» Fri Aug 20, 2010 2:06 pm A low wind picked up the scattered sands of the capital wasteland and swirled them around into a blinding cloud that obscured the desert like a morning fog.
Victor paused in his step to lean over and stroke Dogmeat. He brushed the sand grains from the dog's long fur, while the animal whined, leaning back to lick his master's fingers with his long, panting tongue.
Victor waited for the sand to settle before continuing his journey. He was dragging everything he could carry back from Canterbury and didn't want to walk into a raider or mutant ambush with all of it weighing him down. He checked his Pip-Boy to make sure he was still headed in the right direction and paused, waiting for the wind to die down.
When the dust and sand finally settled, Victor saw something strange in the desert ahead of him. For a second it looked like just another pile of garbage or twisted wreckage, but as he came closer and closer to it, Victor realized he was actually looking at a man. The man was seated on a large wooden chair, sitting completely out in the open, in the middle of the churning desert. The man was dressed like a raider, in crude rag tag armor, capped with a strange, shiny, metallic hat.
Alongside the man were heaps of junk and scavenge ? empty bottles, dented tins, broken dishes, and moldy trash. Along with the worthless detritus were a few valuable odds and ends, and a rusty minigun.
The man was sitting in an oversized oak throne, with delicately carved armrests, and plush red cushions. Behind the throne was a towering grandfather clock, still frozen at 9:40 A.M. from the atomic blast all those years ago. It was now slowly roasting under the afternoon sun.
At the man's dirty feet were several fat rad roaches, nibbling on the garbage that surrounded the throne.
Victor wiped his eyes like he was seeing a mirage. The desert dust and grime had become a second skin to him in the few weeks he had spent on the surface since leaving the vault. Although he was still mostly ignorant about life out on the wasteland, he had known since childhood that rad roaches were vicious insects that would eat anything. He used to shoot them as a kid with a BB gun when they breached the deep recesses of the vault - before his father had opened the doors to the outside and the insects attempted to consume everyone he knew.
Unlike those familiar, deadly insects, the roaches in front of the strange throne seemed completely docile. They didn't try to pick the wastelander's flesh off of his bones, instead content to munch on the moldy scraps that lay at his feet.
As Victor studied the wastelander, he wondered if the man had noticed him. He hadn't yet turned hostile which was always a good thing. People in the wasteland could be unpredictable. Against his better judgment, Victor decided to initiate contact. He waived his arms at the wastelander in a nervous greeting. He could see the man push up his metallic hat, squinting at him through the bright desert sun. As Victor came closer, he realized that the man's shimmering hat was a large colander - a strainer full of tiny holes.
"Welcome weary, wayward, wasteland wanderer. I am so pleased to see that another traveler has chosen to visit my magnificent kingdom. You have my official permission to traverse these lands or to stay and dawdle as long as you fancy," the strange man beamed to Victor from his throne.
"Thank you?"
Victor looked the man up and down, lingering on the roaches scurrying around his feet. Victor had become used to all the eccentricities of each individual wastelander. Every wastelander he had come across had, to some degree at least, mentally retreated into their own personal world to escape their soul crushing surroundings. This peculiar man, however, seemed to be in a league of his own in that department. Victor took his time thinking of how best to approach him.
"Hello . . . I'm looking for my father. His name is James. He is middle aged, about my height and weight, with black hair and brown eyes. He might be wearing a Vault 101 jumpsuit like this one," Victor showed the man the back of his blue vault suit. The words Vault 101 were emblazoned below his shoulders in bold yellow letters, "I was wondering if you have seen anyone like that out here."
The wastelander squinted in thought for a moment, "it is possible that he came here to partake in the jubilations at my coronation. It was a such a revelous celebration of insectivorian supplication. So many wasteland ambassadors chose to honor me with the pleasure of their attendance that I cannot remember the names nor the faces to go with them all."
Victor stood with his mouth agape. Dogmeat growled at one of the rad roaches that had ventured too close for the animal's comfort.
"Your coronation?" Victor blinked.
The man nodded and leaned back in his seat, "my official election to the Periplaneta Americana throne. It was only after said coronation that I was allowed to take my current appellation - The Roach King."
Victor scratched his dry scalp and glanced to Dogmeat. The animal seemed as perplexed as he was, "you're the Roach King?"
The man made a big grin and tapped his fingernails on his throne's lavish armrests, "I am Johnny Duke, the Roach King."
Victor couldn't help but smile. He noticed that the Roach King was nervously eying Dogmeat. Dogmeat looked like he was going to rip the King's cockroach subjects to pieces, like they were living chew toys.
Victor eased Dogmeat back with his dusty boot, "you were elected the Roach King?"
"Oh yes," the Roach King smiled, "I was chosen to take office after the great blattarian referendum of 2276 - following a runoff, of course, with my formidable electoral nemesis, the ignominious Baron of Munchsee."
The Roach King plucked a fat, glistening cockroach from the sand in front of his throne. He placed it on his lap and pet it like a six legged kitten. The insect's feelers brushed up against the King's face and the insect made a series of high pitched squeaks. The Roach King then delicately put the Baron of Munchsee back down on the ground.
Victor turned green, utterly revolted, "you realize kings aren't elected? They inherit being king from their father . . ."
"Homo sapiens may choose to select their kings through dynastic succession, but arthropods are much wiser you see. Through popular sovereignty they select the best and fittest among them to rule their kingdom."
Victor laughed to himself, "and you were the best cockroach then?"
The Roach King didn't seem to comprehend Victor's humor, "I was most fit to lead. . . who else could have ended the blood feud between the Duke of Glasgow and the Bishop of Falkland?" he asked seriously. The King pointed to two insects who were nibbling on a rancid Brahmin steak, "who else could have exposed the Baroness of Munchsee's advltery or more fairly apportioned the morsels from the state granary?" he tapped a crate of Fancy Lad Snack Cakes which lay beside his throne, "do you think Little Lord Dodsworth or the Duchess of Nhimsy could have solved these conundrums? I shudder at the thought of all of these poor subjects being led by those with such little leadership prowess."
Victor slowly nodded, "good point. . .ok then. . .I think I'll be on my way," he began to walk away, shaking his head in amusemant.
"You're leaving already?" the Roach King raised an eyebrow, "wouldn't you like the royal tour? Perhaps you would like to lodge for the night in my castle?"
The Roach King looked back to a small cot laid out on the sand behind his throne. The bed was littered with old trash and covered with yellow and black mold stains. A rad roach poked out from a tear in its mattress, and then disappeared into the bedding, making a small bulge in the surface as it crawled around.
"That's a definite no," Victor gagged, "I'm . . . just passing through."
"Hmmm. Ah, I see. You're in awe of my regal presence. Nobility can be such a curse. The hoi polloi are always too intimidated to mingle with someone such as myself. . .But it is so hard to live among arthropods and not feel the occasional pangs for mammalian companionship," the Roach King sighed.
"I met a woman who would be perfect for you. She lives just outside of Canterbury Commons, underground, in an ant colony. It's only a few miles from here. Calls herself the 'Antagonizer' - Queen of the ants. You'd be a cute couple," Victor laughed.
"Urgh!" the Roach King shuddered, "I could think of nothing worse then to live with formicidaen company. They're all the same you see - all clones of one another. No individuality to speak of. They have none of the endearing personal foibles and quirks of each, distinctive, blattarian personality."
Victor nodded, "yup, ants are gross. She was actually pretty attractive though. . . can't say I didn't try," Victor egged on Dogmeat, "I'll be leaving."
"Of course, of course," the Roach King sadly nodded, "I have delayed your departure long enough. BUT," he dramatically paused, "before you go, please allow me to knight you."
The Roach king immediately reached under his throne and snatched an old tire iron from the dirt.
"You want to knight me with a tire iron?" Victor smiled, amused.
The Roach King turned the tire iron in his fingers. His eyes seemed to sparkle, "this is my royal scepter. It was bestowed upon me by the Bishop of Falkland the day I was crowed," the Roach King tapped his metal helmet.
Victor pointed to the Roach King's hat, "that is used to strain noodles," he then pointed to the tire iron, "that is used to remove lug nuts," he chuckled.
The Roach King's smile faded. He seemed to become a little sullen and sat in silence.
Victor closed his eyes and sighed, "okay, you know what? Go ahead and knight me. Then I'll be on my way."
The twinkle returned to the Roach King's eyes. He rubbed his hands together and then readied his kingly scepter, "what should I knight you? Where do you hail from, wanderer?"
"My name is Victor. I'm from Vault 101."
"Please kneel," the Roach King commanded holding his scepter high in the air.
Victor shooed away the roaches and knelt down in the sand in front of the Roach King's throne. He shook his head in disbelief. He was silently laughing to himself, still amazed that after all of the horror he had found outside, he was still willing to play along with something like this.
"I knight thee Sir Victor - The Valliant Vault Vagabond," the Roach King tapped both of Victor's shoulders with his royal tire iron.
Victor winced at his new title, "how about just Sir Victor of Vault 101."
"Hmm," the Roach King scratched his chin, "no. . .I don't like the ring of that."
"Of course you don't," Victor rolled his eyes. He stood back up, "well thanks for. . . .that. Now it's time for me to-"
"And now!" the Roach King loudly interrupted, "a brief libation to celebrate your new honorific."
The Roach King reached back under his throne and pulled up a warm bottle of whiskey. He then fished around in the trash at his feet, shooing away a few roaches, so he could pick up two filthy glasses from the detritus. The glasses were caked in sand and moldy grime. Seemingly oblivious to their condition, the Roach King began to pour the amber liquid into them. The dirt and trash swirled around in the alcohol.
Victor looked down at his disgusting drink. He hoped the alcohol had killed whatever horrible bacteria were lurking in it. He was eager to leave.
"A drink. Hooray," Victor said emptily. He began to feign swallowing the foul concoction, "cheers."
"No, no now," the Roach King grabbed Victor's arm, "a proper toast please."
Victor closed his eyes and sighed.
While his eyes were closed, the Roach King stomped his boot in the sand, startling him and Dogmeat.
"Baroness Munchsee, stop goggling Lord Dodsworth and turn your attention to our honored guest!" the Roach King yelled at a squat, reddish cockroach.
The insect chirped once and continued to munch on a glob of white slime.
The Roach King smiled, satisfied that he now had everyone's attention, "ok, now a proper toast. Please do the honor Sir Victor," he held his dirty glass up high.
Victor raised his own glass, "uhhh. . .to life above ground, in this hellhole. Here's to the both of us finding somewhere much, much better to live."
The Roach King frowned, "what a depressing toast. Why not give thanks for your enlivening company or the glorious scenery?" the Roach King held his arms out, motioning to the landscape around him.
Victor scanned every horizon. They were in the middle of a bleak, desolate desert.
"The glorious scenery?" Victor made an exaggerated shrug, "look around. This wasteland is a hellhole. Everything is dead, everyone is either a murdering a**hole, a garden variety a**hole-" he stared at the Roach King with a sarcastic smile, "or a mental patient. I can't wait to get back to the vault and Amata."
The Roach King smiled, "I see now. It's a woman who has gotten you in such a lowly state, isn't it. I know much of women and love. I was once in love myself."
"With one of your subjects?" Victor giggled at the thought.
"Oh no. No, this was years and years before I became a king," the Roach King said seriously, "women are such wily creatures. The games they play with our hearts. Did your Amata break your heart? Did she lay with another?"
"No," Victor paused in contemplation. He had been gone for a while and there really wasn't any way for him to be sure she hadn't, "this just isn't how I wanted to live my life. I was fine locked into that vault. It was never a cage to me. I was comfortable, I was safe, I had a girlfriend, and a future. I always liked tinkering with things, I was going to repair Pip-Boys. . . I only came up here to find my father, wherever he went. It feels like he didn't want me to find him anyway. . . but whatever. He must have had his reasons; I just need to know he's okay," Victor stopped to take in his desolate surroundings.
"There comes a time for all of us to mature, Sir Victor. The fa?ade of perfection and parental infallibility from your vault womb has been stripped away. Now you are in the wasteland of advlthood. You can see the world for what it really is, but don't dwell on the veneer. The essence of the wasteland comes from the meaning you give to it," the Roach King peered over his shoulder, "although this place may have once been greener and more pleasant, now it is quiet. There is enough freedom and emptiness for a lone wanderer to be able to mold this world to his whim. Out here, in the barren desert, any man can have his own kingly, kingdom."
Victor stared at his horrible drink. He took shallow sip, "you mean I shouldn't let this hellhole affect me," he paused, "I should affect it." He svcked on his tongue and stood in silence for a few minutes. He then put his glass down on the sand and smiled, "shockingly. . .that's the best advice I've been given since I was abandoned."
The Roach King gave Victor a fatherly smile, "if you find your missing father, bring him back to my kingdom so we can have a proper feast, the likes of which the wasteland has never seen."
"I'm sure it hasn't," Victor laughed. He clapped to get Dogmeat's attention and began to walk off into the desert, "until that day. . . "
The Roach King watched Victor walk away. Before he was out of earshot, he called out to him one last time, "Sir Victor, always remember how wonderful the wasteland is. After all, in what other time or place could a man like me be elected King?"
