Chapter 1: A urine soaked beginning.
Good evening everyone. I’m Scribble Scrap, The Equestrian Wasteland’s first intrepid reporter pony, and I hate it here.
Of course, I’m not saying that as an indirect cry for help, an attempt for a strong, brave pony to come up, lift me off my rear, and take me to some variety of heaven, where Luna Cola comes cold as ice, and hookers don’t ask for caps. Then again, if anyone would happen to have said location on a map or something, I would say I’d give up my life of ‘drunkenly fighting off ghouls to obtain my latest fix’ for it. Regardless, might as well tell you miserable lot about me, and why you should listen to me. (Spoiler: It’s because I’m right. About everything. Ever.)
I was born comfortably to two loving parents, known as Bonesplinter and Fuckslayer. In case you’ve been living in a cave for the last eternity or so, that means I was born to raiders. Quite angry, drug fueled raiders, whose constant attempts to evade the authorities inspired my strongly nomadic tendencies, and the revelation that burning things is very, very fun. Now, you may be asking, ‘Why Scribble, you’re so handsome and interesting, and you know a lot of fancy interesting words! I thought Raiders were known for being ugly and totally not-charming, unlike you!’ Well, dearly infatuated reader, the charm comes natural to someone as dashing as me, and my stunning intelligence comes from the fact that, well, as it turns out, if you say ‘TEACH ME LETTERS YOU FLAMING CUNT’ loud enough, and with a really big gun, people tend to teach you your goddamn letters, and they will teach them extremely well. How I became a journalist? Simple. I write down everything I learn, say, take, and see, to make sure that when I wake up after my nightly binge, I’ll know where to pick up where I left off. Eventually, I realized I could sell it after I became lucid for a few caps. Money for nothing, y'know?
However, you didn’t come here for my eloquence, did you? No, dear reader, you came here to hear many, many things about the Equestrian wasteland. And the truth is, there’s plenty of interesting things about the Equestrian Wasteland! Of course, since you’re fat, lazy, and you’re likely barely able to keep up with my amazing eloquence as it is, you need a middleman of sorts. That’s where I come in, since, well, i'm the best editor I know. I go visit the amazing, breathtaking, awe–inspiring sights of the wasteland, and break them down into simple bits for you, the slack jawed, idiotic consumer, to enjoy. If you have a problem with that, pick up a 12 gauge, go out into the world, and attempt to find and kill me! My only statement is; get in line, would-be assassin! You’re not the first person to say, ‘My, I should kill that Scribble Chap!’, and some are dead set on being the only person that’s out there to kill me. In my opinion, I’m living the good life when some of my mortal enemies are killing off my other would be enemies. So, with that in mind, and the fact that one wrong turn in the Wastes will lead you to a Changeling hive and turned into a living egg sac, feel free. As the great philosopher ‘DarkScope6969’ said once, ‘COME AT ME BRO AND FIGHT ME IRL’. What that means? I don’t know. All I know is that it probably fits what I said.
Now, my first report should be something relatively special, and something that makes certain that you’d eagerly follow me to the brutal finish, and so I decided to mark my first story, as that one time I detonated a town. Holy shit, I'm going to hell for this, bucks and mares, so be prepared for the ride of your life! Now, I don't remember the events too clearly, as this was a pre-'writing everything down' piece of journalism, and I was on enough Mentats to the point where I could see in the future, and I could smell the feeling of the taste that you get when you figure out the Grandma really hated Zebras for some reason. But believe me, it's still good. So, sit back, light up some cigarettes, and let Scribble bring you back to one of his worst and most tragic mistakes...
Haha, I kid, I kid. That story's coming later, I swear. Probably the next broadcast, next sunday at 4 P.M. I love you, Equestrian Wasteland, please don't shoot me!
The broadcast ended soon, Scribble's bright and cheerful voice fading into white noise, a hoof slamming down on the table in frustration. The owner of the hoof was a rather large, cloaked pony, cigarette in mouth, a hazy trail of smoke and ash blooming up into the dark ceiling of the shack he was in. A cowboy hat, chopped up to look slightly like a fedora was perched on top of a messy mane, ears flat, a face that could be only for radio looking at the Pipbuck in frustration. “Scribble...” He muttered in a voice that sounded like he was gargling bleach for a week before he spoke. He leaned back, looking up in a way that he thought would make him seem introspective, but ended up just making him seem like he was trying to choke down a particularly difficult drink. “Scribbles H. Scrap. Murderer, Bandit, fancies himself a 'reporter'.” An attempt at a laugh was heard, “Twenty counts of murder of innocent civilians, multiple counts of theft, breaking and entering, vandalism, and exactly seventy five counts of Public Urination.” This interesting figure was none other than Buckeye Blazer, professional P.I., and diagnosed obsessive compulsive. Former NCR ranger, and was promptly honorably discharged so he could, 'Take a break from this 'Scribble' guy.' However, Buckeye didn't exactly know when to stop when he was on a roll, and these past few years have been a nonstop game of cat and mouse, if the mouse had no idea where the cat was and didn't particularly care.
However, Buckeye had the slightest feeling that he knew exactly where Scribble was going to be heading. The twisted, radioactive ruins of Megaton. Years ago, the bomb that was the infamous centerpiece of the town detonated, leaving no survivors, and no evidence Buckeye soon began to shake with excitement, his very bones warming up at the thought that he finally had Scribble! The idea of pinning Scribble for this crime, it'd be enough to execute him, certainly! He immediately got up and out of his sheet metal shack, closing the door with a sly smile on his face. He noted his former neighbor in the little temporary housing district, who was urinating on the shack, and decided it wouldn't be worth the trouble to arrest him, Buckeye having bigger cases, after all. So, he simply headed out of the northern gates, head filled with sugar-plums, and images of a blindfolded Scribble, cigarette in his mouth...
Scribble pulled off from the sheet metal shack, looking over at his former neighbor, shrugging, and moseying down south. He had different stories to catch anyways.
Scribble grumbled as he was making his way through the wasteland, tripping over random bits of metal and stomping on the occasional luna cola bottles that littered the fucking place. He knew littering was inevitable when half of the population had a death wish, and the other half was too busy filling the other half with lead to keep them from killing them. Such was the world, and so Scribble spent many a stop on his journey picking out a chandeliers worth of glass out of his hooves. Eventually, the pain and annoyance got to his head, and so he settled for the common wasteland solution of filling himself with enough grimy narcotics to the point where he didn't really care. His bag itself had enough felonies to keep the population of Megaton (R.I.P) to glorious ecstasy for a solid decade. One brahmin-skin sack of uppers, another of downers, dozens and dozens of balloons of jet, a few jugs of slowmo (An imported treat, all the way from the other coast.), and mentats crushed into a fine powder, poured into a salt shaker, a galaxy of various other pills rolling around, that he had no idea what they did, and finally, a straw, spoon, syringe, rolling papers, and a black strip of cloth to make sure everything went down smooth. In short, it'd be a fun few months.
The thing about Scribble was, in the end, he knew how to get from point A to point B in the godforsaken, lice infested hellhole of the Capital Wasteland better than anypony else, with a dangerous mixture of luck, insanity, trivia, and bizarre memorization. So, there he was, a mile out from the rest stop, at full gallop, only stopping to take huffs from a red balloon of Jet. Up above, on grey mountains of scrap, stood two Raiders, watching the enterprising pony in amusement as he huffed and ran through the area.
“Do you think he sees us?”
“Nah. Look at ‘im, he’s just running in a straight line.”
“Think he has money on him?”
“He has Jet. Might as well be money.”
“Fair enough.”
The two began to stumble down from the mountains, a few tires spoiling their arrival before they revealed themselves to scribble, one, tall, skinny, and ugly was right in front of him, knife strapped to hoof. The other, fat, short, and uglier, stood behind him, a click of an antique shotgun marking his arrival.
“Hey there friend,” Introduced the skinnier one, his teeth a rainbow of decay and pus as he spoke, dripping with false-friendliness and pus, “Looks like you got some good stuff on you, hm?” Scribble smiled, his eyes dilating rapidly, “Yep! Yep, yep, yep, yep! Yeeeeeep. Got the best stuff. I know a ghoul, man. This shit will make you feel like you're floating, and just dripping in ecstasy! The hangover's a bitch, but, what hangover isn't, eh?” The two chuckled, no stranger to hangovers themselves, “Yeah, yeah, I know what'cher talkin' 'bout.” The fatter one piped up, “You like sharin', right? Because we're friends here! We like to share? Aren't you gonna share your good stuff?”
“Nope!”
The two paused, not expecting this sudden defiance. and then realized that he was defying them, and so, he should be executed on the order of; 'I need my drugs right now.', quickly getting their weapons in gear. Or, in the case of the Skinny one, vaguely waving in his direction..
“Why I fuckin' oughta-”
“You fuckin' asshole. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't blow your head o-”
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Scribble moved like a blur, his hoof rising up, then down, taking the fatter ones head with it. The shotgun discharged, lifting a section of the ground up into gray, filmy dust. Eventually, when the dust cleared, all that was left was Scribble, panting and heaving as he held the shotgun (clumsily) in his mouth, back hoof stained up to the knee in gore, still standing in the crushed, wilted body of the fatter one's head. “Run. Now.”
The skinnier one turned his head to break out into a sprint. One bang, an old shell falling to the ground, a section of the junkie's head falling to the floor before the rest of his body. Scribble calmly whistled off key, dropping the dusty shotgun into the ground, pulling out another balloon of Jet. He had the slightest feeling it'd be a rather long, and tiresome day before he could stop and rest. Capital Wasteland was like that, sometimes. You just had to shrug, smile, and take your beating like a stallion. Sometimes, you could grow to like it. Sometimes, you could even get something good from it. Of course, that's one good decision from a sea of shitty bad ideas. This next one is debatable.
A day later, Scribble ended up in a motel. His mind was fuzzy, his body was numb, but a comfortable numb, and he felt sore. The bad kind of sore that meant you did something you regretted. He groaned, turning over on another pony, who was in the middle of lighting up a rolled paper full of something.
“Shit.”
“My name's Gonzo. Not shit.”
“...Right.”
“You were pretty neat last night. Where's your jet, man?”
“You asked nicely.”
“Always ask nice if it's gonna get you high. That's advice from a doctor, right there.”
“Bag. Has a sticker on it saying 'Go Giants'.”
“Nice.”
"Where am I?"
"New Appleoosa."
"Shit."
