Journeying across the flat brown wastes of upper Nebraska, I came across a strange man (or man-like being) who smelled of butyric acid and synthesized civet musk. Standing in the dilapidated ruins of a former Methodist Church (the Martydom of Memphis movement having wiped out most of the midwestern churches two years prior after the Burning of Omaha in 2156), this lump of a man lit a phosphorous beacon in the remnants of the steeple, signaling me to pull my electrogravitic van over.

I pulled up in the grainy, radio-dust coated field and flicked my hi-beams. You think I'm stupid enough to just waltz out of my vehicle well past the green-zone borders and wait for whatever these living tumors out here have in store for me? This ain't my first rodeo, cowboy. I zipped up my lead-lined jacket, strapped on the good ol' face-filter, powered up my D-E pistol and waited for the man. I wasn't supposed to meet my contact out here until I got to Casper, but the Syndicate has been known to move drop sites at the last minute. Besides, if he had what I think he had, it would all be worth it in the end. The holy grail to someone like me...

But first, two sharp taps on my window. The rotting smell of acrid hate. The man. He was very old, and had been in the wastes for quite some time, judging by the three large growths festering in the recesses where his cheeks should be. He wore an old military uniform from one of the old coastal city-states, with a gray wool blanket around him. He held himself up on an odd metal staff, and motioned me to pull my van under the awning next to the church. I did so, parked, and followed him inside.

We entered the remnants of the church, and I was happy to be out of the cutting chill of the wind. He removed the gray blanket and hobbled over to a table and chairs, where he motioned me to sit. Without saying a word, he pulled out a large box. Sweat began beading on my forehead as I watched him reach in. If this was the item I needed, then my people might have a life free of the dreariness of this late world. Of course, it could just as easily be a gun, waiting to dispatch me to another place. Anywhere was better than here.

No, instead, he pulled out a green and battered Asimina fruit, a knife, and a spoon. He halved the fruit, and began disgustingly devouring the pale-yellow flesh, black seeds dripping down his chin. I began suspecting that I had been lured in by another nutjob. No surprise there. Odd that such a wretch should have such a valuable item as a pawapaw fruit, especially since the majority of the eastern woodlands were vaporized in the conflict. I guess fresh fruit is one of the perks of Syndicate work.

"Whatever happened to midwestern hospitality?" I asked, "Aren't you going to share?"

The saliva coated yellow flesh of the odd fruit glistened off his teeth as he shot me a strange grin. Wordlessly, he reached into the box again. He nodded his malformed head as he pulled out an oddly shaped.... something.

"This was found by the Tweaker Horde under the atomic glass that covers the ruins of Phoenix." The man's voice was gravelly, and rasped with years of breathing the sandpaper air of the radio-wastes. "You know what it is?"

I reached my hand toward the artifact and felt it. It was unlike anything I had ever come across. It was shaped like; well, I don't know how to describe it. It was conical, and sat on some type of small attached pedestal. The feeling when I held it: firm, but soft, solid, but flexible. Made of an unknown material. It matched the description I was given. I had never seen anything like it in my life, but I knew that this was the item.

"How much?" I asked.

"A syndicate representative will contact your handlers when the time is right for payment." Came the reply. Quite a nebulous answer, even for the Syndicate. But I was just an errand boy, and that was none of my business. I held in my hands the salvation of my people, and I'd be damned if anything was going to stop me now.

"Old man, do you know what this is?" I had to assess the severity of the situation. If he or the Syndicate had any idea what this was...

He wiped the pawpaw grease from his face with the edge of the gray blanket. "Oh yes. And I know who you are."

I grabbed the artifact and whipped out the D-E pistol. "Then you know what this means to me, and what I'll do to ensure it's safe delivery to my people."

The cancerous old man got up, and hobbled his way over. Grabbing my pistol-hand and raising his face to mine, he allowed me to swim in his rank odorousness until my eyes started watering. "Kill me if you want, you'd be doing me a favor. Okay. You want to talk payment? Get me out of this place. Take me with you."

"What?"

"Take me with you. I hate Nebraska. I hate the Syndicate. The Interior is hell. I want to live out my last days with my people." He paused, "Who are also your people."

"What are you talking about?" I was fairly incredulous at this point, but who wouldn't be?

"I was one of you before the Martyrdom and the Burnings, and I got stuck here. My contacts in the southwest found the artifact, and I had you sent here. I want to frolic with my people once more before I die." He pointed a finger to his facial tumors. I felt a pang of sympathy for this wretched husk of a man. If he was being truthful, how I could I avoid assisting one of my own?

"Okay." I removed his hand from my wrist. "Grab your stuff quickly and let's go."

We took about a half an hour to round up his meager possessions, and then back to the van. You can imagine my shock when I felt the cool metal of his walking stick hit me hard in the left temple. Through the extreme pain and the stars in my eyes I saw the man grab the artifact and the keys to the van. He jumped up and down like some kind of deranged radioactive gnome and screamed at me as he entered my van.

"HA! YOU FOOL! I NOW HAVE THE FABLED DRAGON DILDO OF DESTINY AND WHEN I BRING IT BACK TO THE FANDOM THEY WILL HAIL ME AS THEIR KING! KING OF THE FURRIES! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" He threw the other half of his civet-soaked pawpaw fruit at me as I lay in the dusty carpet of carcinogens. As the electrogravitic van lifted off into the putrid sky, I uttered my final phrase of this journal as I began to black out.

"Son of a bitch..."