Slyfox

Going Native or The Boned Head Capitol of America

Ah, the great outdoor life of the tribal community — you get lots of sun, fresh food from the land, clean and healthy air, and contempt from any of the more “civilized” inhabitants of the wastes. But they don’t know all the joys of brahmin and/or geckos on cold, lonesome nights, now do they? Not that… er… I do… but… um… I… on with the story!

Now Arroyo is the tribal village to be at. It’s not often that you’re descended from a bunch of Vault Dwellers who decided that going native would be a really fun idea. It’s also not often that your Chosen One blows up an oil rig filled with nasty government types. A grand plot it was, with plenty of easter eggs along the way. Which is why Dongo and Harold were busy travelling to Arroyo, to see if there was any plots to be had, seeing that Dongo needed to find the reason he was on Earth, making everybody’s life miserable.
Round about lunch, Dongo and Harold arrived at the Great Bridge to The Wastes (you know how tribals can get about naming things). As they stepped onto the bridge, a tribal with a big spear came running towards them and introduced himself.

“Me Narg! You no cross! Me hurt you with pointy stick!”

“Yes, that’s… er… nice, Narg. But you see, we really need to find a pl–”, began Dongo, his usual charismatic self.

“Stupid!”, rich, coming from Narg, “You deaf? Ears for ornaments, eh? You — no — cross!”

“Yes, yes, Narg. We heard you the first time. But we’re lo–”

Getting mighty peeved with this stupid city dweller, Narg stamped his foot on the bridge – and broke a hole through one of the wooden boards of the bridge that had begun to rot thanks to some tribal’s drunken pissing spree. Gravity being, as usual, a big pain in the ass, began tugging really hard at Narg, who introduced himself to the canyon’s floor after a short while of screaming and flailing about quite uselessly. Conclusive experiments prove that the thickness of tribal skulls only go so far, and Narg had just proven that theory.

While Dongo and Harold were contemplating the remains of Narg at the bottom of the canyon, they became aware of a robed mongoose running towards them, shouting obscenities and behaving very unmongooselike. When the mongoose came close enough, they saw that it was in fact Arroyo’s shaman and drug dealer (same thing, different name), Shmakunin. The result of a brief affair between Hakunin and the Elder before Hakunin got shot by those nastie Enclave chaps, Shmakunin had inherited the best traits of both the involved parties, i.e. he tripped a lot using ‘erbal methods, and he had a temper to boot. Not a pretty combination, which is why most folk steered clear of Shmakunin, except when they needed “medicine”, and then they had to go weed his damn garden too, with those irritating “plants of dark soul” who seem more interested in biting off your fingers than sucking up all your garden’s water.

“The gods rain down obscenities upon your head, fool! I see a vision of you being gutted and feasted upon by carrion! I…”, and so Shamkunin ranted at Dongo and Harold. Dongo looked at Harold. Harold looked at Dongo. They exchanged glances. They shared meaningful looks. Then they whacked Shmakunin on the head to get the idiot to shut the hell up.

Catching him before he became another result in Tribal Skull Studies 101, the pair hauled the shaman into a mostly uncomfortable sprawling position and proceeded into the village. Which brought them to the Elder’s tent, in front of the Hole of Holy Water (tribal speak for the well), and before the terrifying visage of the Elder. I mean, how do you manage to get so wrinkly when you get old? And that eye! Monstrosities aside, Dongo introduced himself and Harold.

“Greetings, Elder of Arroyo. I am Dongo Weener, and this is my companion Harold. Together, we are known as… Dongo and Harold.”

The Elder looked at them, not looking really impressed with them — at all.

Not to be bested, Dongo continued. “The reason why we have visited your… uh… wonderful village is that we are seeking a greater purpose in life,” Dongo puffed up his chest, “and we feel that we can find just that right here! And maybe some booty, if it’s not too much of a hassle…”

“Find Vic in Klamath…”, the Elder began to mumble.

Dongo pulled out his Vault-Tec Notepad (copyright, patent pending, etc. etc.) . “Right… Vic… Klamath… got it… then what?”

“More… I do not know…” The Elder then subsided into mumbling incoherently and rocking herself.

Once again, Dongo looked at Harold. Harold looked at Dongo. They exchanged glances. They shared meaningful looks.

“It’s wrong to hit a lady on the head, Harold, no matter how ugly and man-like she might look.”

Harold sighed. “Another opportunity shall arise, I’m sure.”, he mused philosophically.

Suddenly, the Elder perked up again. “Take this flask…” She proffered a blue flask with a big, yellow one-three emblazoned upon it, which reeked a bit much of Rotgut. When Dongo took the Rotgut-corroded flask, the Elder subsided into rocking herself again.

Dongo looked at Harold. “Off to Klamath, then?”

Harold looked speculatively at the flask. “We could stop by at the Bathhouse, maybe.”, he sniffed at Dongo, “I’d say you’re needing it.”

Dongo looked hurt. “Well, now that was mean.”. He sighed a deep sigh, filled with longing and regret. Longing for booty, and regret that it seemed that they weren’t going to get any in Arroyo. “Let’s go, then.”

And off they went to journey to Klamath, a journey marked by sullen silence because Harold wouldn’t stop mentioning how Dongo needed a bath.

“I do not smell! No, I don’t know why there are no flies on me! And it’s not because I stink worse than year-old carrion! Which I don’t!”