...

"Oh-" Before I can throw an f-word at the obnoxious idiot knocking on my door, let me introduce you to myself - I'm Milloon Hall. I'm pretty pissed.

"Hello? That irrigation pipe of yours broke down again! We need your help getting it off Hugo, Mr. Hall!" As usual, I just ignored his pleas. The darkening sky would solve that, now that the weather system had gone crazy thanks to many bombs. "Come on! God damn it, our crops aren't gro-" Getting annoyed at the teen, I just held up my rifle aimlessly, waving it around like a wand before forcing it to act on a window. "Abracadabra. I just created a shower of rain." I said with delight, watching as the bullet hole I had created through a plank of wood had come out the other end, and split the remains of my glass.

See, I was busy getting up, almost ready to attend the beak-mouthed teen's request as I got my yellow-stripped toolbox with flaking paint, laying by a small rubbish pile of chip packets and an assortment of beverage cans. As soon as I take a stretch, I end up losing my balance and landing on my toolbox. Hard. To add insult to injury, not only did my tools go everywhere, but the kid was still screaming like some sort of vulture, not aware I had just dented a few scales or two. Or broke them - I'm still not too sure what happens if you damage a scale with significant trauma.

Of course, he ended up screaming (literally) and ducking. How could I see he was crouching like a bloody idiot? Well, my metal door had a claw mark, which somehow appeared through an inch of... whatever they made those doors out of. Those hell hounds did a good job massacring the community. Too bad they left the rest of us alive, leaving us below while every religious nut went to whatever happy place they prayed to 24/7. Arguably, everyone was attempting to barricade themselves, including myself as I parked a trailer van in front of my workshop doors, so...

Anyway, I realised I ought to actually help out the community, rather than attempting to murder every person who knocked on my doors while I was asleep, or on sniper watch at the top of my roof. "Eh. Sorry, kid." I said, sitting down on my squashed bed and letting my hands flop down in between my legs. Never really got used to being a snake, now that I can't even wear shoes anymore. "I'll come in an hour. I just gotta... patch up a few things of my own."

"Uh... uh-su-sure thing Mr. Hall!" What I could hear next was wind whistling through my broken windows and the kid's footsteps. I felt sorry for him, since he had lost both of his parents despite his kind attitude. Anyway, by patching up, I mean I was going to repair the damage I caused to my window, and possibly the rest of my workshop. I lifted off my sunglasses, since the moonlight was enough to break my sleep. It was scary to not ever properly blink again. Anyway, continuing on patching up, I was naked, so I had to get some clothes soon. Being a snake, I was damn freezing, shivering even as I tried to take a deep breath. I never bothered to sleep with my clothes on, 'cause otherwise I'd be sleeping on a bed of rocks. Even though that was what a snake usually did.

I yawned as I took a good look around my workshop/home. Normally, I wouldn't even bother paying attention to the state of my workshop, as I could just blink and walk away. Now, I gotta see the truth with my clear eyelids. Metal frame holding my bed up (oddly not dented), mattress looking white, despite the fact it's like five years old and having to stand whatever I did on it (or rather to it)-

Oh screw that. I'm freezing. I lifted my pants and jacket off the cement ground, squeezing my legs into my pants and precisely fitting my tail through a hole in them. Secondly, I had to get a jacket on - that was easy, just slipping my blue and grey arms through my sleeves. I should've went with my old jacket first.

Back to my workshop: you see, everything's old in my workshop. (Except for the functional SUV, which has been unclaimed for some time - I think the owner's dead. At least I can drive around in it, as I've got his keys.) The rubbish is old, I'm old, my tools are old... heck, even my money and weapon's old. Money, as in that's been in my safe for a while. Weapon, as in I've just possessed it for a while. A good old M40, although I'm not exactly a top-notch hunter. Right, workshop; the place is actually rather... segregated and small. There's a ladder which goes from a room that stores tools and such to above it and the flat roof, both with railings that provide a good vantage point over the dusty plains. On the side where cars and people come in, it's tidy yet a bit empty, with the occasional tool chest filling the void between cars getting repaired and my side of the workshop. Thankfully, nobody actually minds the mess I make, with the blankets getting crumpled and the rubbish pile getting bigger each day. They just know I can do a good job with their cars among other things...

Bah, I'm just a rambling old man, fresh at the age of 41. I just got up, dismissed some gunfire or something, and packed my toolbox by trying to figure out the difference between some hammers and a can on a stick.

With a weak grin on my face, I braced against the sun, leaving my workshop with a blowtorch, a toolbox and a rifle, in case things got nasty. I put on my sunglasses before trekking down some metal grate stairs, walking past a cactus and a large plot of farmland nearby the track.