Grutus the Puncher

Grutus finally emerged from his crapulent slumber. The brilliant rays that had peeked in through the dilapidated shack Grutus had ransacked had gone, leaving it gloomy and cold. Grutus, with his unique heat-retardant body grease, was not in the least bit bothered by the freezing rain that washed over his naked body as he stepped out into the night. His metabolism was burning so furiously with the recent influx of highly irradiated canned food and alcohol that most raindrops turned to steam as they landed upon him.

Filling the wasteland air with the pungent aroma of Grutus.

Grutus wandered around the derelict town, snorting heavily as he scented for food or prey. Before long, he came to a large building and, hearing human voices coming from within, decided to investigate. A weathered sign denoted that the building was a school. Grutus never learned his letters, otherwise he may have avoided a place dedicated to the complexities of learning (Grutus’ only fear).

He punched open the rotting doors and blundered in to  a sight that made a warped smile form across his mustachioed and pockmarked features.

Dismembered corpses and tin cans are a few of his favourite things.

As Grutus was rolling around in the pile of cans and severed limbs like an incredibly feral cat in sea of mouldering catnip, he was rudely shot by a man almost as repugnant as Grutus himself. Enraged at the disturbance of his bizarre ritual, Grutus leapt upon the filthy man and pummelled him to death.

Grutus’ partiality to irradiated food causes him to glow.

When his rage finally diminished and his arm began to cramp from furious punching, Grutus noticed the perfume of urea. His nostrils flared with delight as he realised that it was coming from the bloodied clothing of the man he’d just beaten. Despite the fact that Grutus hated clothing, he couldn’t resist donning the greasy and sodden rags.

Dressed to infest.

Now clad in the reeking attire, Grutus decided to follow the sounds of the numerous voices that had awoken with the gunfire. Other similarly filthy people were wandering the corridors of the school, and Grutus shrugged off bullets and knives to slam his calloused fists into their unwashed features.

Grutus’ new clothing allowed him to soak up the blood of his enemies (to be sucked out of the dirty fabric at his leisure).
KA-
!

Grutus stopped to lick the gore from his knuckles. As he was doing so his madly rolling eyes fell upon a strange little bottle. Naturally, Grutus would have to consume its contents.

Buffout. No explanation required.

His body palpitating with anticipation, threads of thick saliva dangling from his greasy lips, Grutus tore the lid off the bottle. In one swift movement, he swallowed the entire contents.

For a few heartbeats nothing happened.

Then Grutus’ testosterone-addled mind exploded with ‘roid rage unlike anything any normal human had ever experienced.

To be continued…

As Grutus ambled down to a nearby derelict town, he noticed ancient containers that were once known as ‘trash cans’. His insatiable seven stomachs rumbled at the prospect that they may contain food. What he found was something much better:

Named for the mellow high some illicit substances produce that Psycho definitely doesn’t.

After squirting a full shot of Psycho up his nose, his sinuses flared with pain and Grutus’ already hate-filled compartment generously known as his ‘mind’ became more enraged than it had ever been. His bowels and bladder immediately voided, mucus poured from his nostrils. The green tinged wasteland turned blood-red.

As his body shuddered and his pupils contracted to a pinpoint, he noticed a floating ball piping numbers from “Marching Music for Minutemen“. Naturally, Grutus responded in the only way his Psycho addled mind allowed him.

Acting on instinct alone, Grutus’ sweaty digits curled into a tight, hateful fist…

And punched the ball so hard it exploded.

His fists still tingled for more. The Psycho coursed through his veins and his fists ached to punch. Snorting flecks of snot from his flared nostrils, Grutus looked around for his next victim. Hunger ached inside him.  So when he saw an intact house, Grutus wasted no time in letting himself in.

The only way he knows how.

As he smashed through the door, he disturbed the lone resident of the building who, like most people, was extremely perturbed  by Grutus’ sudden proximity.

Due to his thick layers of gristle, guns have little stopping power against Grutus.

Grutus shrugged off six bullets before punching her to death. He looted her inventory of drugs and 400 caps, which serve as money in the Wasteland but which Grutus kept simply because there were so many of them, and stashed her corpse away for later eating. Then he ransacked the house for food and booze.

All of which he ate in one rad-filled binge.

His hunger temporarily sated and his Psycho induced rage dulled by two bottles of alcohol, Grutus took one last look around the house, picked up all the empty tin cans he could find (because he collects those as well as caps), and fell to sleep.

The residents of vault 101 thought they were safe from radiation. They thought their children would grow and thrive, unaware of the monstrosities that plague the wastelands.

They were wrong.

When Grutus’ mother saw how ugly her baby was after giving birth to him, she died. The only thing that saved Grutus’ father that, being a doctor, he was desensitised to medical horrors, and thus he decided to raise the child out of scientific curiosity. This was the worst mistake of his life.

Grutus grew, greedily devouring the Vault’s supplies. The other residents constantly petitioned to have young Grutus sent out into the wastelands, where mutants belonged. But his natural body grease and strange strength made him too difficult to capture, and so he remained in the vault.

The residents of the Vault came up with a plan. They’d throw a birthday party for Grutus and poison the cake he was bound to so gluttonously consume. Unfortunately, they didn’t key the Vault robot in on this and he destroyed the poisoned cake out of spite for Grutus.

Like all children's birthdays, it was a trap.Grutus stared hungrily at the old lady. He could smell death on her — she would be an easy meal.

The ploy failed, so Grutus’ father quickly rushed him to the reactor where he intended to shoot him up with a BB gun, but Grutus wrested it from him and, to avoid the wrath of the armed ginger before him, Grutus’ father acted as though it were a present.

Nevertheless, Grutus shot them a bit before they managed to offer him a giant roach, which he hungrily consumed.

Eventually, as Grutus evolved into an even more abominable being, his father became so ashamed of him that he ran away forever and the rest of the vault decided that it was time to get rid of Grutus.

But Grutus wasn’t easily disposed of…

Grutus awake!Grutus awakes to the sound of alarms, his huge wooden pole gripped firmly in both hands.
Which he forcefully introduces to the denizens of the vault, who are dressed appropriately for dealing with Grutus.
Grutus kill!He thanked Amata for her constant whining…
The excretion of GrutusAnd, in his quest for further people to punch, accidentally went outside the vault door. Which quickly shut behind him…
And so he stepped out into the light.

Fallout 3, for those whose villages have only just received their first crate of Pentiums, is a game set on a post-apocalyptic Earth with an alternate history. As one would expect, America is at the centre of this broken world — run rampant with mutants and vicious survivors (so, not really that much different).

You play the role of a character who had the fortune of growing up in a contained underground world called a Vault, which is where those fortunate enough to afford it went when the bombs started dropping and have lived ever since. It’s a pretty good story, a huge and interesting open world, and a whole lot of fun.

When I first played through, my character was very much a generic wasteland hero. He did the good jobs, killed the bad guys and only became addicted to Vodka once or twice. So I wanted to play something drastically different — the very antithesis of a generic hero: a cannibalistic, evil and distorted character.

After digesting a particularly cheap can of spaghetti and expelling it noisily around midnight, the concept for Grutus was born. Grutus would be like the remnants of that spaghetti: unnatural, highly irradiated, not something you wanted to look at, strong of odour and barely sentient. The essence of that spaghetti would take the form of a man… or, rather, a manlike form, which would terrorise those unfortunate enough to have survived the fallout.

Grutus the Puncher would be the new end boss of Fallout 3.

 

Grutus the Puncher wearing the moustache he was born with.