This story is inspired by my friend who had a surprising moment of humour on Fallout 3. Needless to say, I've embellished it quite a bit, but the gist remains essentially intact.

Disclaimer: I don't own Fallout, molerats or anything published by Bethesda Softworks. Please don't sue me, as a lawsuit wouldn't be very convenient right now.

The Unlucky Molerat

Life is funny sometimes. Not in the whole "Well that was random." thing that seems to happen quite often in daily life, this was something genuinely absurd and really quite silly, if you consider the natural order of things.

You see, life in the Wasteland is tough. Happy moments are few and far between here, in fact, I can't even recall the last time I felt the sense of impending doom lift long enough to allow a fleeting smile. But this was one gem of a moment that only ever happens once, and if you'll allow me, I will now tell you the tale.

It began with a molerat. Two of them, in fact. Now I know what you're thinking, "How can molerats be the catalyst for an event of absurdity?" But trust me, small things often lead to bigger things, especially in this place.

So there I was, lying prone on a rocky ledge, just outside the D.C ruins. I had spotted a wandering brahmin and was determined to turn it into beef burgers, steaks, and any other form of meat originating from a mutated cow.

Alas, this was not to be, because of two overly-friendly molerats. How they managed to sneak up on me so quietly, I'll never know. But what I do know is that they announced their presence quite suddenly, by simultaneously biting me on the ankles.

Even through the thick leather boots, that goddamn hurt. As I'm sure a lot of you know, molerat bites are surprisingly lethal at times, but I digress. Uttering a loud cry of "Argh! You mother- [CENSORED] -ers!" I reached down to my hip and pulled loose my trusty baseball bat.

One good whack across the noggin later, one of them was lying in a pool of slowly spreading blood with a decidedly crushed skull. The other molerat took one look at this and bolted, uttering a series of high pitched squeals as it fled.

Now this is where it gets strange. Instead of running firmly away from me, the molerat actually ran towards the lone brahmin, which took fright at the fleeing molerat and fled in the opposite direction. Straight into a landmine. After the cloud of guts and smoke had cleared, the only glimpse I caught of the molerat was a rear end disappearing into a nearby building, about five hundred yards away.

I sighed in frustration at the now-lost source of food that the brahmin had represented, and prepared to head back to the abandoned house I was presently camping in. However, a distant crashing sound drew my attention back to the building the molerat had hidden in.

To my surprise, the molerat was running full pelt away from the building, for which the reason why became very clear after a few seconds. Crashing through the building's southern wall came three enraged super-mutants, intent on pursuing this evidently incredibly unlucky molerat.

It was a sight I'll never forget; these three huge, hulking slabs of muscle chasing after a slightly over-grown rodent. It almost seemed to happen in slow motion, the molerat running for it's life, the three super-mutants growling, shouting and brandishing hunting rifles.

But as nature dictates, all good things must come to an end sooner or later. In this case, some idiot had left an unexploded Fatman shell lying on the ground, and as we all know, super-mutants don't exactly have a fantastic aim while shooting at small fleeing things.

The resulting explosion was most likely heard for miles. I know I certainly heard it, hell, I was partly deaf for two days afterwards. But alas, we have come to the end of the tale of the unlucky molerat, who now resides in several pieces across a half kilometer radius, along with various bits of super-mutant.

Now, I wonder how a slightly disintegrated brahmin tastes.

END.

A/N As always, feedback would be greatly appreciated. People who review will be given their own personal robo-butler. Honest.