That lighter had been to hell and back with him, and it would always be by his side. It was tough, American made stainless steel, an ingenious flip top, wick design. The flint never needed to be replaced, but the fluid did. Diesel fuel worked fine, though in a pinch he'd once used some unnamed and ungodly booze brewed by the locals. It's brand name had been ground down from years of wear, but it's design was pre-war, made in the glory days of America. He never named it, but spoke to it like a friend. When he had been shot and left for dead, it was one of the only things left on his body. He didn't remember much from before, which is to be expected after a bullet to the brain, but somehow he knew it had meant just as much then as it did now. A gift, perhaps, from a close friend or lover. Maybe he just adored it's practical durability? He didn't like to linger on those thoughts long, none of it mattered anymore. But sometimes, he'd have a dream- more like a fragment of a dream- where he used the lighter. In the dream, it was always before the war. He was younger, in his late teens, and he was in a diner booth. Sitting to his left, with his arm around her, a girl, a blond haired beauty with an easy laugh and bright smile. Her name was Rebecca. In front of him, a tall boy in a baseball uniform. The name Bobby came to mind. Next to Bobby was a shorter girl with dark hair tied back in a ponytail, and striking blue eyes. Linda... No, it was Rachel. Rebecca put a cigarette in his mouth, and he took the lighter in his free hand and lit it. That bit of the dream faded, next he remembered swinging in a baseball stadium, crowds of people cheering him on. His bat cracks, perfect strike on the ball! Something is carved in the bat... It reads "Bruiser".
That's what they always called him. His real name was long forgotten, in the Mojave, most people left their name behind them. Bruiser was fitting, his muscles were intimidating. He had a way of walking, pure confidence, pure class. He was practically made for the wasteland. Though most Wastelanders took to guns, plasma and otherwise, Bruiser always stuck with up close and personal weapons. The fireaxe was his favorite, but sometimes, he'd use something a little more blunt, like a baseball bat. It may have seemed almost neanderthal, but Bruiser always said it was the more civilized way to go. Look right in a man's eye, let him know you have truly bested him. The truth was, Bruiser loved it. The crack of bones, splat of blood, cleaning it off his weapon, and chunks of flesh charred and scattered after the explosion of a perfectly thrown stick of dynamite...
You may think, because of the flaws I chose to tell you first, that Bruiser is a bad man. But if your worst traits were shown to people before they knew anything else, wouldn't you feel ill used? Of course you would. You are not your flaws, in fact, they make only a small part of who you are. This is true of Bruiser as well. He's a good man, helps out people who can't always help themselves. He drinks, but doesn't get drunk, and smokes only on occasions he deems special, and respectfully follows what little authority there is in the Mojave. That being said, Bruiser was never one to let evil be. He hated those who stood on the sidelines. A man of action, Bruiser had a personal war against Caesar's Legion. He killed them without provocation or remorse. You see, his first encounter with them was at Nipton, and Bruiser had never seen such a sick sight. Though they were far from from innocent souls, not even the blackest of souls deserves crucifixion. His vengeance had been swift, most of the legionnaires were dynamite craters dotting the landscape. But their leader, Vulpes Inculta, got the worst of it, receiving the brunt of Bruiser's sadistic nature. In his eyes, the egotistical worm had gotten only a quarter of what he had bestowed upon the people of Nipton. Vulpes had been injured by Bruiser's first stick of dynamite and was forced to lay low as most of his legionnaires were slaughtered. A couple of stimpaks had him back on his feet, Ripper screaming as he rushed the man. He couldn't wait to sink the saw blade in him, he had let the man live! But the ungrateful wretch had chosen to kill HIS men! As he rushed after the running man- he fled like a coward!- he failed to noticed the frag mines cleverly thrown down by the tall, blond savage. The first one crippled his left leg, and he saw the writing on the wall. Stimpak supply used up, Vulpes could do nothing but limp away desperately. He heard the footsteps, crunching in the gravel behind him. He didn't want to turn. The last thing he heard was,
"When this is over, I will wear your head like you wear the head of that dog."
Vulpes could practically hear the smirk in his words. With special relish, Bruiser pulled his baseball bat, knowing that his fireaxe would end the man's life too quickly. The bat, however, drew it out to nearly ten minutes. Vulpes wasn't the first to meet such a fate. Arrogance was a trigger for Bruiser's sadism, and Joe Cobb had been the first victim of Bruiser's temper. The first he remembered, at least. It had terrified the locals, Bruiser had nothing but a cleaver back then, and all it took was the way Cobb talked to Trudy and the attitude he showed in their brief conversation for Bruiser to choose to end the man there. Cobb never even touched his revolver.
Bruiser had killed a few of the wastelands worst people, but Vulpes was his most famous, and earned him the name Desert Avenger. After that fight, Bruiser took his lighter, hot from all the fuses it had lit, and lit off a cigarette, the first one since his awakening in Goodsprings. He looked down the street at the residents still being crucified, and glanced back at his lighter.
Yessir, him and that lighter had been to hell and back together.
