"There's a man standing in the kitchen," the boy told me. I didn't know what the hell the kid was talking about. The little bastard woke me up from a nap in a pre-War sofa in superb condition. I was upset.

            In my state of confusion, deep-sleep, alertness, and all around pandemonium, I "articulately" asked the boy, "What're ya talkin'?" Yeah. Articulately. After I inquired about what he was "talkin'," the boy looked at me like I had crabs flowing out of my eyeballs.

            "There's a man standing in the kitchen." I'll give the kid credit; he knew how to keep a story straight and in simple-enough terms for a recent napper to understand. It's just that... It made no sense. I was beginning to regret picking him up over by Marigold.

            I opted not to ask the kid any questions, knowing full well that it would lead to same, broken-record response. I rubbed my eyes, got up, and picked up the magnum from off the table.

            "He wants to know why we're here," the twerp told me. He had a way of saving creepy information for later, it seemed.

            "WHO does?" To my credit, I woke up less than a minute prior to this.

            "The MAN! In the KITCHEN," he scream-whispered.

            That pissed me off. Where does this weird motherfucker get off breaking into our temporary base? Talking to a little kid without any grown-ups around? On top of being criminal AND creepy, he had the testicular fortitude to ask why we were there. I hadn't even met this guy yet, and I already wanted to smash his nose in with my good shoes. Italian leather. Not easy to find in post-bullshit DC. Jealous?

            I started to get pumped for what I knew would be a fight. This guy could've been the last, best hope of humanity and I would've knocked his goddam lights out for being all... Hell, I don't know. Rude? That seemed to be an understatement. I also got myself mentally ready for the pre-fight battle of wits: The single most important part of the battle. If I used the wrong cusses at the wrong time, I would start the fight with low morale. I was in a fight that I started with low morale before, and I'll never smell out of my right nostril. Like I said: Important.

            I strutted into the eatin' nook, ready to sling thoughts ever so deadly - until I got one look at "the man standing in the kitchen." Pink Mohawk? Check. Badly hand-crafted attire made entirely out of shit nobody wanted to look at before the war? Check. Armed with what seemed to be a switchblade fashioned out of a comb switchblade? Check. Graffiti? Goddam check. This guy was a raider. A goddam raider. A shit stealing, blood drinking, torturing RAIDER! It was time to abandon ship and head immediately into phase II of the plan: Set phasers to kill.

            He got one look at me and saw what I thought. He opened his mouth to say something - must not have gotten the memo about phase II. As soon as he finished his first idea - "What the fuck are you doin'?" - I shot right into his nasal cavity. That's my favorite spot on the body. No matter what you shot at somebody, if you hit the nasal cavity, they're not walking away.

            Mr. "What the fuck are you doin'" hit the floor hard. Of course, he had to get blood in the drapes. The drapes are always casualty number one in the war against assholes. Casualty number two was my little friend who was now, apparently, catatonically staring at the very recently deceased raider. Oops.

            Everybody makes mistakes at one point or another, right? I guess mine was fairly minor compared to some of the other accidents I've seen on the "prairies." At least no friendlies were dead. Just upset by seeing somebody getting his thoughts blown out of the back of his skull. I didn't really know what to tell the boy. Fuck, I didn't even know his name. I'd be lying if I said I do now, either.

            I tried to talk him out of it, but it was no use. He just sat there. Sat there and stared at the dead body. I couldn't blame him. Not everybody was accustomed to this; nobody should have to be accustomed to this. I guess that's causalities three through ten: Innocence. The war against inhumanity is one that doesn't give a shit about you or me. It only cares about the casualties - rather, it only cares about making the casualties.

            I left the boy there, staring at the dead body. I figured he'd die of starvation before the raiders find him. That'd be a fuck-chute of a way to be brought out of shock: "My name is Crystal, like the champagne, and I'll be removing your spleen today." I joke, but that's just the only way - the only way to make up for casualties two through ten.

            I continue forward. I need to know. I need to know what this Wasteland needs. I need to know what this Wasteland needs to keep fighting the good fight.

                                                                        - Three Dog's Journal

                                                                        October 14th, 2268