Buffout

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…