I struggled to fight the others off at the supply depot. You were only supposed to get enough rations for one, I walked away with four. Oh I'm sure they'll find the bodies soon enough, but they understand the new law and order: a man will do anything to survive.
It's been a heady couple of hours since the Mega-Depression wiped out civilization. I walk the burnt out streets, the cracked pavement, and abandoned buildings of Pittsburgh and think of how quickly complete desolation hit. The new desolation, not the old desolation next to it. The older stuff has more rust on it, that's how you can tell.
I go to buy some hydro, pleased with how all the new post-apocalyptic word slang has taken hold so quickly. We've worked out a barter system based on chickens, nickels, and bits of string. One can only hope that this mornings decree from the Hobo Council that the chicken markets will be deregulated will not have an adverse affect on our new societal order. There is talk around the underpass of an assault on the World's Biggest Ball of Twine to secure our finances, but we are unclear whether it is in Darwin, MN., Cawker City, KS., or Branson, MO. I gave the spear merchant two eggs for a trident, confident that no one would take my land tonight.
One of the members of the Hobo Council walks by, unguarded. It is Boxcar Bill, Lord of Neckbones. I declare my intentions under the Hobo Right of Challenges. I strike, ramming my trident into his neck, killing him instantly. By the law of Hobo succession, I can now fight for his spot on the Council in the uncreatively named Thunderdome. With any luck, the next time I contact you through the apocalyptic remnants of these tubes, I will be the Bindle King!
End communication.
Monday, September 15, 2008
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