the ballad

of coffee

unsung

(part six: a

crackle and

a cough of

gravel)

 

bobby waves

the vault

dweller over,

behind the

counter, with

a rusted right

arm sans

circular saw

blade to the

single rubble

built room of

the red

rocket

rooftop hovel.

passed a

slim doorless

passage, the

ever nuclear

crooning face

of a fusion

generator not

along, but as

the south of

this strange

robot bard’s

postwar four.

a rusting

refashioned

vault-tec

population

management

system

cozies a cold

steel counter

topped with a

terminal and

tower of light

boxes three

high all

cobwebbed

together with

copper wire

against the

east wall. a

logic gate on

the counter’s

face, the

place bobby

plugs himself

into the red

and blue light

lit electric

mess. after a

moment’s

tinkering with

the weary

mister handy,

the vault

dweller is

rewarded

with an

internally

recorded

final verse

from the

titular ghoul

himself. a

crackle and

a cough of

gravel,

 

way i see it,

any half

conscious

being, be it

man,

mutant,

ghoul, or

otherwise

has got one

of three

paths to

walk with

their time.

i never did

intend on

becoming

a legend,

just

something

that sort of

happened

of its own

accord

along the

way. i, very

simply, only

wanted to do

some good

wherever it

is i was and

by whoever

it was i was

with. and it

seemed that

every where

i was and

every who i

was with

was in a

dire need of

some good,

something

fierce. well,

as the

wasteland

gods would

have it, i had

the blessed

fortune of

finding fellow

do-gooder

ghouls during

my travels

who tore up

their roots to

walk the

irradiated

landscape by

my side. we

eventually

tired of

wandering

the wastes

and made

home in an

abandoned

super duper

mart. we

took new

names from

the shelves

and lived

happily ever

after, until

we didn’t.

i reckon

those ghouls

would be

willing to give

it another go,

should they

happen on

appropriate

impetus.