Why Fallout is Bad for my Drug Dealer

If your drug dealer is anything like mine, he probably lives a pretty sedentary lifestyle.  In college we called him Drunk Doug due to his penchant for drunkenly throwing large objects off of buildings, but his reputation for rampant alcoholism has stagnated as of late.  That’s not to say that rampant alcoholism is a good thing, but at least it’s a social sport.  At any rate, the last thing my drug dealer needs is a reason to sit around, smoke more weed, and stare at the TV for 100 hours.

For those who don’t know:  Fallout is a video game.  You assume the life of an apocalypse survivor venturing across the wasteland in search of fame and glory.  You collect rare digital items, make important digital decisions, fight radiation-mutilated, digital zombies, and generally try to avoid dehydration, radiation poisoning, and drug addiction – all in a digital world.  I think Doug is trying to emulate my REAL life.  Like a solo World of Warcraft, the game has a storyline that may only take 15 hours, but with all the additional content my drug dealer could easily waste 100 hours.  And then he will have to play through again with an evil disposition!

All the while the game is enhanced by a pretty heavy stone, and the combat system doesn’t even punish you for being fucked up.  Somehow, a 48-inch, LCD TV, surround sound, a wireless Playstation controller, and a Volcano has convinced Doug that not only is this game a realistic view of the future, but it is in fact inevitable.

Last week I stumbled in Doug’s front door, mildly intoxicated, looking for his roommate.  What I found shocked me to the core.  Seeing a friend completely lose touch on reality hurts.   My poor drug dealer was preparing for the apocalypse. Maybe I should have seen the signs.  When he purchased a .357 magnum at a pawn shop maybe I should have said something.  When he started collecting bladed weapons and making chainmail I suggested he go outside and ride a bicycle.  He reminded me that bicycles need no gasoline, which will be beneficial in the apocalypse.  I sneered.  A week ago I noticed he was collecting bottle caps.  He claimed it was to “keep the house clean,” but I knew he was saving them to use as currency.  This afternoon he announced he was making a Crovel, a combination shovel-crowbar-hammer, and I called the Warm Springs Mental Hospital.

Much to my dismay the professionals OUTSIDE the padded rooms suggested that delusions of apocalypse weren’t dangerous until a court deemed them so.  I was heartbroken.  I know he needs help.  I just don’t know how to help him.  Plus, it’s important to know where your drug dealer is when the zombies come.