(note) I will be revising this as I go, patching holes, adding stuff, you know what's good. I plan on wrapping this story up with somewhere around 12 chapters. Bear with me people, this is my first long story and I'm learning as I go. Please leave feedback as that butters me up and makes me want to work even more. I love you all for reading, thank you and I hope you enjoy.

Introduction.

Have you ever felt like you have to turn around and look over your shoulder? It's an uncontrollable itching feeling, like savoring a bomb ass bite of Brahmin steak. You squeeze every drop of juicy goodness out until you can't help yourself and you just have to swallow the bite. You just can't control it. It's impulse. You totally believe that if you look back over your shoulder, and down the road, you'll see that person you love jogging to catch up with you.

Maybe you forgot your hot pink knit sweater with a fluffy white kitten sewed on the front at home. And they just "wuv" you so much that they wanted to return it to you. Can't have your hubby getting cold when their walking home in the middle of July thru the scorching hot 110° Arizona desert heat.

Or maybe they want to make a grand romantic gesture like the proposal of a smoking hot threesome with that hot, busty blonde milf that lives three doors down. That's my number one spank bank fantasy of all time by the way. It just never gets old. Am I right? I'm totally right and you fucking know it...

It's fucking retarded. Believe me. I KNOW. Regardless, It could be in your hometown secret government bunker. A dark hallway, that reeks of stale air and ball sweat that you've walked down and back a thousand times over. Or it can be out in the middle of fucking nowhere. A thousand miles from whatever place you used to call home. Hell, I know it's irrational, 100% illogical. And a little bit crazy. But you just think that special someone is going to be there. You have to believe it. If you've ever lost someone you love, you know exactly what I'm talking about.

It eats at you. It fucking eats at you until you just HAVE to turn around. I die a little bit on the inside every time I do it. But I can't help it. When I lost the woman I loved at Hidden Valley it tore me the fuck apart. I tried and failed to take my own life multiple times. Fucking Ramos… Can't just let a sister die in peace… No, you gotta drag her naked body out of the blood-filled bathtub, down the Hidden Valley hallways for all to see and into the infirmary for a "lifesaving" operation. Everybody saw him as a "brave hero". Elder McNamara gave him a medal of Valor for that shit. That asshole should have just let me die, it would have been better for everyone.

I was lost. Until I met the one they called "The Courier" while out looking for groceries for my "family". She saved my life. I loved her and I would have followed her to the gates of hell. Hell... I came pretty close to that actually happening on more than a few occasions. The battle for the Hoover Dam was a total cluster fuck. But that's a story for another day. It was a lifetime ago. It's a long story, and it doesn't really matter because they're both fucking dead now.

That being said, I still look over my shoulder to see if either one of them is still there, following me. It must have been the billionth time that I indulged myself in my extremely unhealthy little closet case habit. I just couldn't help it. But I never would have expected to see what I saw that last time I looked back over my shoulder and out into the abyss. If you gave me a million years I swear that I would have never been able to guess…

"RAAAAAAAAWR! EAT MY JIZZ YOU BITCH!"

But there I was in the middle of nowhere, frozen in place, with a shovel hovering right in front of my face. And at the end of that shovel was a naked wasteland junkie Raider wearing nothing but pink bunny slippers and aviator goggles. His exposed small cock was just hanging out, looking disgusting. And his battle scream was that of a mentally deficient dinosaur. I just can't make this shit up people. It's too fucked up to be made up. That should be a saying plastered on a cheap t-shirt. I could have made a killing on T-shirts and bumper stickers if the world hadn't been blown the fuck apart by nuclear weapons… That could've also been a great T-shirt! I'm on a roll! And holy shit, every little bit of those opening paragraphs were depressing as shit...

But what can I say man? The Wasteland is a fucking weird ass place to be. I would like to say that I fought the good fight. And that my hopeless romantic and slightly psychotic habit saved me from being hit in the face with a goddamn shovel. I really, really would like to say that my cat-like reflexes kicked in at that split second moment. And that I Hollywood style bad mother fucker, duck and rolled. Drew my .500 Smith and Wesson then popped a cap straight into that rapey mother fuckers funky looking cock pillow. But I didn't. The only thing that happened is instead of getting the back of my skull cracked open, I got two black eyes. Multiple lacerations and contusions. A major concussion and a broken nose. And to top it all off, the bastard knocked out 4 teeth and chipped 7 others.

It really makes a difference, getting hit in the face as opposed the back of the skull. Did you know the front and back of the skull are reinforced with a thicker layer of bone density? The only diff is one side has a super thick layer of bone armor and the other one has a fucking face on it! Either way, if you get hit in the head with a fucking shovel you're going to have a fucking bad day. Hey! There's another T-shirt! That's the fucking shit I'm talking about Veronica! But still. If I was hit from behind I would have been a lot better off. Why the fucking fuck did I have to look back? No. Why didn't I look back sooner? Fuck it. It really makes no difference. Apples and oranges. What happened, happened.

It was like the world was frozen in time. The shovel was floating right in front of my face. From my perspective, there was no cartoony "CLANK" as the shovel struck. I didn't feel anything. Just darkness. That hit almost knocked the life out of me. This is probably just a dream I had brought on by the blunt force trauma that is oh so fucking common when getting hit in the face with a fucking shovel. But I saw that toothless, half-naked, Mohawked asshole dragging me thru the dessert from above. It was like an out of body experience.

There I was. Looking down at myself. My arms limp, dragging against the ground. My face bloodied up and starting to swell. This is so weird, but. I wasn't even worried about the demented rape hole this weirdo was most likely dragging me to. I was worried about getting tetanus from the shovel and I was wondering how much makeup it would take to cover up all the cuts and bruises on my sexy face. Isn't that fucked up?

My name is Veronica. And this is my motherfucking story….

P.S. This is not a love story. The melodramatic intro isn't a prelude to some later event where one of my dead ex-lovers comes back from the grave to save my life. Although... The Adventures of The New Vegas Zombie Courier would make a cool ass idea for a radio show, maybe I'll send in a letter to Mr. New Vegas later on? I don't know about that now that I think of it, he hasn't answered any of my previous letters. Probably because I told him he should just give up the charade and tell everyone he's really a reptilian alien infiltrator. If you saw his fucked up plastic surgery riddled face you'd see it too! YOU'RE NOT FOOLING ME MR. NEW VEGAS YOU FUCKING REPTILIAN!

But yeah. I sent him a bomb once as a joke, it wasn't primed but if it was dropped or shaken around it would have totally exploded. Anyways, back on point. They're definitely will not be one of those cliché movie moments where the bad guys got a gun in my face. He's a millisecond away from pulling the trigger and I'm all like, "oh no, if only someone who died in the past would just resurrect themselves then show up at just the right moment to save me. Oh, I do declare." I hate that

cheesy Hollywood bullshit. No, that intro was just to show you how dead I am on the inside.

And don't worry. There won't be any more gross emotions getting in the way of this story. From here on out it's going to be strictly ALL, graphic nudity, gratuitous hyper-violence, cool gunfights, mature language, drug use, more graphic nudity, more hyper-violence, gooey gore and gibley giblets. And Tobacco use. Yes. Lots of tobacco violence indeed. Oh, and just an FYI, in case you really didn't know. A cock pillow is a very tiny penis, so small in fact that it gracefully lies on top of the testicles like a head lying on a pillow. Get it? Oh, how I love puns! But do you see what I did there? Like a head lying on a pillow! COCK PILLOW! That's fucking comedy gold right there bitch. You're a fucking GEM Veronica, sometimes I really crack myself up. Really! I do…

Code Name Veronica: A Post-Apocalyptic Fallout Fan Fiction Story.

Written by Max, Isom, with help from his bitch boy SGNTMCBADASS.

Chapter One: Push it to the limit.

A rape cave somewhere on the outskirts of Bagdad Arizona. 11:35 PM.

"PIMP-BOY 9,000,000,000! Very nice, that's custom bling right their boy! Let us see what else we have here. One leather jacket with a patch of the vault boy thumbing up on the back. An M1 Garand rifle. Classic cool. Oh, what's this inscription say? "WELL THIS MACHINE KILLS COMMIES". That's BADASS, Carlos will give me a great price on that momma. Oh, yeah. One Magnum handgun. Two boxes of ammunition, one for each weapon. Salted Bloatfly meat. Gross… A canteen of water with vault 13 printed on the front. Two spiked knuckles. Oh, what's this engraving say? "Love and Hate"? Mediocre. A book? What have we here? Oh. THAT'S DISGUSTING!

The cock pillow rapist, still very naked, sits at the mouth of the sandstone rape cave with veronicas rucksack in his lap. He pulls the last two objects from Veronica's rucksack and looks at them like an insect would look at something made by man that its feeble mind could never understand. Veronica is restrained with an entire roll of old duct tape wrapped around her hands.

She sits propped up inside a cage made out of two shopping carts conjoined together with barbed wire. Looking thru her swollen eye slits, Veronica ruefully stares at her mentally deficient captor. Drifting in and out of consciousness, Veronica watch's the man search thru her only belongings.

"WHERE ARE THE FUCKING DRUGS!"

The rapey nudist drug addict throws Veronica's empty backpack into the fire then stands up. Veronica struggles to blink, the pain of blinking adds to her ever-increasing anger. She knows she should just keep her mouth shut, but she can't stand the sight of the fucker holding her book in his disgusting sweaty jack off hands. She snaps anyways and continues to go on a long rant while the cave troll flips thru her hot pink colored book.

"I think we got off on the wrong foot you, smelly fucker. My name is Veronica. It's really nice to fucking meet you. What a lovely home you have here. Are those curtains art nouveau? Oh no, wait. You don't even have curtains because you live in a fucking cave and nobody fucking loves you. How many times did your mom try to abort you with the rusty clothes hanger before she gave up and settled on keeping you? Don't answer, let me guess. Five failed abortions? Do you even know what art nouveau is? You're so fucking stupid, you probably don't. Hey, are you still listening to me you small cock troll? You don't have any friends, did I already say that because its fucking true! You're so fucking stupid that if you had the choice of killing yourself with an old rusty hammer and a toothbrush you'd probably fuck up and…"

"Shut up. Shut up. SHUT, THE FUCK UP! DON'T YOU PLAY CUTE WITH ME YOU EVIL BITCH! WHAT IS THIS SHIT?! This toy gun weighs AT LEAST 50 pounds. Why do you carry it with you?"

Mr. Rapist sets Veronica's book on his coffee table, which is actually just a big rock with what looks like a stack of human shit lying next to it. Then he walks over to Veronica holding the fabled "Euclid's C Finder" in his bony hands. Unbeknownst to Mr. Rapist, he is now holding the most powerful force of destruction ever created by man that can fit in the palm of your hand.

Veronica starts laughing. She knows she's going to die. But it's still too funny to her. The cock pillow. It just looks so fucking small and gross.

"You stupid fuck. Why don't you do us both a favor, put a pair of pants on, go outside, point that gun at your feet then find the fuck out what it does for yourself? Just make sure you're far enough away that I'm not included in the blast radius AND NOT TO far away that I miss out on the light show."

Mr. Rapist chuckles then flings what appears to be a toy ray gun out the mouth of the cave.

"I guess your just the sentimental type. How pathetic. You're soooo fucking lucky that you had all that fancy gear on you, you gross lesbian whore. I've got a contact who's a really good friend of mine by the way. YES, I HAVE FRIENDS AND THEY LIKE ME! We go way back. He's a traveling merchant who just so happens to be camped out not too far down the road. I'm going to go sell all your shit for drugs. Then when I get back I'm going to fuck the fucking fuck out of you. CUT YOUR FACE. I'M GONNA CUT YOUR FACE OFF! THEN IM GONNA EAT IT!"

The cave troll tries to intimidate Veronica by staring at her menacingly while licking his dried and cracked up lips. She doesn't buy it. Veronica stares back into the pathetic little man's eyes so intensely and with so much untamed pure rage that he loses his bravado and is forced to look away. The naked little man hobbles over to his old shopping cart and begins loading the remainder of veronicas stuff in it. Including the pink book, Veronica watches as he sets it carefully inside the folding rack next to a human skull.

The wheels on the cart rusted out over a hundred years ago. Whoever owned the cart last, welded a pair of skis onto the bottom fashioned from car bumpers, so it can be dragged across a sandy desert landscape. The cart has too much craftsmanship to have been made by this fucking cave troll. No. Most likely, this "Golem" looking motherfucker bashed the previous owner over the head with a rock and then took it. Before wrapping the rope connected to his loot cart around his waist Mr. Rapist goes over to a burnt up coat rack and slips on his pink bunny slippers and a pair of aviator goggles. No clothes to protect his pale skin from the boiling sun. But the dipshit wears sun glasses and bunny slippers. Don't do drugs kids…

"And don't you try anything bitch, your too weak to make it far and if you do leave I'll just track you down. And rape you to death. You know! I'm actually a really nice guy once you get to know me. I've never raped anyone before. But since you're so obsessed with rape. And seeing as how you're the prettiest girl I've ever seen I think I just might indulge you in your demented little unchristian fantasy. Maybe I'll be so good you"ll decide to convert then you can be my apocalypse wife!"

Veronica pukes inside her mouth and has to fight really hard to not spew a load of vomit all over herself. She decides to keep quiet. She knows the naked little man made three fatal errors that will shortly cost him his pathetic life. No point in jeopardizing those opportunities with a quick quip about how the only pussy that guy ever sees are the stray cats he hunts down in the desert then rapes to death. He just looks like the kind of guy.

Veronica watches the cave troll drag his cart out of the cave and then disappear into the distance. Veronica crosses her legs and starts undoing the lace on her left boot. Mistake number one, the death warrant. He really, really should've taken her boots. That's paramilitary prisoner incarceration rule number one. Strip prisoners of all belongings and check all bodily "cavities" for weapons and contraband. Veronicas just grateful her captor never had any such training. Particularly the cavity searching element…

She quickly undoes the lace so that its left threaded on the last two loops. She wraps the lace around her duct tape restraints and begins sawing at it by dragging the duct tape up and down. The duct tape comes off without much effort. Veronica pulls a hidden emergency lock pick kit from a hollowed out compartment located in the sole of her right boot. She gets to work on the primitive padlock connecting the two shopping carts. After three minutes Veronica is free. She struggles to get to her feet and when she gets all the way up she is overtaken by a massive wave of pain and nausea.

Veronica pukes her fucking brains out then falls to the floor unconscious on top of her own pile of vomit.

After a long while, Veronica wakes up. The headache is slightly better but it still feels like a thousand knives repeatedly stabbing her in the brain. She has to shield her eyes from the sun as she exits the cave. After a few steps, she quickly spots the "C Finder" half submerged in some loose dirt. It looks like the stupid cave troll stomped on it on his way out.

Mistake number two, the coffin. He misjudged a weapon of mass destruction for a stupid child's toy. Most people would, which only adds to its value. The metal is so hot from sitting in the sun it scorches Veronica's hand. "How long was I passed out for, holy fuck that fuckers fucking hot!" Veronica has to rip off a piece of her shirt to use as a mitten just to hold it. Judging by the position of the sun Veronica deduces that about an hour has passed since the cave troll set out on his voyage.

The climb up the hill nearly kills Veronica. It takes every ounce of willpower to make it to the top. But she makes it and sits beneath a huge boulder that provides just enough shade to make the strategic position somewhat comfortable. Veronica just makes out a tiny little dot in the distance stumbling around like a town drunk on his way home from the bar. "Half an hour until that fucker reaches preferable targeting range." Veronica has no doubt she could hit him at that distance. She could just vaporize him instantly and be done with it. But where's the sick satisfaction in that? She wouldn't be able to see the look on his face when he's being cooked from the inside out like the pathetic little piss ant he is. Veronica sets the alarm in her head for 25 minutes and takes a little nap.

24 minutes and 55 seconds later. Like a machine Veronica opens her eyes and raises the weapon, taking aim. The little man is only about 250 feet away, he slips and stumbles as he struggles to drag his cart across the rocky desert floor. Veronica grins when he stops to wipe a bead of sweat from his brow. She yells, "GET FUCKED YOU CREEPY LITTLE SHIT!" The man is shocked, he holds his trembling hand up to

block the sun from his view. Veronica squeezes the trigger halfway down.

The sun damaged Poseidon Power logo glows green inside the glass dome on the top of the ray gun. 97 miles up in space, a shutter opens up like an anal sphincter from the gun port of a 258-year-old Poseidon Power Corporation satellite. Three small non-lethal aim tracking lasers, beam down to earth 12 feet in front of Mr. Rapist. His mouth drops agape and he begins struggling to untie the crusty rope connecting him to his loot cart full of drugs, alcohol and ancient cartons of cigarettes. He lets out a high pitch scream and watches in horror as the tri-beam lasers spinning like a cyclone draw closer to his bunny slipper-clad feet. Mistake number three. The complete and total fucking-fuck up of all time. He fucking fucked with Veronica, then he looked inside her motherfucking scrap book. Big mistake. Veronica paints the laser right on top of the man's head and sarcastically waves bye-bye like an old Looney tunes character who's about to plunge down on a TNT lever.

The Poseidon logo begins flashing red, Veronica pulls the trigger all the way back and watches as a crimson streak of energy furiously crashes down from the heavens right on top of the rape trolls stupid looking potato head. For a split second, she watches the man's eyes bulge before he's reduced to a small mountain of dust and bone standing atop an island of glass and sand. Veronica checks off her good deed of the day list item in her head and gives the dead man the finger before falling back on the rock and passing out.

To be continued...

On the next episode of, Code Name Veronica… Veronica tracks down the sketchy merchant that bought her stolen goods in exchange for chemical stimulants. And, spoiler alert! She stabs him in the face with a fucking fork. How will Mr. New Vegas react when he gets the latest piece of hate mail from Veronica containing the gnarled remains of a rotting human ear? Surprise, surprise, it's not the first one… Will Veronica find a dentist capable of fixing her totally fucked up dental situation? Tune in next week to find the fuck out!