"He is the Gunrunner."

The man telling the tale is old. His hair is completely white, and his hands tremble whenever he lifts his pipe to his mouth.

"The Gunrunner wasn't always the Gunrunner, of course. Before that, though, nobody knows who he was. He simply showed up in Florida one day, and accepted a job listing to deliver a package to Alaska. We all thought he was mad- even madder than the man offering the job in the first place.

"Imagine our surprise when, almost a year later, he turned up again- this time, with a token to prove he delivered the package successfully. He was roughed up in all sorts of ways, but the grin on his face as he got paid was nothing but pure happiness."

The old man takes a swig of beer before he continues.

"He wouldn't give a straight answer on how he managed to do it. 'I shot some things, and kept riding until I got there' was all we managed to squeeze out of him. We were jealous, and rightly so; nobody had managed a delivery farther than one state before. 'Course, if this was the Old World, any of us could have done it. But now, what with all the monsters out there, nobody in his right mind would dare venture into the deserts.

"He always carried a revolver. Custom made, from the looks of it. He used to joke that it was his 'lil' boss'. After the delivery, people fixated on the most noticeable part of him- that big, silver gun- and called him the Gunrunner. Why they couldn't settle for something simple like Courier or Deliveryman I can't tell."

Here, one of the listeners cuts in.

"Then, uncle, was he insane?"

"No, he wasn't. Sure, he was crazier than a tick for even trying the delivery in the first place, but his mind was there- better than can be said for most of us.

"Anyway, he was always a big romantic. Most of us wore nothing but jeans and a shirt, because if the Scourge catches you ain't no armor gonna save you. But he always wore this dusty, faded brown leather coat and one of those hats that cowboys- gun-toting bastards from long before my time- wore."

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The man puts down his can of beer and steeples his fingers.

"Well, after the delivery, there were lines of people asking him to deliver things for them. But he always declined. Whenever he came up in a conversation, we'd wonder why. He had the talent, and no shortage of clients- why would he decline all the requests that came his way? And then we found out.

"He was an Exile."

One of the listeners gasps.

"Yes, an Exile. A criminal, deemed unwelcome by any law-abiding city in the wasteland. He even had the brand, right on his neck. Was why he wore the collar of his coat so high."

"What brand?"

"You see, when you get caught committing a crime too severe for simple punishment and not enough for a direct execution, you get branded. They heat up this special bullet casing with an X mark on the side until it's red-hot, and press it on the criminal, somewhere it's easily seen. And then they kick you out, leave you to fend for yourself. Not much better than execution, but you get a chance to live for a couple more hours, at the very least.

"Most of the bandit gangs out there are made of Exiles. They can't find honest work in a city, so they take to robbing others of their hard-earned money. Of course, I can't say I blame them. If they go in a city, assuming the guards will even let them in, they're treated worse than slaves. Even beggars will spit at them. If a respectable establishment employed an Exile, their customers would simply leave."

The old man takes another drag on his pipe.

"Well, back to the Gunrunner. As soon as the rumor that he was an Exile got out, we confronted him. And he confirmed it, real cool-like. That same day, we drummed him out of town. 'Course, we didn't know he'd turn into a legend. But even if we did, I don't think we'd have kept him here."

The fireplace crackles merrily as the three listeners sit, enraptured by the story. When it becomes clear that the old man isn't going to continue, the oldest of the three gently prompts him to do so.

"Well, uncle, what next?"

"What next? There is no what next! You all know the story of the Gunrunner. I'm only saying what I saw and heard myself. At least I can tell you he was real- oh, he was real alright. I remember when kids started saying 'When I grow up, I want to be like the Gunrunner!' And then their parents would scold them- at least, the ones that remembered that he was an Exile- which, I believe, served as part of the allure."

"What happened to him? How did he die? The stories never talked about that."

The youngest leaned forward in his chair.

"Dunno. At some point he disappeared, and nobody saw him again. He might even still be alive. He wasn't very old when he made the run- in fact, he was about the same age I was, if what he said was true."

"But it's the wasteland, uncle. How could somebody survive there for so long?"

"Mark my words, boys, if there's anyone that could live in the wasteland, it's the Gunrunner. He was the most badass son-of-a-bitch I ever knew, and there wasn't no monster he couldn't kill. Now, it's time for bed. And don't you tell your mother that I cussed in front of you!"