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Business, it seemed, had returned to normal at Gomorrah.
Things on The Strip moved quickly, faster than it felt like they should've in comparison to life outside of the city walls, and by the time I had stepped foot on the flawless blacktop void of all recollection of the nuclear war that had ravaged the outside landscape, I noticed hookers writhing and swaying to the swinging music of the city.
A Chairman dressed to the nines as per usual stood by the door outside of the fire-and-brimstone casino-hotel, though his eyes were focused more on the women, giving disdainful looks towards the handful of men that got too close for comfort without paying, or the ones that passed by that looked like bad news.
A flash of his gun beneath his jacket, and the creepy-looking, touchy ones hurried along with a newfound terror in their eyes, keeping their hands firmly to themselves. He'd clear his throat, making stark eye contact with any of the ones that looked like bad news, and off they went.
In what I assumed must have been only a few hours since the place re-opened to the public, the women on the sidewalk outside Gomorrah already seemed to trust the guy to watch out for them.
It felt refreshing to see that, to look at the Gomorrah workers and know they had someone looking out for them, even when they were working out on the street.
More folks seemed to be heading inside Gomorrah, likely craving some fix of human touch they couldn't get at the Ultra Luxe or at The Tops.
I crossed onto the left side of the road, stepping up onto the sidewalk and blatantly ignoring all the wide-eyed side-eyed looks the bloodied golf driver over my shoulder got. I kept my eyes fixed ahead on the block building of The Tops, its multicolored lines of neon along the sections of rooftop that pierced the night sky, at the glamorous vertical sign lined with circle-ended stars poking above the wall next to the gate into the inner city.
"Shit, I need a drink..." I thought to myself, balling my free clammy hand into a fist and wiping it down upon my duster. "I don't think I can do this shit sober. Not shit-faced drunk, just buzzed. Somethin' to take the edge off."
At the moment I'd begun to wonder whether or not I should head up to the Lucky 38 to collect some caps to splash at the Aces for a few drinks before I talked to Benny, one of the Securitrons standing idly by on the street outside the Lucky 38, just as I'd passed by the slope and was making a head for the gate to the inner city, behind the wall of which stood The Tops, rolled towards me, stopping me dead in my tracks.
Its screen, a stern and gruff, helmeted army man like all the rest, flickered and soon, in its place, was the static picture of the cowboy I'd come to know for the past fifteen years: Victor.
"Howdy, pardner!" Victor greeted me.
The usually cheery and upbeat twang of his accent was dulled somewhat. Made more hesitant, it sounded like.
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Nevada: High Roller (Fallout New Vegas)
Fanfiction"Being shot in the head will teach you two very important things about life. The first thing it teaches you is that you're tempting fate when you take a shortcut on your delivery route through a graveyard. When you're already surrounded by the dea...
