And now for something completely different

Well, 3 weeks into uni and already nothing interesting's happened. That said, I've always been an aspiring author, and with no other place to put up my stories, I figured I might as well put them up here. This story is inspired by the universe of the Fallout games, and by a long period of boredom sitting at work:

“Damn sandstorm.”
Jack wandered through the wasteland, cursing his luck as he made his way between destroyed houses and the charred wrecks of cars. He looked around for a place to stay. Perhaps even the fabled Restaurant. He knew the holy place had to be around here somewhere. He wiped the ski mask he was using as sand goggles to keep his visibility. Even with them, the sandstorm ensured that visibility was near zero. Jack pulled his cloak around him.

The Earth was now a place time had forsaken, leaving it to die a slow, radioactive death. At least eighty years prior, the world had been extinguished in the flames of nuclear war after peace talks broke down. The cause: poor customer service.
One of the heads of state had gone out during a recess to a nearby deli to buy himself a pie for lunch. The uncaring youth who had served him had first given him the wrong flavoured pie, and then given him the wrong change. This had enraged him so much, that the moment he was back, he broke off the talks, returning to his home nation and immediately declaring war on the little deli that had sold him the pie. Unfortunately, misinterpreting this, the country with the deli thought it was a first strike when a low-yield tactical nuclear warhead landed on the deli and wiped it (and half the city block around it) off the face of the Earth.
Fully 95% of the world’s population had been killed in the ensuing nuclear exchange, a 6 hour war later dubbed the War of the Delicatessen. The whole world had been turned into a deserted, radioactive wasteland.

Jack pushed his way through, his hand banging against a piece of rusted, corrugated iron scoured by sandstorms. He heard a faint voice. Finally, he had reached a settlement.
“Say again?” he shouted, trying to get his voice above the howling of the sandstorm.

“Identify yourself!” he heard a voice cry briefly.

“I’m a pilgrim! I seek the great Restaurant!”

“Prove it!”

“I have the Badge of Potato and Gravy!” he shouted, holding up what would once have been the lid of a small, circular plastic container. A small slot in the piece of iron he was standing in front slid open, a suspicious eye scanning over the plastic lid he held.

“Very well. You may enter, Pilgrim. Let me be the first to welcome you to Hot And Spicy.” The person on the other side said. The gate creaked and groaned as it was slid open, allowing Jack entry.
As he entered, he opened his cloak, revealing a stained, dirty set of rags that if they had been clean, and eighty years younger, an Armani suit. The tie was worn to tatters, barely more than a piece of cloth that was tied around the neck. The shirt, its original colour obscured (but probably some sort of shade of purple) was splattered with dried blood. His trousers may have been black, but now they were a dirty shade of brown, with a light film of dried mud on top.

He looked around. The town of Hot And Spicy was in a festive mood. Although barely more than a ramshackle shanty-town, it was still lively, with the sounds of the bustle of the market heard everywhere. Red and blue-shirted holy men and women wandered the streets, giving blessings to children who were wearing barely more than loincloths and furs, touching their holy baseball caps before touching the children on the lips. He looked around for the Restrooms, the place where pilgrims to the Restaurant were allowed to stay before making a visit to the Restaurant.

The next day was a holy day. In fact, it was the holiest day of the calendar. Jack was lucky. He’d be able to pay his respects and hope for a good trip back to his own village.
He followed the crowd towards the centre of the town, past the gate marker, a pair of broken pillars, with a fallen sign. In more prosperous times, it might have glowed with neon lights and demonstrated a place to find fat-filled greasy food. He managed to secure a position near the front of the Temple. The door slid open, as a priestess in black trousers, wearing the red and blue baseball cap and wearing the red and blue polo shirt that denoted a member of the Temple, welcomed the masses.

“Let the Chosen Ones come forth!” she declared. Several people, holding coloured, ragged pieces of paper that used to be vouchers came forward.
“Who is the one who bears the holy voucher of Buy One Get One Free?”

“I am!” a man cried, coming forward and waving his voucher. They took him in, ushering the others in as well. The interior of the restaurants were lit by torches, the menus on the ceiling once backlit by neon lights, now instead lit by flickering torch-light.

He began the holy ritual of Ordering.
"I would like a Family Feast with extra potato and gravy," he said reverently, chanting a holy verse, "and a bottle of mountain dew."

"That comes to $24.95." the priestess on the other side of the counter said, pressing buttons on the Cash Register of Holy Sounds. It emitted a series of barely audible bleeps, before the sound of a rusted bell was heard and the machine stuck its tongue out. The priest handed the man an empty bucket, and a green bottle with water in it. He bowed to the priestess, taking the faded red tray before taking a seat at one of the tables.
Others followed suit.
As Jack entered, he looked up to the huge statue on top of the Restuarant. It was a carved idol of an elderly man with a goatee, wearing a suit. It was the principle god of nourishment of Hot And Spicy: The Colonel.