I look down at the watch tattooed on my wrist. It&rsquo;s 10:00. Fuck. I look up at my wall clock to see if it is one of the two times a day that my wrist is correct. 12:20. Double fuck. Even worse. My watch is way off, and I&rsquo;ve got five minutes to get to the dentist.&nbsp;
You see, I can&rsquo;t be late for this dentist appointment. Not only did my mother leave me one dentist visit in her will, but I&rsquo;m also unsure as to what exactly a dentist does. Am I in danger? Your guess is as good as mine. Most people never get to see a living dentist, so I have a duty to be a keeper of this knowledge for my descendants. Who knows when it could prove valuable.
I hop in my car and slam on the gas. Then I take my foot off the gas, put my car in drive, slam the gas again, and peel out of my garage. I need some speed, so I pull an automatic rifle out of my glove compartment and start blasting out the back windshield. Recoil is going to take me all the way. Confused? It&rsquo;s called Newton&rsquo;s Third Law&mdash;look it up.&nbsp;
I look down at the map I tattooed on my arm and realize I should probably invest in some pens. Paper too, maybe, if I want to treat myself. I also realize I&rsquo;m getting close to the dentist. I close my eyes and imagine myself in the dentist&rsquo;s house. It&rsquo;s a green&mdash;blue&mdash;red building? In the room, there are&hellip; people? I&rsquo;ve got nothing. I truly have no inclination of what a dentist is.
I don&rsquo;t have time to park, so I run my car up on the sidewalk. I blast through the door and see him. The dentist. &ldquo;Did you make an appointment?&rdquo; It can&rsquo;t be. I check my watch, in disbelief. Still 10:00. Never had a chance.

I look down at the watch tattooed on my wrist. It’s 10:00. Fuck. I look up at my wall clock to see i...

Late

I hate school. I hate the radioactive desks, the radioactive homework, the radioactive pieces of plutonium they had to put metal domes around. I miss the old days, back when asbestos was the biggest of my worries. I&rsquo;d give up everything I have just to breathe in some fresh asbestos in a radioactivity free hallway.
As much as I hate the radioactivity, I hate the gas masks we have to wear even more. All of the cool kids take theirs off when no one is watching, but my mom straps mine on so goddamn tight that I can&rsquo;t undo it without help. She also put my initials on it, which is mortifying.
My brother, who&rsquo;s about to be a post apocalyptic high school grad, has it tough too. The college board got wiped out by the bombs, and the only SAT they could salvage was one from 2009 where every question just asks you to define &ldquo;garrulous&rdquo; or something.&nbsp;
The one silver lining of this whole thing is that the death caused by the wars reminded the human race that we are all ultimately one. Peace has risen out of the ashes of destruction. World hunger is no longer an issue, and climate change got canceled out by all the nukes. Also, all the energy released by the war alerted an all powerful and benign alien race to our existence, and they have been helping us out bigtime. But at the same time, my goldfish got all fucked up from the radiation. I&rsquo;d call it a wash.

I hate school. I hate the radioactive desks, the radioactive homework, the radioactive pieces of plu...

Post-apocalyptic School

Placebo

Stranger: Hey there traveler! Is there anything I can help you with?
&nbsp;
[1] I&rsquo;m very hungry, do you know where I can get food?
[2] Yes, I&rsquo;m looking for a place to stay.
[3] You know what this building used to be?
[4] Kick rocks hobo!
&nbsp;
Stranger: I don&rsquo;t reckon I do. Would you like some food?
&nbsp;
[1] It actually used to be the clubhouse for the Porcellian Club. They punched me.
[2] Ah yes, food! Thank you.
[3] Eh, it doesn&rsquo;t matter. Do you know where I can find shelter?
[4] (Sarcastic) Oh yeah, I&rsquo;m starving! (Slap food out of hand) I don&rsquo;t need fucking handouts!
&nbsp;
Stranger: I don&rsquo;t know what that means. I hear there is a warlord in these parts looking for someone to carry out an assasination.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
[1] Could you mark his location on my map?
[2] I was once a warrior, maybe I could help him. Could you mark him on my map?
[3] I don&rsquo;t do much killing, but maybe he has other tasks. Could you point me in his direction?
[4] Oh, basically it means I was invited to join this pretty elite social club. Well, invited to the first round of cocktail style mixer events where you can demonstrate your social prowess. I never heard back for round two, but I don&rsquo;t think much of it. I didn&rsquo;t really try that hard. The good old days, eh?
&nbsp;
Stranger: Goodbye!
&nbsp;
[YOU DIED OF HUNGER]
&nbsp;
("Comper" was here...)

Stranger: Hey there traveler! Is there anything I can help you with?
 
[1] I’m very hungry, do you...

Dialogue Options in Fallout: New Cambridge

Every pizza shop&rsquo;s dream is a delivery driver with no obligation to the law. That, or an Italian pizza prodigy who&rsquo;s a little rough around the edges but pure at heart. Or gaining access to a genie and wishing for a world where no one suffers and pizza is worth its weight in gold. Thinking about it, pizza shop owners probably have a lot of dreams. Either way, hiring me, a full-time police detective, as your delivery driver is the easiest decision of your life.
On my first night out, I broke almost every pizza delivery record there was. Total deliveries? Top speed? Parking tickets written? Check, check, and almost check. At the time, I thought I was just moonlighting for some extra cash. Little did I know I was reshaping both the pizza landscape and NYPD Homicide Unit for years to come.&nbsp;
A few weeks into my tenure and every other pizza shop in the area was out of business. They couldn&rsquo;t keep up with me, the 17 other officers I hired to deliver, or the scores of felons I released from jail under the condition that they bust up other pizza shops. I knew that if I kept it up, I would soon be the Pizza King of New York, drinking comped fountain sodas to my heart&rsquo;s content.
The innovation that pushed me over the edge was the no-stop delivery. Using a combination of ingenuity and waylaid SWAT equipment, I was able to build an apparatus that could accurately hurl up to six large three-topping pizzas&mdash;and sides&mdash;at a porch while my vehicle was traveling 60 miles per hour. Once word got out about the Pizza-pult, I got the call. I&rsquo;m going to be the Pizza King of New York.&nbsp;
They don&rsquo;t have a date for my ceremony yet, but it&rsquo;s only because the current Pizza King is really old, and they feel bad taking the title away from him. Shouldn&rsquo;t be more than a month until I&rsquo;m up. And get this: I&rsquo;ll be the first dual Pizza King-Chief of Police in history. I&rsquo;m no man for politics, but Mayor is on the table. Jealous? I would be too.

Every pizza shop’s dream is a delivery driver with no obligation to the law. That, or an Italian piz...

Thomas Kain.css-1xlpnei{margin:0px -15px 0px 6px;width:11px;vertical-align:-14px;}

Thomas Kain