Welcome back to another segment of Writing and Styling Evolution. We continue with another entry of the dystopian/post-apocalyptic action comedy mess that is The Diary of The Wasteland Bear God. We’ve watched The Bear God change a tad, smite a lot of people, fornicate, be raunchy as balls, and more. Now, we have his Left Hand, Ben. Yes, that is a play of the whole Right Hand of God deal.
This post explores what The Bear God was thinking of how Ben evolving, getting juiced up on magic, his little rant in the prior entry with “C’thulu.” There are some other magics at work here, as the story will go on. You also see a glimmer of The Bear God’s more sensitive side. It’s not as transparent now. . .just wait.
You also see what it’s like having Ben and The Bear God to fight side by side. Because what more fun is there than having two powerful entities go balls to the wall and kick ass?
I may do a double-stuffed post again because those are fun, and also just to provide more context. I’ll see.
Anyway, the title of this entry is a nod to Less Than Jake’s song “Cheese.” The first words are “EVERYONE TO THE BAR!” I found it fitting. . .and also because I felt like it. 😀
Come back tomorrow for a possible double-stuffed post and more goodies.
Until next time,
The Diary of the Wasteland Bear God
Season One: Episode Fifteen
[Everyone to the Bar!]
With greatness, comes a reputation that you must uphold. Show weakness, and then anyone will dare defy you, walk all over you, or even try to kill you. Rise up. Strike those down who would dare challenge you.
—Master Orator Thai Mai Shu, Never Go Drinking With A Drunk 2:11
While my journey to the museum was eventful, it is also quite troubling. Ben has grown up—well, more so mutated because of magic. . .but that’s beside the point. I trust he does think me to be stupid in that I did not hear his little speech about “wrecking me,” etc. Whether it is for vengeance, or domination, whatever. I know there will probably be a day in which I will have to put him down.
I do not like having to put down my minions, or members of my flock, but if they dare challenge me, so be it. They test my mettle, try their might against me! And spit in my face my blessings of protection and salvation.
Maybe I should have just let The Maker keep my soul, or banish me to another dimension. . .or something. The insurmountable tasks, and the daily grind of wandering about trying to save people, cities, destroy the impure, unjust. It’s very tiring for a Bear God.
I’ve taken it upon myself to have a night out at the bar. I haven’t done so in quite some time, and I feel it necessary to converse with myself, and to ponder the teachings of my old master, Thai Mai Shu. If there was ever any wisdom to be found, it was from [and by] him.
I gather that, perhaps, Ben may want to accompany me. I do not really care, however, I will strike him down if he gets too. . .boisterous in his words of destruction. Whatever changed him, I feel has changed him for the worst. Still, I wonder if there is some way to save him. Bah, only time will tell.
I arrived at the bar in downtown Lexington. Sparse as it were, with as many patrons as there were dead Raider bodies in the street. . .with the occasional mole rat. One even had a rat poking out its ass. Sad sap. I suppose it was the modern type of gerbiling.
As I figured, Ben joined my company. Insisting that I’d probably be best to have him at my side if things were to get out of hand. I don’t know what he’s talking about. I have paws, not hands. He has claws, not hands. The hell is it with hands!? Although, I do remember the time when I did have hands. . .Oh, the sweet action they saw. Especially, when I’d get them oiled up and [the rest of the passage is indecipherable.]
I ordered a round of drinks for Ben and I. He didn’t have much to say. He just watched the folks that eyed him and I. Can’t really blame him, I guess. He was a Mirelurk after all. Nasty creatures as they were, but still. . .I had made a promise to Queenie—one that I am starting to doubt, and wish that I hadn’t done so. Alas, my tongue flicked its righteous cause and has given me my sentence. Maybe I could convince The Maker to smite him?
[No, you cannot.] —The Maker.
Fuck you too, you divine self-righteous asshole.
Anyway, as I was saying. . .We minded our own business. Had a few rounds. The thought occurred to me to just get completely smashed, but I didn’t. . .yet. The thing about Master Shu’s teachings were this: you could only understand them if you were piss drunk. I mean really, really drunk. It was all garbled otherwise. I guess if you’re a brewmaster, and you sample your work while teaching. . .that happens. Something. I don’t know.
As I recanted the teachings and sayings of Master Shu, and “meditated” on them, Ben nudged me.
“We may have a problem,” he said.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Well. . .we have some Synths, some Raiders, Gunners, and I think—yeah, there’s a pair of Deathclaws coming for us.” He observed outside.
It just wasn’t my night. . .or my time. I can’t catch a break. However, I sure as hell can break a bunch of bones!
“Pick out a song, Ben. It’s wrecking time!”