The wasteland is not silent. So long as your ears aren't blasted out by gunfire, or lost to engine roar then you could hear the scrape of sand grains being pushed by the wind. Hear the slide of scale over grit, of Wretched breath, of the War Boy Chant. If you were very lucky, and you knew how to look, you could sometimes hear the Word Shaker.
The Word Shaker's voice floating over the sands from the Citadel to far over the Mountains. They could be caught by cars with working Word Jabbers, or free standing Jabber Boxes that still had enough juice in their batteries to work.
Jabbers that put forth words that would weave in and out buzzing and scratchy like a serpentine belt seconds from snapping.
It always starts like this.
"Hello my lads, my ladies, my wretched few survivors!" The voice that pours forth from scratchy speakers fluctuates between feminine and masculine, but is undoubtedly the same person. The Word Shaker.
"It's a fine day, a glorious day. The sun is up and heats the sand. I can see the fires burning in Gas Town, Burn! Burn your gas! Fear nothing, my Gas Town Lads, for you won't ever run out. Isn't that so People Eater I imagine you know best.
And you! Rock Rider! I see you there, you think I can't, but I do. Yes keep scratching your ass, I don't care, but know, know that I know that you did it. "
And the Word Shaker would talk, spew forth words in the not man, not female voice, just chatter away for all the listeners out there. Free entertainment, news, and status reports rolled into one long monologue.
They would talk until they had run out of words. Somedays it took longer than others and then a scraping sound then a burst of noise. Music. Music unlike the blaring beat of the Doof Wagon.
Beat, and voice, and the sounds of instruments that no longer had any name, that all pulled together in the end to create one complete and unforgettable thing. A song.
Often times it was a known thing. The same pattern of beat and word that had been heard time and time again, named, and known. But on occasion the Word Shaker would speak over the Jabber.
"I've a new one for you today my Listeners. Gifted with the last Tribute Taking. I've listened to it already, and Glory does it Shine. We're gonna call it 'Get out Alive' I hope you like it and if you do be sure to thank any Scavs you run into for sharing it with us. Only kill 'em a little bit eh?"
Then maybe there would be another song, or the Word Shaker would have found another tangent to go off on. Then on and on it went, from midday to the set of the sun.
In the near dark the Word Shaker would say. "Now my dear listeners, it is time for sleep and a few more words.
Then they would speak, their words losing the fervor and brashness and chatter that had characterized them all the hours before. Would settle into a low humming murmur. They would read.
"It is time for the next few pages. We are on the third page of chapter five and it goes like this… "
And they would read until the sun had fully fallen and a consuming blackness had spread from horizon to horizon.
"The time for Tribute draws near." The Word shaker would say every four nights. "The usual demands, you all know the place. Pay me tribute, and you shall have more. With this final song I leave you, my Lads, my ladies, my wretched few survivors. Goodnight my listeners. Goodnight. "