderful village, and he had seen the world, and that was all well and good. He had also felt, though, that there was some force, telling him where to go, what to do, and when to do it. At first, he had thought this force to be a gift bestowed upon him by the village Shaman to assist in his quest.


Because nothing says trustworthy like a vacant, drug-addled stare.

It had helped him complete the Temple of Trials, obtain a sharpened spear, and find his way to the first town he encountered on his journey, Klamath. Once he got there, however, this guiding force began to feel more like a curse. It started with the small things... he picked fights with people, and wandered into their homes at all hours of the night. He felt compelled to pick fistfights with drug addicts, and he couldn't resist the urge to speak abusively to everyone he met. He would walk around town picking locks and walking into people's houses. When they'd get mad, he'd simply insult them, then run out of town as quickly as possible.

Still, of all the things the unseen force was telling the Vault-Dweller to do, STEALING seemed to be it's favorite. Like a drunk kleptomaniac, he sloppily attempted to steal everything in sight. What began by lifting a few beers off of drunks at the local bar, quickly blossomed into stealing pipe-rifles and handguns from hunters, switchblades and beef jerky from merchants, and soon bottomed out as he stole drugs from a filthy mattress as a crackwhore had a fever dream nearby.

There were times when the force's insistence seemed more erratic than normal, too. Those were the times that the Vault-Dweller feared most, for it was during these periods that he was led to do one unspeakable thing after another, committing violent acts and cussing out prostitutes with abandon. He insulted orphans on the street, then punched the children when they tried to retaliate. There was no rhyme or reason to the things the he was made to do, as if his hands were possessed by the spirit of some unseen, horrifyingly omnipotent child.


"Now, how do I shank hookers, again?"

By the time the Vault-Dweller had arrived in New Reno, many towns' inhabitants had already felt the wrath of his terrible guide, and by robbing the bodies of the dead, he had obtained an impressive stash of weaponry.

Glancing both ways in the alley, the Vault-Dweller shivered in spite of the warm, radioactive Nevada weather. It was thus bristling with weapons that he walked into the the Bishop Family casino in hopes of gathering some information about this new town. As he questioned a craps dealer to little advantage, he saw near the bar, a terrifying older woman who was eyeing him. He walked over to speak to her against his better judgement and, obviously, felt compelled to steal from her. Standing directly in her gaze, the Vault-Dweller's hands were not his own, and he began to rummage through her pockets, brazenly taking everything she had. Where once there was interest reflected in her eyes, now turned to rage as she realized that he wasn't even going to try to feign a conversation with her in exchange for the goods in her pockets, and she called casino security over to deal with him.

A firefight ensued, and like a dolphin with seasickness, the Vault-Dweller's escape became a messy, screeching haze, full of clicks and fury. When the gunfire finally ceased, there were skanky, unwashed bodies everywhere.

And less than half of those people were prostitutes.
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The Vault-Dweller ducked into a doorway off of the alleyway where he now took refuge, and found himself in a small, dark club. He avoided the gaze of the bartender, and slipped into a nearby booth, the irradiated vinyl crackling under the weight of his armaments. He buried his head in his hands, and rubbed his eyes wearily.

He would like to hope that this killing spree was his last, but the force had been with him too long. He knew better. He knew that there were still more homemade shivs to steal, and washed-up porn stars to steal them from. He knew that there were more mouthy jerks whose pockets he would fill with C4. He knew that there were more worthless, dirty Cat's Paw magazines to collect, and more old people to take advantage of.

The Vault-Dweller knew that as long as there was a single debaucherous act to commit in this world, the force wouldn't be satisfied until it had indulged in it, and he, the greatest warrior of Arroyo wept softly, thinking of the horrible things he had left to do.

"Hey jerk," He heard a voice say. He looked up to see a gangster in a dirty pin-striped suit and fedora standing over him. The Vault-Dweller's hand twitched and moved of its own accord toward a pistol at his side. "You're in my seat."

He surveyed the gangster, and knew the force would not suffer this man to live. He unbuttoned his holster, and looked up slowly at the gangster. A smile crossed his face, and the Vault-Dweller stood to meet his future.