Courier Six, also known as Bob, couldn't believe his beady little shark eyes: Boone, the object of his abhorrent nightly wank fantasies was – well, Bob had often enough peeped through this bathroom keyhole to gaze upon Boone's chiseled physique as the stoic man bathed, but he had never seen anything like this.

Inside the grimy, cramped bathroom, Boone was completely naked, his manly erection erect and vigorously fucking a radio, which he had pinned to the bathroom wall.

"Mr. New Vegas here with –" the radio blared sensually, only to spout out a seductive announcement about the Sierra Madre with the next brutal thrust.

Courier Six could feel his dick getting hard at this arousing sight, and he quickly pulled his pants and generic boxers down his hips with one hand, and blindly groping with the other for a carrot he had seen on the counter earlier.

With no preamble or preparation, Six shoved the limp, orange root vegetable up his anal cavity, and began fucking himself with the flaccid, flame-hued tuber.

"…big iron on his hip," the slutty radio bleated as Boone hammered the shit out the outdated electronic with his dick.

"Awwww yeah," the Courier mumbled as a vigorous thrust of his floppy, make-shift dildo hit his prostate, "big iron indeed."

Suddenly Boone gave an almighty thrust, and released his juicy man juices into the radio with a muttered, "huh."

In the throes of ecstasy, the radio screamed, "Three Dog ooooooout!"

Maybe it was Boone's passionate orgasm, or the whore-ish screams of the radio, or maybe even the perfect angle at which the wilted carrot hit his manly g-spot, but Bob was pushed right over the edge.

Standing up quickly, he said, "Hnnnng," and came all over the doorknob.

~!~!~!~

Meanwhile at Cottonwood Cove, Vulpes Inculta was in seclusion in his tent – seclusion with a pair of girl's underpants.

He rubbed them vigorously on his aching cock. "Caesar," he moaned, imagining the autocratic warlord wearing said panties and a pair of red stilettos, murmuring 'you've been a naughty Legionnaire, haven't you, Vulpesy.'

(Which was totally inaccurate, by the way; sure, the rapelord of the Wastes liked wearing stiletto heels as much as the next red-blooded man, but it was really a dishonor to even suggest that he would wear underwear at all.)

Still, this image seemed to really push Vulpes over the edge; he screamed "Ave Caesar!" preparing himself for release, only for his dick to go limp.

"PROFFFFFFFFLIGATES!" Vulpes howled in pure, unadulterated rage, the dog on top of his head shaking wildly with his screams.

His rage-filled shriek carried all the way to Camp Forlorn Hope, where the stories of the mystifying scream are still told to NCR recruits to this day, boys and girls.

THE END

Author's note: I decided not add the bit about carrot-related injuries. I don't think carrots are good to fuck yourself with. Maybe cucumbers, if your ass is loose enough. Really loose. Bleurgh.