*FYI: This story is based on the unmarked FO3 quest 'Jiggs' Loot.' Look it up.
****************
"There is no "I" in team, John. . .unfortunately, there is no "U" in team either. . . you didn't make the team." – My High School Track Coach
"Heh-Hey there wasteland. Remember children, when two dogs aren't enough, and four dogs are one too many, there's THREE DOG - and you're listening to Galaxy News Radio. We're radio free wasteland, and we're bringing you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts. . .
Next up we have yet another episode of everyone's favorite radio show, Jiggs & Prime. Next week, the creator of Jiggs & Prime, the grand maestro himself, Mr. Jeffrey Cross, will be here live in studio. We'll discuss the origins of Jiggs & Prime, life in Tenpenny Tower, and perhaps even Vault Dweller. He will also take your questions live on air.
So children, if you have a lot of time, ammo, fire power, and a complete lack of sanity and common sense - make your way over to GNR - he will be here. . . but don't come crying to old Three Dog if some supermutant makes a snack out of your skull on the way. Yum.
Speaking of mutants, Three Dog would, again, like to extend an invitation for a supermutant to come speak over the airwaves, live in studio. . .preferably one from the Master's army, since they might be capable of forming sentences beyond angry threats and enraged groans. Come and discuss life after FEV, insatiable psychotic rage, how it feels being yellow, or most importantly - where you get those nifty outfits. . . I mean do you sow them yourselves; is there a factory somewhere that churns these out - how the heck do you get those digs and where can I buy me a pair for the kids.
Contact GNR and we will give you an hour to rant and rave about all aspects of forced evolution.
Now children, here it is - Episode 2 of Jiggs & Prime. . .well. . .right after this brief paid advertisement."
[Whooowooop]
"Hello sir or Madam. It is I, Crazy Wolfgang, the craziest of Wolfgangs at your service. My caravan offers the rarest of rubbish, the height of detritus, the veritable pick of the litter so to speak. Come see my caravan anywhere on the trade routes between Megaton, Paradise Falls, Rivet City, and Canterbury Commons - four convenient wasteland locations so you don't have to look for Crazy Wolfgang - Crazy Wolfgang comes to you. Mention this radio advertisement and get an empty bottle of Nuka-Cola or a box of Abraxo, gratis, while supplies last. . .
Remember - Crazy Wolfgang's - your one stop shop for the unusual, the unique, and the utterly useless!"
[Whooowooop]
Episode 2: Terminal 002 – Code # is 53
Setting: DC Museum of Technology, ground floor, April 1, 2277, 12:55 P.M.
[Prime is in the foyer of the museum. He has just heard a crash and an inhuman groan come from upstairs. He carefully makes his way up the staircase.]
I hear you upstairs little chickadee. Trying to scare me? All of those creepy groans – it sounds like you got something caught in your throat. What's got you so mad? Little old me?
I ain't nothing to you; just another wasteland scavenger trying to make a cap or two. Got no idea what makes you mutants so pissed off all the time. Take a breath, try and chill; it'll be fine. . .
[The supermutant hears Prime's ramblings echo up the staircase. It screams "Huh! Kill you!" and begins to stampede across the offices.]
Kill me? You ain't nothing to me. A low down, down out, nobody. Mutated hunk of nothing, that's what you are. Hiding in shadows and creeping in corners. I'll put you down psycho, I've killed my share. Ain't nearly as scary as a slaver or a jetted-up raider. Those cats can think - they plot, connive, and scheme. You're dumber than a dead tree, got all those burly muscles but a brain the size of a pea. . .
[Prime puts his Xuanlong Chinese Assault Rifle to his cheek and pokes the barrel around the doorjamb. A supermutant is lurking inside the room peering into each of the cubicles searching for Prime.]
There you are ugly. Why you got on them pilot goggles – make you look like a yellow Red Baron.
You must be a mutant master, a mighty, murderous monster, mutated back when the wasteland began. Spent the last two hundred years snatching up people like a jacked-up boogieman. . .
Well I ain't afraid of you, you big dumb lug. Mess with me, and you'll get a face full of slugs.
HEAR ME! I ain't afraid of you!!
[The supermutant turns and locks eyes with Prime. It screams "UURRRRAAHHH!" and begins to charge. Prime smacks the hammer on his Xuanlong.]
Wana make a meal of me ugly a**hole?
Well, I'm ready! I'M PRIME!
[Prime opens fire. A three shot burst hits the supermutant in the windpipe. As it reels from the impact, Prime holds down the trigger, pumping its twitching body full of lead.]
I told you – I'm prime. I'm elite, the best, the sine qua non out here. A wasteland commando, a shock troop - no one's more of a cold blooded killa then me. Behemoths, giant scorpions, Yao Guai, they try and start something, they go down one, two, three. . .I'll take em all on, I'll do it with GLEE. . .hehe
[Prime hears a strange slithering sound. He looks to his right and sees dozens of tentacles sticking out of a doorway. A centaur is lumbering its way into the room from a side entrance.]
Who we got now? A centaur? A centaur is supposed to be a man and a horse. You look more like a man and a squid. . .
[The centaur rounds the corner and hocks a wad of irradiated slime at Prime. It barley misses him, and begins to dissolve the paint on a file cabinet standing behind him]
Don't spit at me, you slimy, naked, fugly a** dude. You might that you're tough, but really you're screwed.
[Prime ducks around a cubicle, comes up next to the centaur, and empties a clip into its skull.]
And that is that. . .
[Prime stands over the body of the centaur. It oozes blood onto the floor. As Prime watches the blood pool, he notices another computer console through the doorway at the very end of the hall.]
And what do we have here? Another terminal. . .another chance to leave a breadcrumb for my buddy, Jiggs? Awww, Jiggs. . .Can't wait to meet up with you pal. I better get a crackin' on that code before more mutants and monsters work their way out of the woodwork. . .
Hmmmm. I need a prime number. Prime, prime, prime. . .what do I know that's prime? I'm Prime. I'm young and I'm in my prime. A twenty four year old sex pot, making ladies swoon since 2253. . .
2253?!?! Remember back then Jiggs? Before the East Coast Brotherhood, before the Enclave, when I was born back in Rivet City? Wasn't much more than a Mirelurk filled rust bucket back then and still is. .they haven't cleaned out the place yet - it'd be so easy. . .what gives?
Well I'll make the next number 53 to commemorate my birthday. I know it's unoriginal, but what can I say? I'm being hunted by a museum full of maniac mutants – pardon me for being cliché.
Tune in next week. . .
