Veeky Forums builds a post-apocalyptic bazaar

> Near the front of the crowded and teeming open-air marketplace lie a dozen gates, each diligently guarded by a handful of hired thugs and mercenaries. An almost constant trickle of merchants, entertainers, and curious wanderers enter and exit through the gates, some driving all manner of vehicles, and some without. Anyone who's anyone has visited the fabled Bazaar at least once, they say you can find anything there if you're willing to look and have the wealth to part with.

I'm not going to a bazaar where I need to go through twelve checkpoints and pay off twelve cunt guards on a bad day for the privilege of even trading there. Fuck that.

> He doesn't realize the Bazaar is large enough there are twelve separate gates, with seperate sets of guards scattered across the edges of the premises, allowing twelve streams of traffic to enter and exit simultaneously, and assumed there's a single congested gate with twelve successive checkpoints.

This is why you boil your water before drinking.

A pet stall sells a variety of small creatures: mostly various rodents, but some mongrel dogs and cats as well. Most are somewhat inbred or mutated, but they're a hell of a lot cuter than some of the stuff roaming the wilds, and having one would be a sign of affluence.

A pet stall sells a variety of small creatures: mostly various rodents, but some mongrel dogs and cats as well. Most are somewhat inbred or mutated, but they're a hell of a lot cuter than some of the stuff roaming the wilds, and having one would be a sign of affluence.

Welcome to ned's luxury canned goods.
In store credit for every empty can returned.

A pet stall sells a variety of small children: mostly various eunuchs, but some mongrel boys and girls as well. Most are somewhat inbred or mutated, but they're a hell of a lot cuter than some of the stuff roaming the wilds, and having one would be a sign of affluence.

Would ammo make sense as currency?
Everyone wants it/needs it, easy to verify, relatively plenty. only downside I see is the weight.

>In the center is a massive Old World war machine controlled by the faction that runs the bazaar. People still talk about that one time it killed a band of mutant raiders. It hasn't moved in decades, but trouble makers don't want to bet on whether it can or not

Both pet stalls are built facing opposite one another, and despite the fact that their owners, structure and wares are almost identical, their very similar keepers will argue up and down that their competitor is a witless dullard, a scandalous cheat, and a shameless fool to anyone who'll spend an hour listening to them rant.

A handful of visibly furious men and women are gathering outside of the stall, claiming that the owner has stolen their relatives or has cheated them by selling "used goods" at full price. It seems the small crowd is as likely to attack itself as the stall, and the owner is scrambling to barricade the entryway before things reach a boiling point.

>On one of the western interior walls is a stall that sells maps and other navigational tools. The merchant who appears to be in his twenties and very knowledgeable on local and distant locations claims to have never set foot outside the complex, and also claims that his "Old Man" makes the maps.

>The maps are accurate despite the turbulent and ever shifting political, territorial, and sometimes geographical situation of the wasteland.

>for a little extra he'll even mark the locations of scavenge and other loot with your purchase.

A man in a trench coat owns a stall with many guns on its display. He claims to have made them all himself, but they look too good to have been made by hand.

A booth deeply sequestrated within the ally between a wire trader and an flesh brewer. Behind the entrance of the tent sits a heavyset man, either by lethargically or malbirth his larms and legs are small, gnarled twigs. His hands and chest are coated in a thick viscous black. Through his thick rimmed spectacles of colored glass he chatters of how he will rend your future from the hands of fate and lay it before you. For a hefty price in trade he shall dig through his bowl of grease and oil and tell you what he sees.

I mean, all money really is is just a good everyone agree's has value in exchange for all other goods. A bullet would have value for basically everyone and you would even benefit from having a few spare rounds in a caliber you don't use just in case so it's good pretty much universally.

Only issue I can see is that there can't really be a set value attached to it, like a 5.56 won't always go for the same amount like a $5 bill will.

Then again, in a post-apoc game, you probably want there to be some contention in trading so it all works out.

>This is why you boil your water before drinking.

A pair of tankers are parked in an open area, several guards stand on top and around them keeping the crowd at a distance. On their rear a line of people with plastic bottles, repurpose gas cans and other containers advances slowly. The murmurs of the price can be heard in the crowd, but no one who finish their transaction with full containers seems to be complaining at the quality of water.

Near the center of the Bazaar there’s a Blacksmith. While he mostly make mundane tools, they say if you bring him good metal, Charcoal, and a bit of old world whiskey he’ll forge you a knife that will outlast your grandkids and be your most trusted companion out in the ruins of the old world.

Bullets are kinda terrible for a currency; they're incredibly useful as a non-currency, degrade when not in controlled environments, and easily counterfeited while the only efficient way to test for counterfeits is to fire them.

If you go down a storm drain near the stand that sell cat gumbo there is a small metal hatch. If you knock on it three times the hatch slides away and a hand with a metal pan pops out. If you drop a few coins or something worth it into the pan then the hand will disappear with your money, and reappear with a bag full of broken fortune cookie pieces. The well is next to a basement where an old man makes fortune cookies and homeless who live in the understreet water ways buy scraps from him.

When not selling his wares, the young merchant never seems to leave the old data-processing centre he lives in. He currently seems to be hiring a handful of experienced engineers to look into some scattered, old world monuments of sorts. The details are unclear, but some of the older merchants are starting to whisper of some wondrous tech from before the war still functioning. A "Sat-Light", if the rumours are to be believed.

Speaking about guns, it only takes a glance at the people that sullenly trod through the cluttered, dusty market that they are getting rougher and more jury-rigged by the day. Even some of the most successful caravan guards seem to be preferring reliable, well-sharpened machetes over a rifle bursting in their hands through poor construction and maintenance. As useful pre-war weapon depots grow fewer and far-between, firearms become rougher and less-reliable and experienced craftsmen grow older and apprentice-less, it makes one wonder whether the knowledge of gun-smithing is dying art, doomed to disappear for good in the coming generations.

... again?

K then. Where is the fag arguing for pneumatic guns last time? I want to trash him once more

Sounds like someone needs to start teachin folks or making some sort of permanent records on how to both maintain and make firearms, and more importantly, their ammunition.

Given it's the post-apocalypse, outlasting your grandkids isn't such a wild proposition.

Depending on the type of apocalypse (e.g. presence of radioactive crud, is the sun blocked out by dust leading to sickly crops, the complete collapse of modern medicine, collapse of critical infrastructure (clean water, power, sewerage, etc), surging predator populations, etc...) you'd be lucky to have kids live to breeding age, let alone grandchildren.

In any case, for the sake of worldbuilding, we need to know: what made the world the way it is today?

Nestled in the quieter area of the Bazaar is the brothel district. While most of these fine establishments offer the standard fare, it is whispered that venturing deeper into the district will lead a man (or woman) to any kind of pleasure they please... although there is always a price to be paid for the attentions of the more unusual residents, not to mention that society can be quite judging of a man whose time is spent in the embrace of a woman with more than the standard number of arms...

Fucking Crazy Amos sits in his "stall" of his sole product, an unexploded nuclear ICBM. Nobody's entirely sure where he's gotten it, how he smuggled it in or if it's even active. The guards insist that it isn't, but will not allow you to take it apart within the Bazaar if you happen to purchase it.
Which would take some doing, since he's not always coherent.

A gruff man, wizened beyond his age looks up at you. "Whatcyoo want?!" He spits out in a harsh tongue.
"Ah it's information you lookin' for!"
He rubs his fingers together. You hand over a worn lighter. He eyes it closely and seems satisfied.

"Well Im 'bout as good as you git 'round here for general items and minor servicin'. Over thar you get Tracey's fixin's, best damn food you can find in these parts.
That there cart is the 'key-bab' man. He makes 'em outta less than savoury pests. They ain't bad if you don't have much coin.
That fancy lookin' tower you see there is the mayor's place. You can hire some guards and such from him.
Next is Jimmy's armory. He got some shiny pieces if you got something worth trading for. He got no use for coin though. Attached to Jimmy's is his brother Go-Lucky. He's somethin' of a mechanic."
He takes a pause in his little description before continuing.
"We got Telicia's infirmary. She 'bout 100 years old but she'll get you patched up. And then we got Rickets Rockets car sales, Grand View Hotel, Pets R Us, Sols Dentists, and the One eyed snake, best bar in the world. Best start there if you looking for work"
With that he goes back to his counter top...

At least for a little while, everyone with in town with anything to their name had a pretty little brightly colored shiny plastic lighter. They got em' when some young fella rolled through the market and traded a whole box of the little things for a long gun and ammo. Some of the oldtimers called em' bix or something like, and there are still a few floating around the Bazaar full of fuel and only lightly used. Tom the the matchstick maker and tinder seller hated the things at first, but has since done his damnedest to snap up as many as he can to sell again at a premium, and he's collected nearly every spent one he could find, in hopes of refilling them.

COME YE UNFAITHFUL, COME TO I, CAPRANRANICUS THE PROPHET, AND HEAR THE WORD OF SAY-TYR, THE ALBINO GOAT OF DOOM, LORD OF THE BOVIDAE REALM, LORD OF THE INFITE HAREM, HE-WHO-DOES-HE-PLEASES

COME AND HEAR THE BLEATS OF HE-OF-MANY-WORDS, LAY DOWN YOUR WORLDLY TROUBLES AND REMOVE YOURSELF FROM YOUR CYCLES OF GUILT.

THIS WORLD IS LONG PAST, LET IT BE MADE ANEW BY THE HOOF OF SAY-TYR

I for one welcome our new goat overlords.

"Go home you crazy old bastard! You're driving away the customers!" Yells a stall owner.

I'm also selling goats. Twelve rounds for one, twenty for two. I'll settle for guzzoline

Clearly the Bazaar runs on a barter system, with several factional currencies in use, including but not limited to, "Tokens" distributed by the faction that runs the Bazaar, smelted gold/silver coins belonging to the historical LARPer faction, and paper money from the official mint of the remnants of the pre-fall government.