There’s a time-honored tradition in the solar joint Doc’s Oasis; the toast. Only it isn’t your normal well-wishing over a tall class of amber-colored ale. The toast is a time to tell stories. To rant, to rave, to regale. Talk of grand triumphs and complete failures. All unfiltered, and all in the company of friends. This is one of those stories.
Well shit, guess I’m first, huh? That’s a new one. Ain’ever led the charge on one of these. Make it a bottle of Black Label, Doc, let’s see what I can do for the crew around here.
Name’s Jack T. Wellman. T stands for “Talos.” Occupation: Adventurer. Just me and my gal Seline, gallivanting across the four corners of the continent. Seeing what’s left, seeing what’s survived. God-willing, seeing if some folks are still out there. Ain’t seen too many wolves yet, but we’ve seen some wicked critters running around.
How far East? Far as our truck carries us. She’s been as far down as what they used to call “Texas.” Came back up to Central for more supplies, only had enough for the round trip. Needed to re-up the generator anyhow, that way we can pack our synthesizer from Homebase, make what we need quicker.
This last time, things sure got off to a strange start. Me and my gal were in bed one morning, on the road. Just laying there, her all tangled in this long black head of hair I got. And while we’re there, all cozied up in the sack, it happens.
