One of Us

Dear readers, forgive this humble journalist’s language, but… well I am just going to say it: I was miffed.

I had entered the wastelands hoping to turn my pen towards the starlet of the era, Dakota Christmas. Yet, since I’d passed through the security cordon separating irradiated hellscape that was once Los Angeles, and the civilized parts of California the starlet—beloved by billions—has shown me nothing but rudeness. 

No. Rudeness did not cover it. First she tried to sell me into slavery (or worse) with the mutant lord Boot-Kutta, in exchange for some ridiculous motorcycle. Then, after clawing my way through what was once Beverly Hills to return to her impeccable side, using me as a target while she sighted in her new rifle. 

 Even that she’d tired of. For a hour, she fire at me from high atop the Doomsday studio water tower. The bullets, each as long as one of Hemingway’s cigarillo ricochetting hither and thither. How I survived with my life, I did not know. Then, abruptly as the onslaught began, it stopped. 

Immediately I would head to the nearest checkpoint and returning to civilization. Or failing that, Fresno California, where they at least still had an In n’ Out. 

Using the provided walkie talkie, I tried radioing back to the starlet. For a change of undergarments if nothing else, but she answered me with only static.

Alone in the wasteland, I did the only thing I could do: head back towards Doomsday studio. 

As I trudged the desiccated span, climbing over barbed wire fences (leaving numerous, and worrying holes in my rad-suit), and mounting trash-heap escalades, I vowed then and there:

I was done with Dakota Christmas. 

Done with Doomsday Studios. 

Done with Mutants.

Done with the wasteland. 

Imagine my shock when I crossed the threshold into Doomsday studios back-lot and saw Ms. Christmas standing there, on the verge of tears. 

“I’m real sorry Mr. Eunius,” She said between sobs. “I would never try to hurt one of our own, least not one that ain’t deserve it.”

For a hot moment, my fury boiled. I wanted to tell this… this… reality show star what was on my mind. Give her the business you see? But all harsh words melted as I looked at her. 

She sat in the road’s dirt, strumming one of her enormous rifles (if it were Hee or Haw, I couldn’t say). Her look of sadness! Of contrition! What kind of monster would I be to hold a grudge against one such as herself? 

Despite my melting heart, something about her words stuck in my mind, and so I voiced my concern: “My Dear Ms. Christmas, what do you mean when you say one of your own?”

She blinked thrice before her brow furrowed. “You know… a mutant.” 

Dear reader, believe me when I say I chuckled aloud. A mutant? Me? Eustace Eunius? The thought of it!

“Look at your rad suit Eustace,” Dakota said. 

After the heart skipping moment from her using my christian name, I did as she said, looking down at the tatters that once were my protective garment. 

How I protested! Naturally I’d taken the anti-mutation serums before entering the wasteland. They were good for at least a week… but how long had I been in the wastes? It was hard to say.

I jumped as Dakota Christmas ejected a round from her rifle. She handed me the bullet. 

“Look for yourself.”

I don’t know what caliber the projectile was. Certainly fatter than my thumb. But it was polished to a mirror sheen. I gazed into its copper surface. Despite a fun-house distortion to the image, the truth was readily apparent:

Where I once had a rhinoplastied nose, I had a snout. Where I once had tastefully pierced ears, I had rat like flaps of skin. And where once I had a painstakingly trimmed goatee, whiskers. 

“I’m a fucking rat!” I blurted, my cheeks burning with the shame from such gutter language. 

“Yeah, pretty much.” Dakota said. “Could be worse. I know a guy whose face turned into a star-nosed mole’s face. You ever lay eyes on a star-nosed mole? Ugly as stink!”

Dakota’s homespun charm faded into the distance as I peered into the bullet once more, touching my face, not believing my sense. 

But it was true. The exposure to radiation had overcome my already weak constitution. 

I was a mutant.