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This is why we don't let Swaim be in charge of things.

Except it didn't go down like we expected at all: one group of locals immediately invited us to live with them for the weekend. We dropped our stuff off in the half-buried bus/RV they let us sleep in, and it remained unmolested all weekend.

Nobody fucks with Walter.

The only real warning we got was not to let J.F. Sargent remain passed out on a couch at night with his shoes on. "There's a 6.5-foot tall giant who gets up at around 5 a.m. every morning and wanders the camp. He lives by frat rules, so if he sees you've passed out with your shoes on, he will draw dicks on you." Apparently, face dicks are an ill-represented nuisance of the post-apocalypse. Though we guess there will be some problems with malnutrition, since Slabbers consider "6.5-foot tall" to be "giant."

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At one point, we noticed a sign spray-painted across the front of one of the houses on the entrance to the city: "[PERSON'S NAME] IS A THIEF."

Death by shopkeeper is the inevitable next step.

We asked for some clarification on what happened when some unwritten rule was broken, and we were informed that community "law enforcement" was mostly a combination of shunning, shit-talking, and shoving matches in front of The Range. On rare occasions, they'd run people out of town -- but "asking you to leave" is about the extent of their vigilante justice.

It's like Batman confronting the Joker with finger wags and a disappointed head nod.

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Science backs it up: the more society crumbles around you, the more likely you are to want to help a brother out. A realistic version of Fallout 3 would be rife with Raiders running up to you all "Dude, are you all right? We saw you out there fighting scorpions and yelling about mutants. We're concerned you may have sunstroke. Please, come sit in our bombed-out hotel and recuperate with some nice lemonade."