"Come, sit. Everythin's got a story."
—Theodore "Texas" Calhoun
Texas' Tales is a collection of oral and written stories by Theodore "Texas" Calhoun, a wandering gunslinger and survivalist. Whenever he has a moment — and an intoxicating drink at his disposal — he can be found regaling other wanderers with his stories. These stories are as follows:
Life in Trapper FlatsEdit
- "Trapper Flats is... well, was your run o' the mill frontier town in Utah scrapin' by anyway it could. There were places worse off than the Flats no doubt, but that's not to say it was doin' well. Rather'n scavving from buildin's an' whatnot, Trapper Flats as a whole made an honest livin'. By the time a kid was 'round eight or so, their parents – usually their father but the wasteland can be a dangerous place, that's fer sure – their parents teach 'em how to shoot guns a proper way. A couple weeks after they get the hang o' shootin', their mentor steps it up to tryin' traps: snares, pits, that sorta thing. Bit after they learn how to trap, the kids go off with their mentor and do it for real. They keep doin' it over n' over 'til they get comfortable baggin' critters. Thing about Trapper Flats is, any man, woman or child worth their salt knows how to trap and that's what keeps the town alive. Even my mother, God rest her soul, with her arthritic fingers and bad back and cataract caught her share of coyotes!'
- "I remember when my pa first took me out to teach me shootin'. I was eight 'r so and he handed me this lil' pea shooter varmint rifle and pretty much told me to go wild. I started shootin' lead all over the place; even the 5.56 was 'bout makin' the gun jump outta my hands. Pa had a laugh at my expense, took the gun away and and then actually taught how to shoot the rifle proper. He was crazy like that, but a good teacher. I only hit three of the five cans he set up, but he said that was good enough for him. Said I'd do better when a yao guai was barrelin' down on me; couldn't tell if he was serious or not, but I didn't want to find out.'
- "By the time I was 17, I had learned how to shoot n' trap like the best of 'em an' I became sort of a local celebrity. Whenever someone wanted a certain critter caught, they came to me and I'd do it fer fun. I was even mentorin' some orphan kids that I couldn't shake from my ankles. Anyway, folks were complainin' that somethin' big, like a yao gaui or somethin', was tearin' game off of their snares n' runnin' off with it, and so they sent me an' my pa to look into it. It felt great trackin' the thing from the broken traps; I was the cock o' the walk when we found its den a couple miles west. So, we're pokin' around the den when this huge, mother-thumper of a dog comes outta nowhere, trips me down and starts going fer my neck. Thing might as well have been a yao guai; it was the size o' one an' had the strength of one. I thought I was strong, but that thing was the heaviest sonofabtich I ever met. I grabbed its snarling maw an' decked it one in the face. Felt like hot shit when it got off me... but then it jumped right back on me an' started chomping on my ass! I was hollerin' an' cryin' an' kickin' 'til Pa shot the thing dead off me. Pa hauled the carcass back to town an' I limped back bleedin' from the ass. Patched it up myself, but I was layin' on my belly in bed fer a good week before I could move again. Guess there's a lesson in that: no matter how badass you think you are, don't get cocky. It'll bite you in the ass later... maybe even literally."
Raid on Trapper FlatsEdit
- "Back in '36, life was good; I had just married Charlie about a month earlier; traps were bountiful; gardens were yeildin'... but... then there was a raid on Trapper Flats. I woke up to a bunch of whoopin' an' hollerin'; I didn't know what was happenin' 'til I heard a flamer start blazin' and I saw the glow of the fire through my window. Bunch of raiders had snuck into the Flats and started torchin' everything. No rhyme 'r reason to it – they didn't want food 'r supplies – they just wanted to burn the place up. I ran out with my rifle an' started shootin' at anything that looked like a raider; crazy hairdo, wearin' a mishmash of scraps, that crazy chem look in the eyes. I'm not gonna lie, I was scared shitless; Trapper Flats was a peaceful town, nothin' like this had ever happened. the counter assault was going pretty good, managed to drop half a dozen 'r so myself before a lucky bullet caught me in the shoulder. I got thrown backwards through an ol' shed 'r somethin' and the sucker collapsed on me. That's all I remember before everythin' went black. It felt like I woke up moments later. It was quiet; Jed was pawin' at me, pullin' at my clothes; places smelled like smoke. I threw 'im off me an ran home.. what was left of it. This is when my world flipped itself over; Ma n' Pa were... dead... Charlie was gone. That was really all I had... and that's all I wanna say 'bout that."
- "Learned most o' my doctor know-how from Doc Mathers who was, yep, the doc in Trapper Flats. Bein' a hunting an' trappin' commune in the wastes, wasn't bizarre if'n a trapper found himself wrestlin' a rowdy critter while checkin' his snares. Same happened to me when I's fourteen. Lookin' fer my coyote trap an' a gecko thought I looked mighty appetizin'; leg got mauled somethin' awful an' I spent a heap o' time 'round Doc's while my leg was healing back up. What with nothin' better to do, I took to eyein' what Doc was doin' and learned some rud'mentary things 'fore Doc actually taught me medicine when I healed."
- "'Side from proper trainin', you can learn a lot from livin' out in the wastes. Gotta teach yourself some natural remedies 'n such if ya wanna survive. Like them Legion folk out west with their healin' powders and bitter drinks. 'Course it always helps to find that stashed doctor's bag or a stim. Anyhow, ya get to experimentin' with plants and you'd be surprised how good a flower 'r pod can do. You wrap the husk of a banana yucca around a cut 'n tie it down with some tubin' 'r rope an' keep it damp with some water, that cut's gonna heal twice as good. Prob'ly goes without sayin', but don't experiment with jalapeño peppers; they just burn... Basic n' general rule o' thumb: if you don' wan' it in yer body, you don' wan' it on yer body."
- "My pa, the infamous C.C. Calhoun, was a rough n' tumble sorta guy. He was a good father, but some would consider him a bad guy. Ran Trapper Flats 'til he died in the raid, but was always lookin' out for his people. Sometimes made him some enemies, but there's nothin' a dual or drink won't fix. As the sheriff's son, you'd expect me to get some kinda favor'ble treatment, but if anything, I was held to a higher type o' standard by 'im. Prob'ly gave me five 'cross the ass more'n I deserved, but I can't say I turned out bad 'cause of it. Pa's a crack shot – could hit a gecko 'tween the eyes hundred feet away from the back of a buckin' bighorner at night... least that's what he told me. Prob'ly lying through his teeth, but he could definitely shoot. His pa was sheriff 'fore him an' taught him how to shoot, Pa was sheriff and taught me how to shoot; cycle prob'ly goes back 'til the founding of Trapper Flats... still, shootin' really does ya no good when you take a flamer to yerself. No use cryin' over it; happened 40 years ago and ya can't change that. Still carry his Magnum around to remind me of him, though. I don't dare shoot it, kinda melted and thing would prob'ly explode in my hand if'n I tried."
- "My ma, Margaret, was the best ma you could hope fer. Same kinda rough n' tumble pioneer attitude as Pa, but you need that when yer out in the middle of nowhere, huntin' n' trappin. She could bag coyot's like no one's business an' made one helluva stew with 'em. Pork n' beans, coyot' meat, 'tato, beer, seasoned with mesquite pods; mmmmmm-MMMM, greatest thin' ya every done put in yer belly. Ate that nearly e'ery day 'n ne'er got tired of it. E'eryone in Trapper Flats called her Ma Calhoun 'cause she was the Ma o' the town. Always good fer some meat or a handful o' cactus fruit. She always had a fun story to tell n' she'd share it if you helped around the homestead. Had a nice garden that the town could take what they like, but that's the kinda person she was: sweet, carin' and always lookin' to have company. She played a killer harmonicee and was always playin' a tune her free time. Still carry it with me an' taught myself to play too. I'm sure she would have loved to hear me play... I miss my ma..."
Charlotte "Charlie" CalhounEdit
- "I married Charlotte – or Charlie as I liked callin' her; she hated it, I though it was cute – married her in '36 when we were both pretty young. She was the most beautiful lady I ever saw. *sigh* Had the most dazzlin' hazel eyes, the kind you could lose yourself in; bright auburn hair that she'd tie up in a messy bun, her bangs'ed fall her face when she was settin' snares and she adorably hassle it behind her ear over 'n over; pretty small lady, but could definitely take care of herself – petite, but dangerous – could fight like no one you ever knew, fists of steel, I swear on my mother's life. *groans* Damn... We never got around to havin' a kid, but that prob'ly saved me more heartache. Charlie went missing when raiders sacked Trapper Flats. I search for her every chance I got but she never turned up. I'd like to think she tore the cojones off any raider that so much as touched her, but I can never be sure. I hate myself for every day she's been missin' 'n I can't get over it, nor do I wanna get over it. Still drives to look for her in my travels an' I can't give up. Named my rifle after her and make it a point to kill every raider I see with 'er. Kinda like vicarious revenge. *sign* Dammit, I need another drink..."
- "Jed Samson was one of the kindest souls you'd find in the wasteland; one of those men who cared more about others than himself. Formed Samson Caravans back in '20 and sorta set himself apart by the way he ran business. Cities, they got caps; towns, they got caps; ol' Jed wasn't int'rested in caps at all. He'd always say that the towns that have the goods you're sellin', don't need what you're sellin. Even went on caravans as a driver; there was no caravan tycoon throne for his butt. He just wanted to make the wasteland less horrible, so he'd go out and provide essentials to middle o' nowhere communities and got paid with whatever they could spare. He'd find a way to sell it anyway, so't made no diff'rence to him. Band of Sun Bird tribals killed him and the rest of the caravan in the 40's, think it was '43, and the caravan fell apart. Guess what they say is true: the good die young."
- "Miz Torres – gal's name was Roberta – she was an intestin' lady; badass Latina that didn't take shit from nobody. Said she grew up in Mexico but wandered up into the States after her parents died, looking fer work. She found Samson in Tejas; she had her own weapons n' armor so she was welcomed aboard like that. Had a shotgun that was as badass as she was: choke, extended tube, all around fantastic gun. She was already on the caravan when I joined Samsons in '36. Of course, like everyone that I like, she died – killed in the same ambush as Jed. As the blood *pauses* blood gurgled from her mouth, she gave me her shotgun sayin' I needed it more'n her. She was right, but she's still imprinted in my mind. Along with Charlie, she's one of the girls I couldn't save..."
- "Bill was my caravan driver when I worked for Alamosa. Bit older'n me but still sharp as a tack; there's a reason he was mayor of Coyote Bluff. Told stories when he was drivin'; weren't the most intertsin' stories, but they passed the time. He grew up on a farm in Colorado, but a drought hit shortly before 2230. Headed to look for work at Alamosa. He got a job, but he was just fillin' out reams o' Alamosa contract papers for twenty years 'r so before he got a legitimate job drivin' caravans. Always was drivin' with the same brahmin, who he named Bessie Lou. God, he loves the brahmin – talked to her all the time, callin' one head Bessie n' the other one Lou. Funny guy. He was a great driver, but also a decent guard. One hand on the reins, one hand fingerin' his single shotgun, what he called his "Boomstick". Thing was fuckin' gruesome; could cut a raider clean in half... well, not clean... was actually pretty messy now that I think of it. As far as I know, he's still in Coyote Bluff, bein' mayor."
- "Cole was one of the caravan guards I rode with with Alamosa. Decent gun in a fight, but goddamn, that man was addicted to the sauce. He'd always be prioritizin' a bottle of dusty ol' vodka over legitimate loot. Not a su'prise that he started the saloon in Coyote Bluff; he always said that everybody needs a place to drown their troubles, so of course he took on the role of barkeep. Jackass kept me in whiskey all those years, which is the only reason I kept him in town. Selfish kinda fella, only lookin' out fer himself. Not exactly the guy you want watchin' yer back."
- "Lil' Kate was nice girl, O.K. in a fight, much better at barterin'. She told me that her family lived on the outskirts of Alamosa an' wasn't doin' too well financially. Passed herself off as 18 when she applied for a job at Alamosa – company policy says you gotta be 18, but Kate fooled everyone when she was 16, even me. Reminded me of Charlie when she was a teenager, they had the same smile... Girl had a way with words, great at buyin' stuff cheap, even better at sellin' stuff steep. Naturally set up a shop once we settled into Coyote Bluff. She's good with a needle too; can turn coyote pelts into great, if a bit barbaric, clothin', but hey, keeps ya warm at night."
- "Derrick was the caravan's greenhorn. Wasn't that handy with a gun, but man, oh man, that kid could cook. Apparently the kid was the child of a wealthy brahmin baron in NCR that pulled a few strings to get a job in the Southwest branch of Alamosa. Don't know why he wanted in; whenever the caravan was under attack he would "mysteriously" disappear, probably ran away shittin' his pants behind a rock. But he kept us fed on somethin' more'n desert twigs n' dirt; so as long as he stayed outta our way, we kept him. Joined Masters in his "culinary establishment"; thing's a saloon shack, hardly a Gourmand if you ask me."
- "After Trapper Flat's went up in smoke, I left with Jed Samson and his crew. Jed told me all about "Samson Caravans" as he called it. Weren't exactly a Crimson or Far Go, but it was still a caravan. Formed in 2220 by Jed himself, it mostly went around the Four States and Southwest sellin' off food 'n clothin' to less entitled settlements. Kinda an altruist caravan as caravans go. After Jed died in a tribal attack in NorthTex, think that was in '43, the caravan jus' fell apart without a Samson to admin'ster it. 'Ventually got sucked into Happy Trails. I hear the Samson division still handles the smaller settlements while Happy Trails go for the more well off."
- "Now let me tell ya, Alamosa Tradin' Company is the big dog in the Four States. Started out as a runt caravan in 2145, but grew to be the damned biggest caravan you ever seen. Made the dusty town of Alamosa, CO the Hub of the Four States and eventually leaked into Tejas. Al'mosa's an oddity in the caravan business; it's not uncommon to see 'em using water ways to transport their goods. Alamosa sits right on the Colorado, Green, Arkansas and Rio Grande so you'd better believe they started salvaging an' buildin' boats. If you get sea sick, best avoid applying to Alamosa. 'Mosa's again a bit strange; they like to keep everyone happy 'n in business, buyin' up stock from the Gun Runners, Happy Trails, n' Far Go an' then exporting their surplus for profit. It's good to know your competition in the caravan game. Caravan guards, like yours truly, all get two revolvers for protectin' the boats, which is how I got these beauties! *waves Peggy & Sue* Alamosa's also mighty lenient with its employees; they give you some leather and the pistols when your first start out, but they don't mind if you sell the armor when you find somethin' better. Alamosa caravan guards are a total mishmash of leathers, metals, n' polymers."
Weapons and armorEdit
- "Ol' Charlotte here's been a good friend to me... an' she's gonna stay a good friend 'til someone rips her from my cold, rigor'ed hands . Named her after... after my wife. Been missing a while, but she's always with me when I'm shootin' at a hopped up raider 'r overzealous tribal. I've basically scapped every part of the rifle since I left Trapper Flats; replaced 'em with a better part: grip, stock, action, tube, e'erythin'. Barrel came from a museum in Texas, 'pparently b'longed to some guy name McDonald who's a Texas Ranger... s'pose it's like a NCR Ranger, but from Texas. Thing makes my shots fly where I want 'em to and's yet to disappoint. Took the lever action from a gun store that somehow wasn't completely picked clean. Action 'n barrel actually fit each other, amazin'ly enough. Takes .44 Magnum, hard to scrounge up, but totally worth it. The feed tube is somethin' I'm proud of. Got to tinkerin' with some metal plates and got them to fold up inside the tube. That way, I can drop in ammo – long as it's facin' the right way – and the funnel schoops the ammo in without me havin' to do it. Pretty slick! Stock's a lovely mesquite wood and's got a spring loaded plate in the butt that absorbs recoil – an' believe me, there woulda been a helluva lot of recoil! I love my Charlotte... lady and gun..."
- "I've always had a thing for the lever-action guns... just feel right in my hands. Roberta's gotten me outta some tight pinches when accuracy ain't top priority. Shotgun once belonged to a caravan partner o' mine, gal named Roberta Torres; I always called her Miz Roberta. Anyhow, she loved this gun. Had the ammo tube extended by a savant machinist in New Reno on one of our stops, got a choke put on it later. 'Course when our caravan got hit by some Sun Bird tribals, Miz Roberta died and gave me the shotgun, sayin' it would come in handy someday... and boy has it ever. When you're crammed in a tight hallway with raiders barreling down on you, snubby shotguns are your best friend."
- " "If you knew Peggy Sue, then you'd know why I feel blue without Peggy... my Peggy Sue-oooh-oooh..." As the song goes, I love my gals and I need them. Got 'em when I started working for Alamosa. Part of the contract said I got two revolvers; revolvers are less likely to crap out on you and two revolvers have less chance crappin' out than one. Alamosa weren't ones to spare any expense and apparently, I got the good guns. On a caravan drive from Wyoming into Utah, I got to engraving their names on the grips with a file and cleaned 'em up when we got to New Canaan. I ain't seen nothin' quite like 'em anywhere else in the wastes. Of course you can shoot 'em one at a time, but where's the fun in that?! I give the gals equal time in my hands and they thank me for it: not many things get up from double the amount of .44 caliber wads of lead being slung down range."
- "A lesson in wasteland combat: always have a weapon don't need any ammo. 'Course you can use your rifle as a club, but that's damn-near barbaric. Me, I's got Kent: Comanche tomahawk I found wanderin' 'round Texas. Fer y'all that don' know: kent axes'r used fer choppin' 'n carvin' wood, hence the name, but this'ne's better fer swingin' at critters 'n such. Found it in what had to be a burial mound that got skimmed off by years of wind... or a brief exposure to an A-bomb's shock wave. Far as I can tell, the heads the sharpest damn thing you ever done touched. Wouldn't expect flint to keep its edge so long, but crazier things have happened. Rope and feathers around it had all but rotted away, so I replaced 'em when I could. Always had a surplus of buzzard feathers, but finally got to makin' a good string outta maize husk silk after a while. It's pretty, but make no mistake: it's also pretty deadly."
- "My overcoat's given t'me by Alamosa when I started workin' for them. Not much in the way for armor, but great for blockin' sandstorms and sun. On a caravan run into the Wyomin' Flatlands, the seams started comin' loose and I started fiddlin' with the pocket it made... gave me a right devious idea. When we stopped in Jack Sun, I took some steel plates from the caravan – don' worry, I paid fer 'em – 'n I got to unstitchin' my coat and securin' the plates inside it. Restitched it with some catgut and I got myself a slick new duster. Kinda heavy, but better at blockin' bullets than plain ol' leather."
- "Hat's kinda like my duster, rimmed with metal to keep bullets outta my brain. Found it when I was wandering Texas in what I guess was a saloon 'r somethin'. Patrons musta been playin' cards when the bombs came droppin' in unannounced. Guy's hat was still in good condition an' he wasn' usin' it no more, so I took it. Weighed a bit much for a Stetson, an' it pinged when I tapped it, so put two n' two t'gether, it's a goddamn sturdy hat. If I recall, I fetched a whiskey from behind the bar and played a game of solitaire with the cards I gathered up. Couldn't win though, only had 49 cards..."
- "Shade's are just regular ol' shades as far as I know. Wouldn't be caught without 'em, though. Found 'em in a burned out Texan storefront without a scratch or nothin'. I figured I needed somethin' to shield my eyes from the sun – or in a pinch, a nuclear blast. This courier fellow I met in Coyote Bluff said they were... he compared 'em to a planet 'r mineral 'r somethin'... Plutonian? Venusite? Saturnite? Yeah, Saturnite! Never heard of it, but apparently it's a good metal..."
Note: The author of this section is not a certified survival instructor; DO NOT use the following survival tips unless they are deemed as effective and safe by a certified survival instructor first!
- "In general, the more ya know about nature, the better you will be able to survive in the wastes. Beyond basic survival skills, you gotta have an extensive understanding of the way nature works. Wildlife tracking skills let ya find critters fer food and knowing a thing 'r two about plants can get you a bunch o' herbal remedies and medicines that keep ya healthy. How do ya think tribals do it?"
- "Fist thing you gotta remember about surviving' in the wasteland is it's mostly attitude: if you think yer gonna die, yer probably gonna die; if you think you handle it, you can probably handle it. Keep a cool head, think about what you need to do and do it. If you falter, your chances of surviving are gonna drop."
- "Keep the rule of threes in mind: average human can suvive three minutes without air, three hours without a regulated body temperature, three days without water and three weeks without food. Use these benchmarks to prioritize what you have to do: make sure you can breathe, which is kinda a no-brainer, then make sure you've got shelter and/or a fire, then make sure you have secured a clean supply of water, and finally secure food."
- "Dependin' on where you are in the wasteland, shelter could be optional. I spent most of my time wandering the South and Southwest where it's pretty temperate durin' the night and hotter'n Hell durin' the day. I'm sure if we were wandering further up north, you'd need some form of shelter to keep your body heat nearby; in the case of down south, shelters'r better used fer makin' shade. Caves are a survival luxury, but you gotta make sure you wouldn't be bunking with any critters. Nothin' ruins yer chances of survival quite like sleepin' with a yao guai. If ya don't have the good fortune of findin' a cave, next best thing is a ruined building; it's basically a man made cave, but make sure there aren't any raiders or other people in there that'd ruin yer day. Failin' that, be on the lookout fer a downed tree; if'n you find one, start scrapping branches from it, lean the branches over the trunk and you've got a shelter. Southwest doesn't get much in the was of rain, so the branches don' hafta be green 'r water repellent; they just gotta cover you up so you don' get heatstroke."
- "You probably don't wanna be on the move at night; there're a lot a critters that hunt at night, so it's better to stick to yer camp and make a fire. Good rule o' thumb is to collect as much dry wood as you think will last you the night, then collect that same size pile three more times and you might have enough for the night. You also gotta collect dry brush: twigs, sticks... shit... I'm serious, shit's great at burning so long as the varmint that dropped it is a vegetarian. Goes without sayin' but I gotta say it anyway: small fires are better; they do the same job, need less wood and is easier to control."
- "Startin' a fire is simple once ya get the hang of it. Use a road flare or somethin' like it if ya got one, otherwise get a broad piece o' piece of wood an' hack a narrow groove into it with yer knife or hatchet – if you don't got one, don't bother buildin' a fire 'cause yer prob'ly already dead, honestly. Now, put that broad piece o' wood on the bottom an' build yer kindlin' pile on top. Set up yer dry wood on top o' the kindlin, makin' sure there's a channel between the wood for air circulation. That way, the hot air from the fire lifts the flames up throughout the wood, catchin' more of it. What yer gonna wanna do now is take as straight a stick as you can get – best if it's the size o' yer index finger – put in the groove of yer boards an' start rubbing the two together like yer life depended on it, 'cause quite frankly, it does. When ya start seein' smoke comin' up from the board, twist the sick over so the embers're touchin the kindlin' and blow gently on it. If the ember goes out, do it again. Keep doing it until the kindlin' catches and you can actually see flames. Once you got yer logs caught, keep an eye on it an' pile on more wood when it starts going out; you should be able to see the flame."
- "Next thing ya wanna do after securing wood an' shelter is find a reliable source o' water. In the wasteland, it's gonna be hard finding a spring that ain't radioactive, but in a life or death situation, rad poisonin' may be secondary. Ya gotta keep in mind you ain't gonna find sparklin' oases anywhere, so drink from where you can. Fill yer bottle if you got one and ration it out; don't start guzzlin' at the first sight of thirst or you'll waste it; yer body can only absorb so much water. Keep checkin' the color o' yer piss too: if it's light, yer good; if it's dark, better drink more water. Keep away from puddles in general; they're stagnant as shit and are lousy with parasites – probably full of shit too. If yer in the Southwest, cactus fruit is a preferable alternative; they may stick ya when ya pick 'em but they're good fer water and food."
- "After gettin' water, you gotta get food. Eat sparingly 'cause the more ya eat, the thirstier ya get; eat enough to ward off hunger and keep yer energy up, but don't wolf it all down. People complain about that dusty pre-War food, but you can't be picky if yer livin' off the land. So long as the can ain't bulgin', you can still eat what's inside. If you ain't fortunate enough to find prepackaged food, bugs're a great source o' protein. Again, ya can't be picky so just eat yer damn bugs. If yer near water, fish is a good choice; minnows and roe can be eaten whole. And like I said before, if yer in the Southwest, cactus fruits can be eaten for food just as well, but watch out fer spikes."
Miscellaneous skills and knowledgeEdit
- "It really helps knowin' what kinda critters are in yer surroundings, so you know what you can eat an' what to avoid altogether. The wasteland is full of poisonous an' venomous varmints out there, like snakes an' nightstalkers, radscorpions, cazadors, giant ants an' spiders. While not immediately poisonous, geckos tend to have a nasty bite, so avoid them too."
- "Avoid breakin' a sweat as much as you can. Yer body'll try sweatin' to keep ya cool an' that takes a lotta energy, so better keep the sun of yer skin. Best to keep a hat on yer head."
- "In the same vein, keep yer mouth shut. Not only are dust storms common in the desert, but breathin' through yer mouth dehydrates you faster than jus' breathin' through her nose. Coverin' yer mouth with a bandana or other piece of clothin' can also catch the humidity yer getting breathin' out."
- "My general philosophy on wasteland politics can be summed up as such: "Stay the fuck out my business and I'll stay the fuck out yours." There's no reason to spread your ideology if it upsets others in the wasteland. Now don't take me for a namby-pamby, but if it doesn't affect you, there's no reason to be changin' things. You're just hasslin' people who have figured out how they want to live."
Brotherhood of SteelEdit
- "The way I understand 'em, the Brotherhood's a bit too overzealous in their "quest." They steal all the tech they get they can get their grubby hands on an' give nothing back to the people they steal it from. The Brotherhood is just as much a part of this wasteland as everyone else livin' here, so they should start actin' like it! All they're doin' is makin' it harder for everyone else to survive. If someone in Trapper Flats acted like any of those Brotherhood assholes, you could bet your ass that they'd be kicked out on theirs. It's like they're trying to inherit the wasteland just for themselves... wait, that's probably their goal. But anyway, I don't give a shit if they're tin cans with energy weapons; might don't make right."
- "Caesar's Legion is one of those crazy cults that gets so big you forget that it's a cult. Legionaries lay down their lives for Caesar without question, and that's mighty odd. Nobody should be a man's servant. I've had the "pleasure" of seein' patrols of those padded pricks out in the Mojave and I can only wonder how they've grown to be this big. They have all the same tech that everyone else, but they rely more on spears 'n healin' powders than guns n' stims. If anything, you'd think they'd be the first to die off, but I guess Caesar is a better leader than people give him credit for. Regardless, they don't have problems harborin' slaves or mistreatin' women and that, my friend, definitely secures you an early end in my books, might be a bit painful too... ya never know."
- "As far as I'm concerned, the Enclave is just a bunch of genocidal maniacs. If they didn't believe in what they're fightin' for, they wouldn't be fightin' for it! Hell, the Enclave may be cult just like the Legion. Members are so swept up their supposed holier-than-thou cause that they don't see how ridiculous it is. In case ya didn't know, this is the wasteland; everything has been irradiated, everything has mutated at least a little. And, yes, that includes the Enclave. Whenever they step outside, they become the thing they want to destroy. If that's not crazy, I don't know what is. And again, like the Brotherhood, might don't make right; those tin cans can stuff it."
Followers of the ApocalypseEdit
- "The Followers are the only folk that I actually like. Some people call 'em anarchists, but that's my philosophy: stay out of my way, I'll stay out of yours. The Followers are decent enough to realize that the wasteland should be in this together and help out whenever they can so they can bring the wasteland a bit closer. They're much better than the Brotherhood in that regard; they teach the wasteland how to farm and survive, while the Brotherhood just stockpiles weapons and armor. Like we need another War..."
New California RepublicEdit
- "Like any other government, NCR's doin' good and bad. They've been taking the fight to the raiders of California, which is good; the wasteland will never progress from here as long as there are assholes who want to ruin it for everyone else. Bad news is, it's costin' 'em a lot of men and money they don't wanna lose. Plus, the NCR's got a buttload of taxes to keep up its economy an' military that most taxpayers never even get to see. They're off on the frontiers of the NCR and no politician is gonna send aid to the outskirts of the empire. If you wanna know why I wander, it's 'cause there're no taxes for being a vagrant... yet. Just wait, NCR'll figure out a way to tax wanderers. Worst part is, NCR thinks they're doin' the right thing, but they ignores all the shit that's piling up so they keep pilin' on more shit unknowingly. That bust of a Mojave Campaign, securing their borders, logistical nightmares of gettin' NCR to the fringes of the republic, the list goes on. They're gonna collapse under their own size."
- "Whenever I wandered the Windy Wastes of Wyoming, I always skirt around Outer Heaven. Those mercs are nothin' but trouble. They're like the Legion if ya nix the slavery. Their entire society is built on a military dictatorship built upon a large than life man and its growing too fast for its own good. Somethin' tells me they ain't fightin' fer peace; they're fightin' fer the sake of fightin'. They say they're makin' a utopia for soldiers; every soldier I've met wants to put their fightin' behind them, not have it glorified. War is hell, but these freaks don't seem to get that. Kids should be bein' kids, not child soldiers. If you keep buildin' yer army up, yer either gonna a) starve yourself and degenerate back into raiders or b) create an army so large it'll split up into separatist factions and ultimately degenerate into civil war. Whatever the case, they're gonna leave the wasteland worse than it was."