Jack helped his other gang members load the stripped, rotting corpses into the wooden crate and toss them into the Tidal Basin. They all shot their guns into the air, cheering, shooting up physco, and taking jet. Jack put on his new Telsa Power Armor and Eyebot Helmet on. He was the leader of a break-off band of raider, who disagreed with Ashur's little pig-pen. They called the gang The Wasteland Anarchists.

He polished a trophy from the Pitt, an Infiltrator gun. Only the leader of the gang gets to carry the best gun, and wear the heaviest armor, and to be the leader, you have to kill the leader, and to do that you're either the best, or the luckiest in the gang. He fired his gun and all the noise stopped instantly. "Okay, you pigs, wrap it up, we're heading to camp...NOW! The meat is probably hungry! Hah!". Even though they WERE a break-off, they still kept some raider traditions. Robbing, killing, slaves, drugs, booze, rarely, cannibalism.

Back at the encampment it was normal for a bit. Poker, drinking alcohol and Nuka-Cola Quantum, and beating and shooting and eating the slaves. Suddenly a green gooey bolt came across and reduced a slave into a messy pile of green. Then it was quiet. In the Capital Wasteland. At night. Never a good sign. The enclave ran over the hill and began shooting at everything. Slave and Wasteland Anarchist alike. It was a battle zone, plasma and laser rifles on one side, shotguns, pistols, assault and hunting rifles on the other. Jack, taking immediate action, kicked over the metal table, he was playing cards at, for cover. "ANARCHISTS! USE THE MOLOTOVS!" The home-made fire bombs scraqed orange across the black wasteland sky, and the bottles crashed down on the steel armor, letting the mix of oil and fire light up the tin men.


Jack peeked through his his gun sight and fired. 5.57 ammo was at least better than something like 32. caliber or 10 millimeter against power armor. It took twenty shots to kill one when aiming at the chest and thirteen shots to the helmet to penetrate. Bullets mowed down the Anarchists, the tin army seemed unstoppable. He picked up the table and threw it at the enclave, knocking them over, but killing none. Jack dashed for a shack at the camp. He knocked down the door. He watched as his gangsters were put to sleep my missiles and miniguns. He threw a grenade out the window, killing eight of the enclave. It didn't matter. Even though there was only fifty of them and over one hundred of him, they had better armor and weapons... ' But why, why would the enclave waste their resources on a gang like us? '. Then he knew. The small camp of three enclave must of been important. Why? He didn't know. Maybe it was a special mission, observations, delivering a package or sending a message.


Jack knew it was his fault the Anarchists were about to be no more, so he did what he had to do. He strapped a pulse bomb to himself. If he died anyone within a mile would be reduced to ashes. He picked up the wooden door and used it as a shield before bashing it into the enclave. He dropped it then began to shoot them, successfully killing only three. Then he was shot with a plasma bolt to the head. He was the last of The Wastleland Anarchists. The Deathclaw, mole rats, and every wasteland critter observed the explosion. The screams of the tortured souls were unheard, just the beauty of an endless fire on the night sky.


"Hate is baggage, life's too short to be pissed off all the time."-
Danny, American History X

Nice to know someone is quoting a movie about some crazed Skinheads. :rolleyes:

Hey, someone had to do it