Happy new year, everyone!
This report/journal begins with a quiet night of pyrotechnic display and turns into an epic tale of unequalled inebriated celebration, making a Roman Saturnalia look like a kindergarten birthday party.
It began quite modestly. I started out with no plans, and had emptied my savings to make a giant blaze of fireworks. By myself, for myself. It was supposed to be a solitary experience.
I started setting up the launchers early in the morning and spent all daylight fine tuning everything.
First run (and final, due to over-estimation and cost constraints) can be seen here:
The launchers made an impressive display on the ground.
In the air though, not so much. It was somewhat disappointing. Quite shitty, actually.
The tapes revealed a lesson in knowing one’s limitations, the importance of planning , and to test small scale before full launch.
A waste of time and money. All my money.
In a frustration fueled trance, using the leftover colored fireworks, I went with this instead:
Pretty impressive display of pyrotechnics, if I may say so myself.
I’m not gonna lie. I was pretty bummed out after quite literally having burned my very modest fortune into unsatisfactory smoke.
The light from the fireworks had attracted a swarm of bloatflies.
Caught by surprise, with no weapons, I was ready to meet my end.
Nah, just kidding. I panicked like a deer in front of a train.
Luckily for me (and not the bloatflies), I had a guardian angel. Around the corner appeared the lady who gooified my attackers. She was a Railroad agent wearing a Brotherhood of Steel-uniform, acting as a double agent for The Institute, or something along those lines. She was going undercover to a New Year’s party in Starlight Drive-In and needed me to be her alibi.
Her cover-story made no sense to me, but more importantly, I was just invited to a party. I think.
On the way to the party, to get in shape for the festivities, we shared a few aperitifs (ok, not as epicurean, more like a bottle of Vodka from it’s mouth, no fancy schmancy cups).
When arriving at Starlight Drive-In the party was well on it’s way. The volume was loud on both people and the radio’s.
The celebration was paired with an array of alcohols and snacks. Stouts, lagers, ales, fine whiskey, you name it. These people knew how to celebrate.
I lost track of the Railroad agent in the crowd. Didn’t matter. My senses were all too busy being catered to.
Here’s some of the stuff that was going on (Click to enlarge):
Here we have Mischief Matt, as he so uncovertly called himself. Pranking was his game. He was dressed in a spacesuit so no one would figure out who he was. Maybe he shouldn’t have introduced himself as a prankster beforehand. But then again, logic is for sober people.
Mischief Matt’s first prank became apparent soon after our meet and greet. Mischief Matt snickered and looked at the streets.
A herd of brahmin came walking by and filled the town square. He had set loose the brahmins on the neighbouring farm. Epic!
The brahmin herder jogged not far behind, breathing heavily, looking fairly annoyed.
He blamed me, since I was the only one laughing. Of course…
Shortly after this embarrassing (but kinda hilarious) incident, Mischief Matt approached me and whispered:
“Run like hell”
I can’t say I consider lighting the cache of old, unstable fireworks on fire a prank. This is vandalism, maybe borderline terrorism.
Epic firework though. Better than mine.
Mischief Matt stuttered “Th.. That.. That went differently than I had thought it would”.
The firecracker he threw on the campfire set of a chain of events that accidently ignited the bathtub full of fireworks on the roof.
He proposed we blame the guy strutting around with his cigar. A better scapegoat would be the open campfire in very close proximity to highly flammable material. But, hey, I wanted him to sweat a little for a while.
This was a good time to relocate.
The fireworks had broken down the door to the Guns & Armor-shop, so naturally that’s where the party continued. Weapons and alcohol, a surefire way to elevate the fun, at least until someone get’s hurt.
We talked about weapons and told tales where weapons were involved. Fired of a few rounds. Bet’s were made. You know, just like any other party, right?
Someone fiddled with a cryogenic grenade that ultimately went off and literally froze the party.
Get it? Froze the party because it was a cryogenic grenade. Fun times, fun times.
The party cleared out of the frozen metal building and headed for warmer straits (and we started running out of booze).
This one though, along with another of the hardiest, drunken bastards of all time, stayed till the last drop. She could barely stay upright.
It’s not very nice to laugh at this, but come on, this is hilarious
The person belonging to the butt in the picture below fell asleep at the end of a bridge after feeding the fishes (not with fish food). To reach this level of intoxication, she offered to take of one item of clothing for every shot she was offered.
People laid scattered on the streets and the festivities seemed to die down, except for a couple of hardcore drunks rambling around not receptive to any outside input.
I, as the hardened boozer I am, wanted to carry on partying (Aka. Drinking).
A stray brahmin caught my eye, and I got the brilliant idea of trying to ride it. I remember it as being surprisingly easy. They’re much faster than they look, especially when there’s a buzzed fellow on top shouting “yeee-haw” and kicking it’s sides.
Riding a brahmin gets tiring after a while, so I got off (actually thrown of. Details, schmetails). Things got a bit fuzzy at this point. Can’t remember all the details. According to the pictures from my camera, I attended a party at a Operators raider nest, a place I wouldn’t approach with an army sober.
I have a working theory on how this panned out:
- I invited myself to the party.
- Emptied every container of alcohol I could acquire.
- Started a discussion about a controversial subject.
- A fight broke out.
- Me getting kicked out due to being the indirect cause of the ruckus (not the first time this has happened).
Good thing I didn’t remember much of this. A sore jaw and a chipped tooth is reminder enough.
Walking around aimlessly for a while sobered me up enough to get mild, immediate withdrawal symptoms, and a conscious head, but who wants that on New Year’s Eve, right? So I scouted the horizon for a place to get equalized, and there it was. Libertalia. An aquatic, disorganized society of brutish individuals. But they had booze, so I took my chances once again.
I told them I was doing a report on the most dangerous gangs in the wasteland, in exchange for liquid gratification (hooch). They let me in. Gullible dumbasses.
While they were busy staving off a synth attack, I helped myself with their selection of stolen liquors.
I figured, since the raiders were busy with the synths, I could borrow their boat for a while. My provisions consisted of a couple bottles of hooch.
At the time, this seemed like a good idea, an opportunity of exploration. In retrospect, it was really, really dumb. Out at sea in a dinghy not worth the wood it’s made of.
I must have passed out after rowing for a while, because I woke up to this:
Things did not look good.
They crammed me into an iron crate or something, while discussing what to do with me. At this point I was starting to lose my buzz, and got a bit bored.
Then it hit me, these guys are clearly looking for entertainment, so I persuaded them into letting me out of the crate if I taught them some party tricks and games. I requested a couple of brewskies, to loosen up and regain my buzz .
Well into my second beer I told them about New Year’s Eve, an unknown concept for them. They thought it sounded cool, and as raiders they were just looking for an excuse to get wasted.
The party was on again.
They had this badass robot,.on which the “Murder and mayhem”-subroutine was modified into a kick-ass-party-personality-subroutine. It was a bit unpredictable, and it’s “party tricks” consisted of spitting flames towards people and hurling explosives, but then again, a little danger adds an extra element to the party.
After a bit of partying, the robot started to severely abuse some of the raiders. You could say they got de-partied (awful, just awful pun).
Ragnarok partied so hard it started to overheat.
Another captive whispered to me that some robots self-destruct when overheating. While the raiders were distracted with calming down Ragnarok, me and the other captive slipped away and ran.
We ran, puked and ran (at the same time at on occasion).
A damn fine explosion. Shame about the raiders, but what a sight a nuclear blast is.
Luckily the other captive, a pilot from the Minutemen, knew how to fly the vertibird standing not far away from the raider camp. The vertibird was unlocked.
She took a good swig of the whisky I swiped and said:
“Here goes nothing. Up, up and away!”
Up in the air we got a challenge over the radio from another vertibird in the area. It was another drunk pilot, this one from Brotherhood of Steel, with a vertibird he “borrowed” from the Prydwen. He wanted to race us to Drumlin Diner. Extra points for shooting super mutants.
This was going to be fun. I downed the whisky and grabbed the minigun (Click to enlarge):
After an action-filled flight shooting bad-guys (mostly, I believe), I started getting hungry, so I got of at the Drumlin Diner for some late-night eats.
They didn’t have any of the standard stuff, like hamburgers or kebabs, so I ordered a bowl of noodles. One is usually not very picky at the end of the night.
I ate my bowl of noodles while uninterruptedly talking to the guy laying almost lifelessly drunk on the floor.
The sun was slowly rising in the distance.and it was time to call it a night (another bad pun, sorry). I took one last drink for good measure.
That damn last drink. Always screws things up. That’s where my memory signed off. I blacked out. Can’t remember shit.
This is how and where I woke up. I survived!
Dry mouth. Sore muscles. Aching joints. Anxiety.
A chapter is finished. A new one is in the making.
Happy new year!