The Courier remembered the letter he received very well. "Letter for a... 'Courier Six'? Anyone here named Courier Six?" he remembered the quivering paperboy asking.

"Over here kid," Six hailed from his booth, "Over here kid, the guy with a hole in his forehead trying to enjoy his drink in solitude." announced Six. Fucking orphans, he thought to himself at the time.

The child wasted no time attending to the slightly-annoyed man, handing over a clean envelope. It read "To Courier Six" on the back, in cursive, flawless cursive. It looked pretty professional. Almost professional, if it weren't for the smudged, peeled dead skin on it.

"Alright, brat, d'ya know what's in this?"

"Absolutely no idea, sir. The man who gave it to me told me it was confidential. Gave me a complimentary 100 caps to not open it." the child replied.

100 caps to keep this dumb kid from reading it? Must be serious, the Courier pondered, Bet it's another faction trying to convince me to save the Mojave again. Why can't they just contact me the conventional method? A simple 'Hi! How are you? Would you like to join our cause? Please, we promise you adventure, caps, and elongated backstories!' in person would've sufficed.

The Courier reached into his pocket and pulled two caps out. They were moistened by his sweaty, booze-smeared hands. "Here's your tip, now get out."

"Thank you, sir" the child said as he hastily grabbed the caps and bolted to the exit. Most likely to deliver some other letters elsewhere.


Dear Mr. Courier Six,

I write to you with a proposal. To be brief: I would like for you to kill someone for me. You can find me at my room in the El Rey Motel across from Camp McCarran. I will be in the room behind the left-hand staircase. Knock three times and say "Room service, we heard that your carpet is dysfunctional" and I will let you in.

If you fail to find me then I guess you wouldn't have been able to do the job in the first place. If so, I spent my hard-earned money on that postboy for nothing, and in that case I would have only one thing to say to you: go fuck yourself.

We can speak payment in person.

Yours truly,

S. B.


And here he is, the amazing Courier Six, standing shabby in front of the ramshackle that is El Rey Motel.

Better be worth my time, he thought.


Author's note: Here's one of my other spur-of-the-moment fics. This one is different though: it's hot-off-the-typewriter too!

Revision is the bane of creativity. Weed it out with some good ol' sleep deprivation! Or an illicit substance. Works just about the same. I'll probably update this next week. And who knows, it might become a weekly thing. Most likely not, however. I don't do schedules.

Hope you enjoyed. Comments and criticisms are welcomed.