With clarity, he could remember when he saw the first mushroom cloud over the horizon, everyone stopping in their tracks as they all saw it, too, and all panicked with them fleeing for their lives.
Some were fortunate going into shelters, others weren't so fortunate, turning into permanent shadows on the walls of the ruins.
The more unfortunate ones turned into ghouls with some having even worse odds turning feral.
Shouldn't be surprised when he opened his eyes and saw his face turned from clean-shaven James Dean to a nightmare in the middle of the street.
Fate had a funny way of making things interesting in itself that he somehow survived the bombs dropping on his head.
For years, he tried to find purpose in the new world, even becoming suicidal at times, but after the first fifty years, he figured everything out.
Everyone still treated him with fear and suspicion, worry that he would someday become feral.
But he had the last laugh, since everyone who mistreated him or were prejudiced died in spectacular fashion.
Decades passed and he grew comfortable with his new life as a ghoul.
It gave him perspective that he admittedly didn't have until that day, being on the other side of the aisle, so-to-speak.
These days, he makes a living doing odd jobs.
Nothing cartoonish like tying people to train tracks, since well, trains no longer ran and have been off the tracks for decades.
It depends on the flavor of the week and whether he felt like doing them, but when he felt like doing jobs, he was tact.
Neither snow nor shine can stop this ghoul from his jobs.
Same goes for people who try to gip him.
It turned out people easily put aside their prejudice against him when they end up on the barrel end of a gun and a marksman that can piecemeal them with one shot.
Just another day in the Wasteland.
Despite everything that happened to him, he did find people who overlooked his condition, and treated him as an equal.
A few were even helpful.
One was nice enough to warn him about the symptoms of becoming feral, should it happen to him.
Well, the fear of becoming feral that he got from that wasn't nice, but suppose it was better to know now, than later!
Hovering two-hundred years and going strong, Vincent Delgado, now known to associates as Vandal, took to the Wasteland in stride.
He traveled extensively throughout the former United States before settling in the south, surprisingly, people were nicer down there than anywhere else.
Nicer in the sense they don't automatically want to shoot him on the spot and keep their opinions to themselves.
Still.
Better than nothing.
Becoming a known quantity, Vandal enjoys his time traveling between areas in the south taking the scenic route.
It's a humbling experience, suffice to say.
Did Vandal wish things were different and he wasn't a ghoul?
Sure, that's normal.
Hell, the people he met over the years wouldn't know what to do with themselves had things turned out differently.
Did Vandal enjoy looking like a skinless Frank?
No. But he met ghouls in worse shape than him, so he took the good with the bad.
"Mornin' Vandal," a woman greeted him at a walk-up counter for bounties.
Tipping his hat, Vandal greets back, "Mornin' Barb, what's hot?"
Shuffling papers on the desk, Barbara brought out a piece of paper with Vandal's name printed on it.
"This came in over the wire," Barbara hands over the paper to him through the slit of the walk-up window.
Thanking her, Vandal looks over the paper with his mouth moving as he read the bounty.
Whistling, Vandal remarks, "Wow. Someone must be desperate to hire little 'o me!"
The amount of bottle caps being offered did make him question if the issuer of the bounty could be trusted.
Shrugging, Barbara tells him that it's what came to her for his eyes only.
Folding the paper and putting it into his inner long coat pocket, Vandal thanks her, "I appreciate keeping it on the down low for me, Barb."
Lot of people would bribe everything they own for this bounty and Vandal wouldn't blame Barbara if she became tempted.
"Aw, hon, you did me a favor shootin' my bastard of a husband," Barbara waved her hand.
Tipping his hat at her, Vandal was off with his bounty in hand.
If this bounty is legitimate, Vandal would be the wealthiest ghoul in the entire south, hell maybe the entire United States!
Didn't get far just to see stars, Vandal has a plan if things didn't turn out the way he wanted.
Still, the issuer of the bounty choosing him in particular was curious to him.
Don't know if the bounty was issued to other bounty hunters in the area, but Vandal will find out, and he didn't get his reputation for nothing.
With his bounty in hand, Vandal set out to complete it.
Detailed, the bounty gave him the areas to check, and the first one wasn't far from where he was staying.
Prepared to leave, Vandal came across some rivals of his that were vultures looking for an easy score, and they wanted his bounty.
"How long have we had this song and dance for?" Vandal exhales sharply as he grew tired of his rivals hassling him.
Immobile, the rivals threatened him, and weren't happy that he mocked them.
He heard better threats from a crayfish!
"You always gettin' the good ones, ghoul!" Vandal hears one of the rivals complain.
Visibly annoyed, Vandal pointed out, "If you chuckleheads did as good a job as I do, you might've had your chances."
Always taking the easy way out of their situations, these lumpy S. !
Their weapons drawn, the rivals weren't leaving without the bounty, but Vandal didn't hesitate to show why he was the best bounty hunter in the known area for nothing.
With Betty in hand, Vandal shot every limb off the advancing rivals.
Blood erupts from the dismembered limbs as men began shouting in pain as they fell to the ground in heaps with blood gushing out.
"Now, if you don't mind, I got a job to do," Vandal blew the smoke away from Betty before continuing the journey on the lonely road as men scrambled to find aid as they're bleeding out.
Dumbasses.
Always the ones with artificial bravado and no substance whatsoever.
Ah well, more fun for him.
His journey in completing the bounty drew him to a little shanty town, Eryn.
It's considered a pit stop for people wanting to get to Tennessee from the west side, got the amenities and the foot traffic to go along with it, and with it the troubles that follow.
Not the one to fill the dead air with meaningless discussions about philosophies, Vandal soldiers on, and within a few days reaches Eryn.
Easily, he stuck out like a sore thumb compared to the backdrop, but Vandal wasn't deterred.
During the first hours of being there, he didn't see anything involving his bounty, but on a hunch, he stuck around longer.
Made friends with the locals.
Well, friends are a stretch with them on the ground with their limbs shot off their bodies, but Vandal gave them ample warning not to mess with him, and they didn't listen to him.
Can't lead a horse to water, all that.
Well, can't say he didn't warn them.
Don't think the shanty town minded their permanent removal, either.
Well, back to the grind, and already Vandal got a whiff.