Nevada: High Roller (Fallout New Vegas)

Chapter 5: They Should've Shot The Deputy

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Side by side, Deputy Beagle and I pushed through the heavy double doors leading out into the streets of Primm from the old Bison Steve Hotel. 

The golden afternoon sunlight was a welcome change, as I rubbed my eyes and let my vision re-adjust from the ache that had settled behind them, after being surrounded by crappy fluorescent lights that had taken my head for a battering ram with each buzz and flicker.

I had been trying to ignore him, to drown out his incessant chattering, while he rambled on about the hardships of being taken hostage --how he'd made the 'daring' escape, without giving me any of the credit for clearing the way.

Wouldn't call the escape itself 'daring.' 

The most exciting bit was the part where Beagle had tripped over one of the many bodies I'd left on my way in. Slammed himself down onto the cold hard ground like a total idiot. Nearly knocked himself unconscious. 

               I was almost certain I'd seen him spit out a tooth, too.

     

If that didn't say much about his competency as the only remaining member of Primm's law, then nothing did.

Feeling the soft afternoon breeze, carrying a soothing coolness, I let out a deep breath as the last of the rush ebbed away into nothingness. I could still feel the trickle coming from my nose, could still taste that metallic taste on my lips as my tongue brushed across them to clear it.

It was at that moment, when I'd licked the blood off my lips, that I'd noticed Beagle had finally stopped talking and was looking straight at me with a tilt of his head and an ever-so-slightly concerned expression on his face, his eyes darting between my lips and my eyes rapidly, like he wasn't quite sure where to look.

"What?" I scrunched my nose, squinting my eyes. "'Ya got a problem or somethin'?"

I couldn't place what his issue was. Wasn't like he hadn't seen me do that before. 

Beagle opened his mouth to speak, but held off for a moment as the gears and cogs in his brain churned away while he tried to figure out what he was trying to say, or whether or not he should say it. 

               Against his better judgement, or lack thereof, he finally spoke up. 

"I swear I seen that exact thing in a... magazine."

I blinked, slowly, wishing that I hadn't asked. 

"I swear, every time I'm unfortunate 'nough to hear 'ya speak..." I said. "...It makes me wanna deep-throat a shotgun..."

"Well, speakin' of you kickin' the bucket..." Which, as you can imagine, seemed a great way to start any sentence, as Beagle sauntered forwards onto the corner of the street by the intersection between the hotel, the casino and the Mojave Express outpost.