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Level 26
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You have 56 unused skill points.
TIP: Objects in rear are closer than they appear.
LOADING...
SUCCESS!
1
JONES wrapped the irradiated-Kris pelt around his skull and continued to drag his blistered, breast-shoed feet across the barren, scorched earth. Fallout winds battered his face as he walked. The sun hung low in the sky, chunks missing from its previously circular shape, blinking faintly like a light bulb almost ready to finally die.
He pulled out some fatty rump meat from his rat-skin canvas and sunk his rotting teeth into it, tearing the savoury flesh with a hard jerk of his head. Kris' butt really was sweet. Unfortunately, he'd been forced to bludgeon her to death, after her body had succumbed to the nuclear wasteland and started to mutate. Her lady parts had become even more ladylike—exaggeratedly so, as if they hadn't already been before—and her mind had begun to turn hostile and weird. When Jones had accidentally killed her, she'd been attempting to suck the blood from his Johnson.
So he'd killed her. And like any traveller of the wasteland, he'd stripped her corpse of any meat and valuables—to be eaten, sold, or crafted. Finished with her, Kris was now a wasted husk of ribs, lips and a fairly pretty head, sitting in the sand ten kilometres or so behind him, no doubt being picked clean by vulture-bats and giant vole-spiders.
Jones was the last one left. Smith had died first, weeping into Jones' arms, blubbering something about an endless ocean and a whistle that wouldn't stop blowing—while the others stood by, sighing loudly and checking their watchless wrists for the time. A pack of frenzied bear-wolves had attacked and they'd used Smith as bait in order to get away. H'ver had been next, being sold as a slave to a grinning fat man who kept burping, farting and fingering his cavernous belly button. Tragically, Boogaloo had been crushed to death during a homing meteor shower—Kris and Jones had tried to scrape his guts from the red-grey sands, but that'd just made things worse.
And now Kris. Poor Kris. But at least her death hadn't been in vain. Her breasts gave the arches of his feet excellent support.
Jones smiled as he spotted an encampment up ahead. A little boy screamed to his mother that he was going to shoot scorpioclopses down at the radioactive pool, and ran off with his rifle slung over his shoulder. Perhaps the kind woman would have some refreshing nuke soda for him to drink, or delicious meat potatoes ready to be picked from the ground. Or maybe a new low-level quest to slay a few weak ghost rats that'd been haunting her cellar, perhaps with a semi-broken laserpistol as a reward. That would be useful, and he had a repair tool handy.
