The Desert: Part 1. Feb. 19th, 29479
Now, I'm not a very eloquent man. Never claimed to be. Most would say I'm not that bright either, or that I don't have a serious bone in my body. I just say I'm having fun with life. But when you're standing in the desert, staring down eight huge blood spiders, poison in your veins and no ammo in your guns? Ain't no amount of fancy words that'll keep you from hitting the reclaim terminal. Ain't much to laugh about either.
Maybe I should back up a little bit.
See, I didn't really think much about stopping in Mack's. Hell, I used to go there all the time, back in the old days--Me and the Goons would rally down at the bar for some booze after a long day of... well, doing whatever it was we did. Really, those days are a little fuzzy. Might be due to all the time we spent at Mack's.
For whatever reason I had the jones for revisitin' the old days (even if I couldn't remember 'em very well) so I loaded up the Kodiak and headed out towards Hope. Desolate little place. Lots of desert, lots of big bugs, lots of... well, actually, ain't much of anything else. But it used to be home to the best group of rough and tumble idiots Rubi-Ka had ever seen. 'Used to' being the operative words here.
I kicked a little bit of rubble that used to be our old headquarters building, sent it tumbling across the empty lot. Lotta warm feelings there. People drunker than hell, howlin' to the moon, screaming about stairs and pusher bots and being protected and all sorts of other crap that didn't make a lick of sense. Almost wonder if Mack didn't add somethin' a little stronger than just water to the booze. Oh well.
Mack was looking healt... well, he was looking like Mack. Don't think he remembered me, but with as many people as have floated through his bar over the years, I'm not surprised. Was just me in there and, to be honest, didn't look like many came through any more--Some of the seats had dust on 'em, and Mack seemed sorta happy to be serving up a brew. Felt bad for him, really. Guess people just don't come out this way much.
Anyway, I sat down, popped the top on my can, and took a drink. Always amazes me how some places never really change--Oh, sure, there were a few more bullet holes in the walls, and what looked like some kinda burnt body part over in the corner--That wasn't there before... But, otherwise, it still looked, felt, and even smelled like Mack's. Hell it smelled like Mack himself--And as a side note, never try and convince 'im that he needs to shower a little more regularly. Last time, one of the Goons got a bottle shoved through his throat. Not in--*Through*.
But, hey, that's just Mack. Gotta love the big guy.
So yeah. Sittin' there, drinkin', feelin' a little sorry for myself... and then *she* walked in. Red hair? Check. Tall? Check. Big pair of... knives? Check.
Yep. This was where everything started to go wrong.
(( Note: I'm bored, so I'm going to be making a few stories based on the life, times, and adventures of my favourite little idiot. These will *not* be in order--The story in this post is going to be interspersed throughout the thread, like bookends around other tales about the loveable doofus. We'll be switching styles, perspectives, formats--The whole nine yards. But you'll know when it's done, so that's all that matters. Enjoy. Or not. That's up to you. ))