[i don't want to] set the world on fire, you gotta shoot 'em in the head
You Gotta Shoot 'Em in the Head
"Here's the thing, kid," Kreuk says between sips of whiskey. "We know we're ugly as fuck. But we're still human."
"Man, I'm nowhere near as ugly as you," Rosenbaum gripes from the corner table.
Hartley, the bartender, pouts slightly. "I'm not ugly. Just because we're Ghouls doesn't make us ugly."
Kreuk peels off a strip of skin from her neck and flicks it over the bar. "That says otherwise."
"What's your fucking point?" Rosenbaum emphasizes the last two words by slapping his boney palm on the table. "Spit it out, man."
"Point is: Welling doesn't deserve what he's got."
Rosenbaum shakes his head. Welling owns one of the few habitable places in the Wasteland, a giant tower with its own supply of clean water and electricity. He charges a pretty penny to live there and Rosenbaum could afford a whole floor to himself with the caps he's saved up. But Welling only lets the aesthetically pleasing reside there, meaning Rosenbaum and his ilk aren't allowed. Not only that, but Welling has spread rumors about Ghouls, saying that they're all feral, that the only way to kill them is to shoot them in the head, that he'll pay caps for every Ghoul killed. Even living outside of the tower is getting harder with every Wastelander and his dog looking to take a shot at anything that even looks like a Ghoul.
"So? What the fuck are you going to do about it?" Hartley sniffs.
"Storm the tower," Kreuk says simply.
"You and what army?" Rosenbaum laughs. "He's got his own little militia up in there."
Kreuk downs the rest of her whiskey and then makes a gun with her fingers, aiming at Hartley's head. "Haven't you heard? You just gotta shoot 'em in the head."
"Hilarious," Rosenbaum deadpans.
"Yeah, tell me another one," Hartley snorts.
"Just you wait and see. I'm gonna own that penthouse in the sky someday," Kreuk says almost to herself. "Just you wait."
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