Novac, August 17th 2281:
Night
Curses and malefaction. May robocops choke on poison cloud. Two thousand caps for entry into The Strip alone 'to ensure that visitors possess minimum amount of caps and reducing shady characters types for their own safety and convenience'. Two thousand caps must be sought out or claimed if one wishes to reach that son of a gun, Benny. Suppose the man who shot a Courier in the head would be sitting in his penthouse, sipping Sunny Sarsaparilla or cheap whiskey whilst shifting the Platinum Chip in his hand gleefuly.
Out of the two thousands, only half the required amount was collected after weeks of prospecting Mojave wasteland, killing Fiends high on chems, claiming criminals' bounty over the NCR outposts, running for Crimson Caravan, and selling weapons dead people left over the stores. Not counted are charity works done along Freeside, Julie Farkas and Arcade Gannon would approve, failed expedition to Sierra Madre, and utterly horrifying near death experience on approaching Boomer's Air Field.
Ah, Sierra Madre. Tomorrow. Eyes would not open another second.
A shot. Probably Boone.