Anyway, not much to say about Jubal. He's a friend to everybody, willing to make conversation (or at least what passes for conversation in the Wastes) with just about anyone who isn't either a complete 'tard or trying to steal his salvage. Hell, he even always has a few scraps of food handy for the furs that occasionally pass through (I can attribute a good seventy percent of my survival to his calls of Alright, yer smelly varmints, I got a nice good cut o' sandworm fat! C'm'n get it! I need the room in mah trash can!")

His old train car-turned-house/restaurant is full of all kinds of strange wonders ("This here be called lavatory paper.") and acts as the unofficial hub for all the sentient species that inhabit the Wastes, since everybody likes him and he's got guns big enough to deal with anybody who starts roughin' up his "parlor" in a petty tribal fight.

Look for Jubal's Meaty Bits. I swear that's the name of the restaurant.