Fuck the Mojave Express.
It seemed simple enough; take this box with a platinum chip inside it and I get into New Vegas scot-fuckin'-free. Not to mention, no damn credit check at the gate. The securitrons would'a bowed to me like I was a Mojave Desert God. But when I got picked up by checkered-suit-fucker and his band of shit-knobs, I knew, somehow, I was in for a world 'a trouble.
I had been heading up from Primm past the old prison when I caught 'em lurking by the side of the road. They'd clearly been staked out for a shake-down, but it wasn't my first rodeo. I pulled open my duster a little further and re-positioned my tits to show 'em off. And it worked; I caught some 'a the shit-knobs staring. Checkered-suit-fucker did most of the talking. Before I knew it, I had my arms wrapped around his neck lovingly, holding out for my pass down the road. I wasn't even paying attention when one 'a the fuckers clocked me with a shovel. I was out cold.
I woke up only a little while later, but they had enough time to tie my ass up and dig a shallow grave. I tested the give on the rope around my wrists, but it wasn't giving me a single cent. I heard the fuck-knobs murmuring in the distance, but only caught the meaning once they noticed me.
"Guess who's wakin' up over here?" his grunty voice caught my ear, and I looked up.
The one who spoke was the same one holding the shovel. I assumed he was the one who clocked me. His hair was cut into a tall mohawk and dyed bright, nuclear orange. The same color as a neon sign back up in New Vegas. The other fucker was a bit easier on the eyes; his hair was mostly covered up by a bandana and his mustache framed his mouth. Both of 'em were dressed in the Great Khans armor. Fuckin' great.
In the middle, stampin' out the ember from his cigarette butt was the checkered suit. He had such an entitled look about him, like he ain't slept with half the whores other New Vegas men had. But I wasn't buyin' it. He was some kind 'a con man for sure, but he wasn't as prim as he seemed.
"Time to cash out," he watched as his foot smooshed the butt into the Mojave sand. He stepped forward slowly, lookin' me right in the face.
"Will you get it over with?" Mustache gave him sass with that quip, but was cut off from Checkered-Suit's single finger held up.
"Maybe Khans kill people without looking 'em in the face," he said, warningly, "but I ain't a fink. Dig?" He kept his warning gaze at Mustache for a couple seconds before bringing up his hand to rustle through his checkered breast pocket. He pulled out a glistening poker chip, as though it was dipped in molten silver and set out to dry. My package.
"You made your last delivery, kid," his voice was somber this time, locking his cat eyes on mine, "Sorry you got twisted up in this scene."
The chip disappeared back into his breast pocket, but was replaced in-hand by a pistol just as pretty. Shiny, decorated like a child's toy, but I knew he wasn't playing when Mustache started scratching his head with nerves. Pussy.
"From where you're kneeling, must seem like an 18-karat run of bad luck," he pointed the pistol between my eyes like I were a lame horse. I stared it down with wide eyes.
"Truth is, the game was rigged from the start."
Boom.