It's a Sin to Tell a Lie
"The truth is, the game was rigged from the start."
Two blasts from the beautiful Virgin Mary was all it took for the courier to go down. Benny let Jessup and McMurphy bury the poor slob. Couldn't get his hands dirty before he was handed the shiny keys to the gates of Vegas, could he? Instead, he smoked a couple cigarettes to take the edge off. Nothing like a smoke.
The rest of the trip was rather uneventful: dump the Khans off in Boulder City, hire a couple of bodyguards at the 1-88, then high-tail it back to the Tops in style. Not a problem. No prob-le-mo.
The only problem was pretending that everything was normal, cool. Benny had to play the coolest cat in New Vegas. It was the performance of a lifetime. Should've gotten an award for it, in his opinion. On the outside, he was regular smooth old Benny-man - always ready with an arm for the ladies and a beer for the gents. But on the inside, BOY. He felt like he was back with the Bootriders again, taking his initiation as a pimply little wasteland runt with big dreams and great hair.
Benny had put his many ears to the door of Vegas, feeling up the pulse of the old girl like a sleazy doctor. There'd been rumors, you see. Rumors about some hot-shot with a mailbag making their way to New Vegas. Now, Benny wasn't worried. Benny was never worried. But just to be sure, he had one of the more artistic of his cronies draw up a picture of the courier he'd shot and had it distributed among his security staff. Nothing wrong with being careful, no sirree.
So when that motherfucker of a courier just walked right into his turf, Benny was pissed. No, pissed wasn't the right word. He was fucking furious. But he couldn't touch the kid. Word on the street was that the big man himself - Mr. House - offering his protection. Not that Benny was worried, see. That was just a little bump in the master plan, a little kerfuffle, nothing a little elbow grease and a few shots from Maria couldn't handle. It was all going to end up just fine, you see. Just fucking fine.
He'd pulled a real humdinger on that fucking mailman, you see. Pulled the wool right over their eyes like a Christmas sweater from dear old Granny, if dear old Granny had held a gun to your head to make you wear it that is. It was easy as pie to trick the simple little courier into a free stay in the Presidential Suite, easy as pie. Once the poor slouch was all nice and comfy in their bed, Benny sent in room service. On the house, of course.
What he hadn't factored into his great master plan was the chance that the mailman could've SURVIVED. The little bastard even had the balls to turn on the intercom so that he'd be able to hear his cronies scream for mercy as they died. Now, Benny wasn't no slouch. He was smart, you hear! S-M-A-R-T! Ain't nothing would have brought him up to that suite, not in a million years. That didn't turn out to be a problem though.
The courier came to him.
Locked in a room in the back of the Tops, Benny was curled up in the fetal position as he heard the brutal warfare that was going on outside. How that mailman could tear their way through a hundred armed men, Benny had no fucking clue. He could only hear the sound of a pneumatic Power Fist slinging away and the resulting screams. Eventually the sounds stopped. Suddenly, Benny wished he'd hired a few more meatshields when he had the chance.
Fuck.
Footsteps came towards Benny's hiding place and he couldn't help but wonder what would've happened if he hadn't lied to that courier. Maybe they could've been partners, buddies, rule the Strip as mentor and protegee. Maybe he should've just given up the chip and live a happy life in NCR. Maybe he should've put an extra bullet between their eyes.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
The door bust open in a shower of splinters and Benny let out a scream.
It was a sin to tell a lie.