1. orbsteeb:

    3liza:

    Now I wish to introduce the following idea. Between the vaults numbered nine and fourteen there occur dwellers who, to certain bewitched wastelanders, twice or many times older than they, reveal their true nature which is not human, but mutated (that is, teratogenic); and these chosen creatures I propose to designate as “mutants.”

    It will be marked that I substitute time terms for spatial ones. In fact, I would have the reader see “nine” and “fourteen” as the boundaries—the glassy dunes and blasted prairies—of an enchanted oasis haunted by those mutants of mine and surrounded by a vast, arid plain. Between those vault limits, are all girl-children mutants? Of course not. Otherwise, we who are in the know, we lone raiders, we mutolepts, would have long gone radsick. Neither are twisted looks any criterion; and vulgarity, or at least what a given clan terms so, does not necessarily impair certain mysterious characteristics, the feral savagery, the horrible, overwhelming, femur-shattering, brute strength that separates the mutant from such coevals of hers as are incomparably more dependent on the spatial world of synchronous phenomena than on that intangible mirage of shimmering sand where Lolita plays with her likes. Within the same vaults the number of true mutants is trickingly inferior to that of provisionally disfigured, or just weird, or “peculiar,” or even “touched” and “red-headed,” ordinary, plumpish, bipedal, pink-skinned, essentially human little girls, with Geiger counters and jumpsuits, who may or may not turn into dwellers of great beauty (look at the ugly dumplings in blue rompers and yellow stripes that are metamorphosed into stunning stars of New Reno). A normal wastelander given a group photograph of vault girls or Rad Scouts and asked to point out the strangest one will not necessarily choose the mutant among them. You have to be an artist and a madman, a creature of infinite melancholy, with a bubble of hot Jet in your loins and a super-voluptuous radiation permanently aglow in your subtle spine (oh, how you have to barter and sneak!), in order to discern at once, by ineffable signs—the slightly reptilian outline of a cheekbone, the iridescence of a scaly limb, and other indices which despair and shame and weals of radsickness forbid me to tabulate—the little deadly demon among the wholesome children; she stands unrecognized by them and unconscious herself of her fantastic power.

    a screaming comes across the sky. it is war, but war never changes. 

    it is too late. the Escalation continues apace. There are no piplights inside the cars. No vaultech anywhere. Above him lift girders old as Tandi, and glass somewhere far above that would let the light of day through. But it’s night. He’s afraid of the way the bombs will fall—soon—it will be a spectacle: the fall of the Lucky 38. But coming down in total blackout, without one dose of cateye, only great invisible crashing.


    Inside the vertibird, which is built on several levels, he sits in velveteen darkness, with nothing to smoke, feeling metal nearer and farther rub and connect, plasma escaping in puffs, a vibration in the vertibird’s frame, a poising, an uneasiness, all the others pressed in around, mutant ones, second brahmin, all with <4 luck and time: drunks, old Arizona Rangers still in shock from ordnance 20 years obsolete, Omegas in city clothes, derelicts, exhausted women with more children than it seems could belong to anyone, stacked about among the rest of the things to be carried out to salvation. Only the nearer faces are visible at all, and at that only as half-silvered images in a pipboy viewscreen, green-stained VIP faces remembered behind bulletproof windows speeding through the city…

     

  2. lordsteeb:

    “mystery,” said daphne to scooby, “is a nightmare from which i am trying to awake”

    (Source: orbsteeb, via orbsteeb)

     

  3. orbsteeb:

    lifehacks: find/replace “PUA” with “sarging pepper’s lonely *fartz* chub-man”

    from the vault

     

  4. orbsteeb:

    MASH “A” TO CONSUMMATE MARRIAGE too late the pope has recharged his Annulifier Beam. aim for the censers and remember that the red alters explode when you shoot em

     

  5. wonderfulworldofmichaelford:

    orbsteeb:

    wonderfulworldofmichaelford:

    Funny how as soon as I turn off anons the messages stop. Proof positive all these people are just cowardly little fuckbags who only bully when they’re sure they won’t get caught. They like being a prick without suffering consequences; we’ll see how far that will get them, because sooner or later these dumbasses will fuck with the wrong person.

    [voice of someone carefully ignoring hundreds of direct and mocking reblogs] these cowards wont face me on the battlefield, also i have turned off messages because i cant deal with the consequences of being a prick

    Kid, there’s no fucking battle here. And how the hell was I a prick?

    theres no battle in the sense that this is no contest, true

    wait did you just call me “kid”? how old are you and how many books did you have to stack on the computer chair to reach the keyboard

     

  6. ive had this blog title for ~a year and i still open tumblr and giggle every morning because the word “turd” is the funniest of all god’s creations

     

  7. sinbadism:

    orbsteeb:

    [genuflects] in the name of our father nikola tesla, his son daft punk guy 1, and the holy ghost of daft punk guy 2, i swear to Defend Games from the false prophet Tim Schafer because he said a girl is smart

    there’s only 1 guy in daft punk

    i feel like you’re wrong or making fun of me, but i dont know enough about daft punk to refute you, so im going to avoid your gaze and fake a tiny laugh to cover my bases

     

  8. orbsteeb:

    join the #gamerrevolution! live like a videogame protagonist. stare blankly at strangers while they greet you, then suddenly crouch and crabwalk out of their field of vision. take their things. stand. greet them. hurry though their questions (“dialogue”) with a series of dismissive interjections. question them about the Sword. when you can think of nothing more to say, crouch and sidle upstairs. put on a hat that you find there. leave. equip your strongest weapon and strafe through a graveyard. press your face against the largest tomb and run in place, drifting slowly to the side 

    this is making the rounds again and seems apropos

    (via neverjay)

     

  9. felrender said: steeb plz look at the other reblogs of that post where one of his dipshit friends talk about 'RUINING SOME SJWS LIFE' via hacking and apply Dunks as needed

    link me up, daddio

     

  10. there have been millions of songs released in the last several hundred years. now, it may seem idiotic to compare any individual piece of music to the entire history of human musicmaking, but check this out: weird al