FINAL RETRIBUTION
It was already late, and the Short Stick Saloon was in eerie silence. The jukebox whispered nothing but a faint music of New Vegas radio, with none of the patrons heeding it. Among them, Doc Friday and his lover, No Face Kate, sat together on the corner, relieving old time moments between them. But there was one unusual patron sitting on the bar; his name was Thorne. Tired after a long journey, he somehow found himself stranded on this mysterious bar in the middle of nowhere. He tried to find comfort in a bottle of Whiskey that night, and so far he was consumed by nothing but boredom.
A small creak was heard behind him, but Thorne didn't turn. Another guy looking for a drink, he thought. The sound of heavy boots stomping on the floor of the bar didn't annoy him, but Doc and Kate were in awe when they looked upon the source of the voice. The bartender, realizing who came to his estabilishment, quickly prepared a shot and a bottle of Absinthe.
The man took a seat beside Thorne. Again, it didn't bother him, but when he took a glance, he noticed those scarred hands. He knew those hands. He helped them to recover. He helped the owner of those hands to return to Mojave, after a brutal massacre in Frosthill, Utah. But he couldn't believe his eyes. He was sure that the liquors are taking over him. He looked upon the friendly face beside him.
"Y..you." Thorne gasped in disbelief.
"Take it easy, mate. You look like you're seeing a ghost."
It was The Courier. Fresh and alive. Thorne couldn't accept the reality for a brief moment. Not long after their last meeting, he heard of the news regarding the Divide. The battle of two messengers from the old world. He was certain that, after what happened in Utah, the Courier's luck would run out. But no, not even close. God knows how he cheated death three times, and now Thorne was looking at him pouring his favorite drink into a small glass.
"How did you….come back from the Divide?"
"Long story, friend. Long story."
The Courier then asked about his old friend's life. Thorne decided to see his decision through. He actually set on a journey of redemption. He helped the Westside clinic tend to the rehabilitation of the Fiends, and also became a traveling doctor across the Mojave. Not long after that, both of them fell into silence.
"I heard you killed Esther's husband." Thorne broke the ice.
"I did." The Courier lit up a cigarette and puffed out a cloud of smoke. He let his muscles relaxed as he enjoyed the narcotic sensation of tobacco in his lungs. It's been awhile since he let his body rest for a moment.
"What about her? Did you kill her, too?"
"No, she was pregnant. Couldn't do it."
"Really?"
"Let's just say the bitch got off easy. Of course I've made it certain that she won't have it light, now that she's a widow. That whore ought to taste a lil' hardship after what she did."
Thorne stared at his friend with empathy. He could still sense rage and revenge in the legendary man. A fire that would never stop to burn, even after Marko's death.
"Do you know who I met today, before I got here?"
Thorne shook his head. "Who?"
"Brookshire."
Thorne nearly lost his breath. It became clear to him that the Courier's wrath was more than only burning; it was engulfing. He thought that after he returned to Mojave, The Courier would at least lay low for some moments. But no, he wasted no time in exacting his revenge on those who wronged him.
"You should've seen his face. Damn bastard nearly pissed himself in front of everybody." The Courier chuckled before he gulped down a shot of Absinthe. "I found him hiding in the NCR embassy. The bastard thinks he would be safe around the white collars and rangers. I called him out on his actions, making sure everyone knew what he did. When Ambassador Crocker came up to see what the fuck is going on, he was surprised to see me, for the motherfucker told him that I was MIA."
Thorne paid attention closely.
"I told Crocker everything he did in Utah, showing him the letters he sent to that fucking cocksucker Ford and Marko. I told him what was the cost of his action, the massacre of Frosthill. Crocker didn't say a damn thing, but when Brookshire tried to reason with him, he turned around without giving a look."
Thorne could feel his heart beating faster.
"So I dragged his ass into the courtyard, in front of everybody's fucking faces. Brookshire kept saying about how I would stir up things with the NCR if I kill him. When he told me to think about the consequences, I gave him a good laugh and told him to look around. I said it to him loud and clear, 'Look around you, fuckface. These troopers got guns in their hands, yet none of them is trying to save your sorry ass. You betrayed your partners and let a whole town massacred by a bunch of rampant criminals. You ain't worth a shit."
Thorne's forehead is gleaming with sweat.
"I took out Randall's old sweet gun. I waved it before his stupid face. 'See this fucking gun, Brookshire? She was Randall's. He called her 'Sweet Revenge', and you know she ain't playing around.' I loaded the ol' girl with six rounds. All of them were steel-pointed."
From afar, Doc was listening to the Courier's tale. He could barely know about the original story, but he knew that he was listening to a story of revenge.
'The motherfucker kept looking around him, calling for help. Yet the whole embassy didn't even say a fucking word when I pointed the gun to his forehead. They were all watching, waiting for the firework."
-
"Please, please don't do this, I beg you!"
"You gassed me and paralyzed me, and then you turned me and Randall into Marko's hands like we were some goddamn poker chips. You even paid that bastard boy Ford to betray Randall. Now here you are, begging for me not to clip your ass."
The whole embassy was in a clutching tension. The troopers hold their guns tightly, but not to prepare themselves to shoot the Courier. No, they were aware of his wrath. They were just scared of their own safety. They knew that Brookshire had it coming. They decided to let the judgment pass.
The Courier sticked the barrel of Randall's old gun to Brookshire's forehead.
"Should've known better than to trick a man who cheated death."
Then, six gunshots echoed across the Strip.
Strange, it was raining outside.
"I missed Randall. Sure, we both were no more than business partners, but still he was a decent guy."
Both of them downed their drinks. Thorne was at the same level of drunkenness with The Courier.
"You should've seen it too, when I stormed the entire saloon filled with those twisted fuck traitors. I saved him for the last, that prick Ford, and he crouched behind the bar right away when I start moving down those fuckers."
Thorne, with all the few awareness left within him, nodded slowly.
"It was the same thing with that cunt, except he didn't get the privilege to meet ol' Sweet Revenge. Instead I got myself a fucking M60, loaded to the brim. Showed him the fucking bullet belt and said 'See this bullet belt, you lil' prick? I'm gonna unload them all on you, till you're more grounded than a fucking can of corned beef, you coward sonuvabitch. Should've learnt something from those cheapass novels about me, boy. I'm exactly what you call as 'revenge'".
Doc threw out a slow breath. He knew now what became of the legend of Mojave; a wrathful vengeance spirit.
"I pulled the trigger and sprayed the motherfucker with leads. Hehehe. By the time I was done, he was so fucked up I found his eyeballs floating in a glass on the other side of the bar, and I think I stepped on his lil' balls when I walked out of the place."
Thorne was about to take another round, but then he could sense that the Courier wasn't done yet.
"I looked for Marko, but couldn't find him. Still, the bastard's stupid enough to leave me some lead about where he was. An old graveyard, a bit far from the town. Sheesh, Thorne, you should've been there. The graveyard, man, looked like a frickin' garden. Except instead of roses and daisies, I got myself surrounded with crosses and tombstones."
The faint music from the jukebox was still there. It was 'Johnny Guitar', by Peggy Lee.
"I quickly set my course to that blasted place. Damn mountain was cold in the night, nearly got myself a frostbite on my way there. I managed to get there, as you may figured it already."
The Courier was about to take a round of Absinthe, but something made him laughing hard. So hard that his drink was spilled all over the bar.
"You should've seen him, Thorne. Marko. The way he looked at me, I guess he thought his eyes were lying to him. But to my surprise, he had buried Randall's body by his own hands. Can you imagine that? He dragged that old man's dead ass to the cold graveyard after Ford blew his head off by himself. Still, Marko regretted that he didn't finish me off right away when he got the chance."
He refilled his shot, and downed in right away. The burning heat of the liquor didn't bother him.
"I took out the Sweet Revenge, and yeah it was fucking cliche. Hell, even Marko sneered at it, too. It was stupid, y'know. I thought I was going to do some honor for Randall, but even the thought of it now makes me want to bury myself in the desert. I ain't no fool, and I knew that the gun won't be good enough to take down Marko. I mean, that gun wasn't strong enough to take down Richter. Sure, that fat bastard was bigger than him, but I know Marko's something else. He's stronger than Judge, and that means the ol' Sweet Revenge won't do a trick."
The Courier slowly pulled something out of his backpack. It was a sniper rifle, and no ordinary sniper rifle. It was an M82, with few nicks and scratches all over the body. Clearly, the rifle had seen many fights with its rightful owner.
"But this lady, this full metal bitch right over here, she did the job alright. Marko went pale when he saw me pointing its barrel down his way. He was standing no farther than 5 meters away from me, and this baby could rip apart a super mutant from half a klick away."
A faint applause was heard in the graveyard. Marko unwillingly appraised his foe's adaptive strategy.
"Clever, clever. You know that Randall gun's probably won't do shit against me, so you brought yourself a fucking mutant killer weapon. You're smarter than you look, Courier, or you're probably just scared shitless."
The Courier took it slow. He loaded the anti-materiel rifle with ease, and took off its scope. He then aimed it toward Marko's chest.
"Nah, man. Truth is, I always make sure that I see my job done, and I ain't leaving any hole for failures here. I've seen it myself, that shooting someone in the head, especially with a gun, doesn't always work. But shoot a motherfucker in the chest, with a bigass caliber, from a close distance should do trick."
Suddenly, Marko went into a charge. He dashed toward the Courier while firing his guns. Strange, none of them seemed to found their way to the target. The Courier held his breath, steadied both his hands and his right shoulder. And just before Marko was upon him, he squeezed the trigger.
A might blast roared across the graveyard, followed by an eerie silence.
Both men couldn't believe what just happened. The Courier, believing that he already fired the bullet, didn't understand why the man before him was still standing. Marko, believing that the bullet had already went through his body, still found himself standing before his enemy. They were consumed by their own surprises.
Suddenly, blood streamed down from both Marko's chest and back. Beneath the blood and the mess, the Courier could see a hole with the size of a fist of a children. The bullet flew through the man's body, and lodged itself in Randall's fresh dirt mound.
He dropped to the ground, fell to his death.
The Courier took out few bottlecaps and put them on the table. He then packed his belongings and walked to the door.
"Where are you going?" Thorne asked.
"Coming home. Where my love is waiting for me."
"Your love?"
"Yeah, I met this sweet chick bit a long time ago. Her name's Willow."
"Huh, didn't know you would finally settle down, Courier."
The Courier chuckled. Then, his eyes met Doc's eyes.
"Hey, Doc. Didn't see you there." He greeted the ghoul warmly, and drunkenly.
"So, Randall's dead?" Doc asked slowly.
The Courier looked at him with a thoughtful gaze, then slowly nod.
"Yeah, he finally bit the dust. Poor bastard."
The Courier walked out of the saloon, into the rain, into the night.