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**"You really should vomit more, dear. It'll clear out all that nasty desert dust from your lungs and help you make space for your lunch."**
Mother would always say that to you whenever you got back from a long-ass scavenging trip. When you didn't hurl up your stomach's contents, she'd get behind you and force you to, squeezing your belly until you spewed up thick bile filled with chunky remains of your previous meal accompanied by dirty brown muck from your time out there. Normally she'd drag you outside for that but on occasion it'd be at the dining table, in the hall or even when you were sitting on your rickety old bed.
She's old and brittle now, a matchstick sculpture of a woman compared to her tenacious former self. Still, you always make sure to evacuate your food before stepping inside, as a sign of respect & courtesy. Nobody wants wasteland breath in their face when they're trying to have a conversation. Plus, being of age means that you're not obligated by the community to just be a scavenger anymore, getting mouthfuls of nasty air all the time. Being realistic, a post-apocalyptic community of twenty-two people doesn't need a whole lot of jobs, which is why your weird career is so surprising...
What was that, anyways?
>I'm the village rat stabber. I hunt, murder and cook the rats. On occasion, if a trader leaves behind their pet armadillo or something, that gets knifed too. It's considered a delicacy to most, actual meat, much tastier than all the hardtack & bloodberries.
>Me? You can consider me the local poisoner. Travelling merchants & vagabonds buy my nasty, horrific poisons to murder people. It's an entirely dishonest and cruel living, but I enjoy it. I wouldn't sell anything to people from my own community though... for my own health.
>They call me the piss potter. I stop by every house, every day, and collect up all that foul urine from the outhouses. Then I stick it in jars and sell it. You would be surprised how many people actually want to buy that stuff cuz it's good for masking the smell of puke.
>I dig graves. Not for dead people, but for living people who want to be dead. There's a whole thing going on with that, some kinda pro-suicide movement lately. They lay in the open graves until they die of exposure or starvation or whatever disease they have. Then I fill the graves in.
>Stand aside, boys & girls. The local instigator is here and he's not going anywhere. My job is basically to rile people up into having fights, causing rivalries and feuds to happen. It's technically **not** a job, but people let me do it because it's entertaining.
>I'm the nailmaster. My art is finely honed over the course of a lifetime, and I am like, **SO** respected for what I do. My legendary skill is spread far and wide, I assure you. Cutting people's fingernails & toenails using my teeth is something that not everyone could do. Yet I excel at it.
Mother would always say that to you whenever you got back from a long-ass scavenging trip. When you didn't hurl up your stomach's contents, she'd get behind you and force you to, squeezing your belly until you spewed up thick bile filled with chunky remains of your previous meal accompanied by dirty brown muck from your time out there. Normally she'd drag you outside for that but on occasion it'd be at the dining table, in the hall or even when you were sitting on your rickety old bed.
She's old and brittle now, a matchstick sculpture of a woman compared to her tenacious former self. Still, you always make sure to evacuate your food before stepping inside, as a sign of respect & courtesy. Nobody wants wasteland breath in their face when they're trying to have a conversation. Plus, being of age means that you're not obligated by the community to just be a scavenger anymore, getting mouthfuls of nasty air all the time. Being realistic, a post-apocalyptic community of twenty-two people doesn't need a whole lot of jobs, which is why your weird career is so surprising...
What was that, anyways?
>I'm the village rat stabber. I hunt, murder and cook the rats. On occasion, if a trader leaves behind their pet armadillo or something, that gets knifed too. It's considered a delicacy to most, actual meat, much tastier than all the hardtack & bloodberries.
>Me? You can consider me the local poisoner. Travelling merchants & vagabonds buy my nasty, horrific poisons to murder people. It's an entirely dishonest and cruel living, but I enjoy it. I wouldn't sell anything to people from my own community though... for my own health.
>They call me the piss potter. I stop by every house, every day, and collect up all that foul urine from the outhouses. Then I stick it in jars and sell it. You would be surprised how many people actually want to buy that stuff cuz it's good for masking the smell of puke.
>I dig graves. Not for dead people, but for living people who want to be dead. There's a whole thing going on with that, some kinda pro-suicide movement lately. They lay in the open graves until they die of exposure or starvation or whatever disease they have. Then I fill the graves in.
>Stand aside, boys & girls. The local instigator is here and he's not going anywhere. My job is basically to rile people up into having fights, causing rivalries and feuds to happen. It's technically **not** a job, but people let me do it because it's entertaining.
>I'm the nailmaster. My art is finely honed over the course of a lifetime, and I am like, **SO** respected for what I do. My legendary skill is spread far and wide, I assure you. Cutting people's fingernails & toenails using my teeth is something that not everyone could do. Yet I excel at it.
