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| Hard Time Ant Killin' Blues; Solo post, Sheffield. How hard could it be to kill a few ants in a town of hunters? | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Apr 23 2018, 03:50 AM (47 Views) | |
| BornOnBoard | Apr 23 2018, 03:50 AM Post #1 |
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Vault idiot
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“Woah there big fella.” A voice called out from behind its sandbagged position, “Gonna have to declare yourself. Stay right there and state your name and purpose.” Ronald Caldwell pressed a hand to his forehead to block out the beating sun over his head. He was pleased to find that his internal compass still seemed to be on track. Sheffield was where his information had said it was. The stout man had followed an old road called, according to the sign, Georgetown for quite a while and had ended up at what appeared to be the far eastern entrance to the town. “Ahh…” He shook himself out of thoughts and spoke. “Ronald Caldwell, traveling pest exterminator. I’m here looking for work.” There was a pause. With his hand shading his good eye, he could barely make out two men conversing amongst themselves. One had a list in hand - Ronald presumed it was some kind of docket or list the guards had to check when someone came to the gate - and the other had a pair of binoculars. There a dimmed searchlight and an old machine gun in the post as well, and the two guards had an tarp stretched over a few poles to keep the sun off their heads. After a few seconds, the man with the binos lowered them and waved him forward. The exterminator approached the hardpoint, thumbs hooked through the straps of his pack. He could feel the butt of his flamethrower bouncing against the back of his leg where it hung from a shoulder strap as he walked. He was particularly tired of that sensation, and was looking forward to a good sit in a chair. A rocking chair, he dearly hoped. As he got closer, one of the guards held out a hand, motioning him to stop. “Alright. You’re not on my list, so I figure you’re alright to enter.” The guard with the papers said, “That a flamethrower on your shoulder there?” Ronald nodded. Then, after a pause, he said, “Y-yes sir. A small one.” “Right.” The guard laid his docket down. “We don’t make you turn in your guns, mostly, but a flamer is a legitimate hazard. I’ll ask that you walk around town without it hooked up to the gas, so’n you don’t cause a conflagration. Fair enough?” “Reckon so, sir.” Ronald swung the device off his shoulder and untwisted the flamer’s gas canister from its housing. He aimed it at the ground, and without engaging the pilot light, dumped the fuel out of the projector as well, shaking the last few drops out. The guard nodded, and stepped aside. “Welcome to Sheffield.” |
| Ronald Caldwell, Level 1 Dude | |
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| BornOnBoard | Apr 23 2018, 01:45 PM Post #2 |
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Vault idiot
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It wasn’t long before Ronald found himself a chair, right outside the Hog Hunting building on Kirk avenue. He sat for a while, hand-rolling a smoke from tobacco and paper he’d produced from his weathered green canvas backpack. There weren’t many people around Sheffield, he’d noticed. The place was quiet. Every so often in the distance he’d hear the sharp, echoing report of a gunshot - probably a sign that this was the hunter’s town everyone had said it was. He took a drag, then checked the position of the sun. Funny, he thought, by this time wasn’t there supposed to be a horde of Deathclaws besieging the town? Super Mutants riding radscorpions? It seemed awful calm for a place constantly under attack by the very worst Texas had to offer. Thoughts like this went through his mind for a while as he stared into the middle distance, his body grateful for the reprieve. This old rocking chair on this old porch was so comfortable, Ronald thought again, that he’d almost cotton to sitting in it forever. “You alright there fella?” a voice asked him to his left. It took a few seconds to register that the voice was directed at him. “Oh, what?” He jumped, “Who, me?” A man looked at him, dressed in the same radscorpion hide armor and steel helmet as the guards outside. He pointed. “Your smoke son. It’s bought ta burn yer fangers if you’n let it burn a little longer. You was staring into space so’n I didn’t know if you realized.” Ronald looked to his cigarette, then nodded. He stabbed it out on his boot and flicked it into a nearby bucket, which was filled with other cigarette butts. “Mighty kind of you, I’m fine.” He said. The man nodded, then started to walk off. “Wait!” Ronald started. The man stopped, and turned to look at the exterminator again. “Yea?” “You wouldn’t happen to know if anyone around here needed some pest control services, would you?” Ronald asked, “It’s kind of why I’m here.” “Oh, a critter cooker.” The guard nodded, “That’s why you looked so crisped. Yea, reckon I heard one of the farmers over yonder was havin’ himself an ant problem. Name’a....” The guard snapped his fingers a few times. “Studemeyer, I think. Harold Studemeyer. Says somes ants slipped the cordon and chewed up his crop a little. Scared ‘em off and we’ve patched the breach they came through, but I doubt that’s satisfied the crotchety ol’ coot.” “Studemeyer. Alright.” Ronald said, “Mighty kind of you to say.” The guard tipped his helmet, and took a few steps away, but stopped. He turned around again. “Oh, well, I plumb forgot. Don’t forget to get yourself a permit if’n you’re gonna take a crack at the wildlife. I know you ain’t really here to hunt, but I ain’t sure if pest control is exempt, so better safe’n sorry, right?” “Right.” Ronald smiled, “I will. It’s inside?” “Ayup. You got it pard.” The guard tipped his helmet again, and walked off, whistling. Edited by BornOnBoard, Apr 23 2018, 01:46 PM.
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| Ronald Caldwell, Level 1 Dude | |
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| BornOnBoard | Apr 24 2018, 02:44 AM Post #3 |
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Vault idiot
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It wasn’t terribly long before Ronald got his permit appointment. It was a simple process - he went up to the permit issuance desk, sat down, told the man his name (which was checked against a similar looking docket to the one the guards had out front), and then asked a few questions about what he wanted to hunt and why. When Ron explained his purpose, the permit man nodded and let out a long sigh as he slapped a piece of parchment on his desk. “Well, sorry to say, pest control here counts as hunting when the pest in question is legal hunting quarry. That means seasonal restrictions and bag limits still apply.” The permit man stated, as he scribbled onto a piece of paper. “Ants huh?” “Yes sir. Ants.” Ronald answered, “Apparently farmers have had issues with them lately?” The permit man dipped his quill into a bottle of ink, then scribbled a little more. Satisfied, he pushed the paper in front of the exterminator. “Yea, ol’ Studemeyer’s been raisin’ a blue hell about ants eating his harvest.” he stated, “Puts us in an interesting situation, you don’t mind me saying.” Ron looked at the piece of paper in front of him - it was a handwritten chit, stating that the bearer was authorized a guide and the seasonal bag limit for Giant Ants, as of this current date. Ron signed on the uneven line the man had drew with the quill on the desk, in cursive. The permit man frowned, but in a way that suggested he was a little impressed. “Oh, you can sign?” He asked, “Been a while since I seen cursive. Forgive me for saying but you didn’t look like you was educated.” “I’ll take it as a compliment sir. My parents didn’t have much but they did read a lot. I guess I caught some of that.” Ron smiled, and the man smiled back. “You were saying about this ‘interesting situation?” “Oh, well. Sheffield’s a hunting town, y’know.” The permit man scratched the back of his neck. “Farming’s important - very important, but we don’t see a lot of the production. That mostly gets traded off, or is eaten as subsistence for the farmers themselves. Ain’t as much sympathy for farmer’s plights as their should be, I feel.” “Right.” Ron said, “So what does that mean?” “Well, most common folk here live on a diet of meat. Which means nine swings of a cat out of ten, they side with the hunters on most issues regarding wildlife. Ants nibbling on the harvest is bad - and if this was any other town, I’d say burn ‘em and sleep soundly the next day, but a lot of people are gonna see it as hurting their livelihoods, even if with all the the lions, tigers, and geckos crawlin’ out of the woodwork daily here. Plus it ain’t even legal. Even in a small hive you’d kill twice to thrice times your bag limit of ants burning the place out, which means then a trip to the brig if your guide finds out about it.” The man took a sip from a chipped mug. Ron could smell the cloying scent of hot chicory brew emanating from it. That had been his father’s favorite, and perhaps had been the reason they’d spent so much time wandering Louisiana. He’d have to find where the town was selling it, he decided. “An interesting problem, I suppose.” Ron said, “You wouldn’t think it’d be so difficult to kill some animals in a place like this, but there you have it.” “Well, that’s just how the crab cake crumbles, ain’t it pard?” The permit man said, then laughed. “Anyways, you got your permit, that’ll be good for your stay here. If’n you decide to take the Studemeyer job, you just come on back and we’ll rustle up a guide for you so you can take a whack at it. Don’t see how, though. Gettin’ rid of a whole hive of ants without going over your bag limit, that arithmetic just don’t add up.” “Well, I was never much for math, begging your pardon sir. Writing in cursive was more my speed.” Ron stood up, and so did the man, who laughed. They shook hands. “Good huntin’ son.” The permit man said. Ron smiled in response, tipped a salute of sorts, and walked out. Edited by BornOnBoard, Apr 24 2018, 02:52 AM.
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| Ronald Caldwell, Level 1 Dude | |
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| BornOnBoard | Apr 25 2018, 03:16 AM Post #4 |
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Vault idiot
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It took Ron two hours to make it over to the farms, but mostly because he wanted to track down a cup of that chicory brew the permit man was sipping on - bemusedly provided by the Ghoul proprietor of the Booze Bucket, who, despite not even offering it on the menu, humored the rambler with a cup of it. Ron had poured it into a tin mess cup he carried with him, and it was this he sipped on as he walked west. He had decided that it had been worth the effort. As he walked he’d periodically stop and shout out to the farmhands still working the fields as evening set for directions, and they would dutifully point him in the direction of the Studemeyer farm. As Ron walked away, they’d lean on their pitchforks and shovels and shake their heads. Imagine that. Someone actually seeking out that miserable old coot. Eventually, Ron made it to Harold Studemeyer’s shack, just as the sun was beginning to settle behind the horizon. It had been a long walk - Harold’s plot rested against the very northwest corner of the farmland, and Ron couldn’t just walk as the crow flies - he had had to weave in and out on paths through the crop rows so as not to tread on the harvest. He stepped up to the screen door and gently rapped on it, stepping back after he did so. “Goldurnit!” A raspy voice shouted from somewhere in the bowels of the house, “It’s closin’ up time! Go away! I’m tryin’ to get some shut eye!” Ron furrowed his brow. He didn’t think about that. Maybe he should’ve come tomorrow morning? In any case, he decided to try his luck. “Mister Studemeyer?” Ron said, as loud as he could without yelling, “I’m a traveling pest exterminator. I’m here to ask you about your ant problem.” “What? What in God’s green earth did you say?” The man who was presumably Studemeyer shouted back, “You got the nerve to interrupt my bedtime routine and you can’t even speak clearly? I swear, some people…!” “The ants, Mister Studemeyer!” Ron shouted, “I’m here to talk to you about the ants!” Silence. Ron waited, and waited some more. Just as he was about to call it a wash, he saw an old man emerge from the darkness within the house, bone thin and clad in only a white cotton shirt that hung down to his knees. With a gnarled hand, he slid the lock open on his door and opened it, squinting at the unfamiliar man on his porch. “Suppose it’s too much to ask that you don’t smell like a fuckin’ ashtray, huh? Ever heard of a bath, son?” Harold Studemeyer spat this out in such a way that suggested he didn’t want or need an answer. Ron smiled and shrugged. To this, Studemeyer grunted, then stepped aside. “Were you raised in a barn? Don’t just stand there with that dumb old grin on your mug, come in. Did the Lodge send you?” Ron talked as he stepped in the shack. “No, they only told me you were looking for an exterminator, sir. I sort of… sent myself. I do apologize for the hour I arrived, however.” “Hnn. Don’t need your sorry, boy.” Harold said, slamming the door behind Ron. “Get you somethin’ to drink?” Ron was about to decline, until an idea formed in his head. He could - past the overwhelming scent of human-derived fertilizer, just make out a scent coming from Harold’s fields that was similar to the drink he’d just had. “You wouldn’t happen to have some of that chicory brew, would you sir?” With that, it was like someone flipped a switch in Studemeyer’s brain. “Oh, got a taste for it? Well, you’re in luck. I might be the only man growin’ it outside of Louisiana.” He pronounced it ‘Loozey-anna’. Ron smiled as he sat in a rickety old chair at what was presumably the Studemeyer dining room table. The farmer tottered about, lighting an old, Pre-war propane stove and retrieving two mugs from a cupboard, whose door squealed in protest on opening and was completely silent on closing. Harold said nothing as he worked, and from the way the room felt, Ron decided that was how the old man preferred it. After a few minutes, the old man set two mugs down, and sat down himself. Both of them blew on their drinks, and took a few sips. “Good stuff, eh?” Harold asked. “Haven’t had it in a long time, sir.” Ron said, “But the permit man was drinking it, and I had to try myself some. Had a little on the way here too, matter of fact.” “Oh, did you? Where’d you get it from?” The old man raised his eyebrows. “The Booze Bucket.” Ron said, “The owner, Jorge, I think? He seemed real amused I even asked, but he got me some just the same.” Harold smiled. “He’s a good man, Jorge. Smells a little off in the summer, but he can’t help it, I suppose.” “Oh, don’t we all.” Ron said, taking a big sip, “Man, that’s a swell cup. I could sit here and chat all day, sir, but I think we really should discuss the run in you had with those ants. I feel like I’m putting you out, what with you looking like you were about to go to bed.” Harold nodded, lost in thought. He tapped his fingers on the table, each in sequence. Index, middle, ring, pinky, then over again. “What did the permit man - Was he kind of a thickset fellow? Fat, had a mustache?” Harold asked. “What did he say to you? About my problem?” Ron furrowed his brow. He didn’t really pay so much attention to the permit giver’s appearance, but now that he thought about it, he had been heavyset. “Uh, yea. Yea he was.” Ron said, “He said that pest control is still subject to the same rules as hunting when it concerns legal quarry, so’s I still had to obey seasonal restrictions and uh… bag limits, I think he said.” “Ridiculous. How are you supposed to clear a whole hive and still keep under a bag limit?” Harold scoffed. “That Richard. Would it kill him to make an exception? He knows the sheriff practically bends over backwards for outsiders, especially ones looking for work…” Harold paused. “Oh, I meant no offense sonny. It’s just, seein’ as you ain’t from ‘round here…” Ron held up a hand and shook his head. “You’re absolutely right, I ain’t. “People ain’t got much good to say about me boy, I’m sure you noticed. They say I’m a grumpy ol’ coot, and probably much worse when I can’t hear ‘em.” Studemeyer said, “But I can’t stand it when they scoff at me over somethin’ this serious. We are surrounded by hostile critters, and when one makes it into the town for the first time in a while, no one even seems to care. First it’s my chicory plants, then it might be the whole harvest. Or, they might start carryin’ away kids in the middle of the night. And when I bring this up to our very own security force, all I get is dismissal. When I talk to the other farmers, they just nod their heads and talk a whole lotta saccharine Brahmin-shit and then go back to their houses and thank the Lord it wasn’t them.” He drained his cup. “It’s bullshit, boy. This is bigger than my chicory root.” Ron nodded, listening intently. The old man was more right than he knew - a breach like that could be the beginning of the end for a settlement as small as this. He’d certainly seen his fair share of empty shantytowns in his travels, with naught but bones and litter left to leave silent testament to their existence. “Now I’m talkin’ your ear off. Point is, the ants came in. I scared ‘em off with my shotgun, two blasts and I sent the things running off. Don’t think they like the loud noises.” The farmer said. “There was a breach in the wall towards the northwest corner of my plot. A loose sheet of corrugated tin that the damn thing slipped through. Move it just right and you can get a hole big enough to get a man through at a squat, which is more than enough for those bastards. Unbelievable. They said they fixed it but that ain’t enough. Them ants are still out there, and it’s only a matter of time until they find another hole.” Ron nodded through the whole thing. When the old man finished, he drained his cup too. “Alright. I think I got the gist of it.” He said, setting his cup down. “Any idea where the ants might be coming from?” “Hrnh.” Harold scratched under his own chin, which was stubbly with white hairs. “Got a couple farmhands say they hunt on their downtime. Heard them sayin’ there was a new anthill done sprung up nearby. Near some old… factory or some such. I don’t remember. They was talking about it all hush-hush though, but my hearing’s still sharp.” “Alright, well.” Ron pushed his mug back towards Harold, who took it and set it next to his own. “I think I’ve got enough for this evening. Mister Studemeyer, based on what I’ve heard, I’ve decided to take the job.” The old man seemed astonished. “What? Take it? You must be stupid. Clear out a ant hive without exceeding your bag limit? Are you crazy? What’re you gonna do, spirit the damn things away?” Ron smiled, and simply tapped the side of his head. “Great. You really are simple.” The farmer threw his hands up. “Can’t wait to see you in the Sheffield obituary. Anything else?” “Just permission to come back tomorrow and question your farmhands, maybe even look at the breach if you’ll let me. It’s a little dark to still be working, after all.” Ron said, standing up. “I promise not to step on the chicory plants.” “Suit yourself.” Harold said, standing up as well. The two men shook hands. “Say, pard, I never got your name.” “Ronald Caldwell, sir.” The exterminator said. “Traveling pest exterminator.” “Hnnh.” The older man grunted. He made a dismissive wave of his hand, and with that, Ron left. |
| Ronald Caldwell, Level 1 Dude | |
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