AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Ok guys, please note that there is a bit of a language warning in this story, I wrote this last night at about 3 am when I couldn't sleep. hooray for 20 hours no sleep! Gotta love working night shift those crazy hours!

Enjoy!

You know, they say a man makes his own fortune in New Vegas. You either win big at the tables, break the bank and walk away a winner, or you end up walking home with nothing in your pocket all the way back to the fucking NCR or wherever the fuck you come from.

For me though, my bastard, retard mother-fucking son-of-a-bitch father sold me to Gomorrah to pay for his gambling debts, and then had the decency ended up in a back alley in Freeside with the shit beaten out of him and left to die by some thugs. Yep. New Vegas, the luckiest fucking place on this great fucked up planet we live on.

I was seventeen when this happened, 'daddy' if he were ever worthy of the title, was a drunk and womaniser, he was also a terrible gambler. Mum left us when I was ten and ran off with some Brahmin baron to be his mistress, leaving dad, my older brother and me to fend for ourselves. It was ok at first, but then dad started to get games of Caravan going with trader buddies of his, his debts piled up and he began to work them off.

Thing is, we ended up having to sell off all our property to do it, and then follow the caravans around just so a. the stupid fucker could get his fix of gambling, and b. then pay off his losses by working. I would work around helping the cook, and my brother would help dad with the hauling and setting up of the caravan. Dad would get drunk at night and tell my brother that he was not working hard enough, that he was a useless son.

There were some pretty fucked up fights over the things dad would say when he was drunk, I knew that my brother wouldn't stand for it much longer.

One day, my brother caught sight of an NCR patrol, he followed them and we never saw him again. We were working across the Mojave wasteland when dad finally paid off the last of his debts with a winning streak. He got so drunk and abusive to everyone, gloating and telling them they were all fucked in the head that night, that in the morning when we woke up, the caravan had been long gone. Dad still had his caps and his life, so at least the caravaneers had some integrity.

We moved north up the 95 and got to the 188 trading post, there wasn't much there, just an NCR outpost, little more than a tent, and a food place. No guns merchants like there are today. We moved on pretty quickly and found our way to Freeside.

Back then, you could get into the strip for a fraction of the price it costs today, and dad's 500 caps was more than enough for a credit check for both of us to be able to get in. dad made a fucking beeline straight for Gomorrah, whores, alcohol and gambling aplenty. While he worked on getting his debts up, I sat and watched the whores danced, they looked so glamorous, even the Ghouls. I sipped on my Nuka Cola and thought how fucking great it would be to be a New Vegas dancer. I had the body for it, hard travelling with the caravans and the amount of food available to us kept me trim.

Hours later, some fucker from the casino asked me to go with him to the office, not realising what was about to happen, I went with him. We went through the 'members only' door next to the bar and up a set of stairs to Nero's office. Big Sal, Nero and that sick motherfucker Cachino were all there watching my dad sign my life and freedom over to them for me to work off his debts. Fucking Omertas.

I began working the floor as a waitress, serving chems and alcohol to the customers, and changing the soiled bedding in the whore's rooms. They always stank. The clothing that passed for my uniform, for lack of a better word, consisted mainly of black or red nightie that barely covered my ass or tits, and was one of the reasons that Big Sal and Nero decided that I would be working better as a whore, making them more money. Thank fuck it was Nero who got to try me out first, and not that sick bastard Cachino.

Nero gave me my first hit of Jet, everything went so damned fast, not like Turbo, where it feels like you're moving slow, but in reality, you're actually going like a fucking rocket. I didn't even feel him fucking me, which I think is the way he likes it, fucking a rag doll, a warm, moist rag doll. Sick fuck. The problem is, from then on, it was Jet, Psycho, Med-X, Rocket, Vodka, Absinthe whatever the fuck they gave me, the kicker was, that I owed them for the chems they provided me, and the more I worked, the more chems I needed.

I lost track of how many girls they lost to overdoses. I was lucky though, I realised one day, after finishing up with a Johnny that I could be better. The guy actually wanted to talk to me after he had finished his fifty cap fuck.

"You're such a beautiful girl, I wish you were mine." He said, dreamily.

"You got me for another ten minutes honey." I said, lighting up a cigarette and taking a drag. I blew the smoke out into the dim light of the tent where I was working that day, it curled and roiled on the stale air.

"You can be so much more than you are." He said as he got up and began to dress. He tossed me a bag of caps. "Make yourself better, then come find me, I'll make your life so damn good." And he left, with that promise in the air. I opened the bag of caps, in it was twice the asking price for a fuck. I was at a loss as what to do. I sat there for at least an hour, lighting another smoke, and cracking open the bottle of vodka that was beside the filthy mattress.

The caps lay in a pile before me on the bed.

"Fuck," I said softly to myself, as I looked at the caps, and then to the empty Jet inhalers and Psycho injectors. "Yep." I said, "Fuck." With my free hand I rubbed at my forehead, my skin was clammy and oily, veins stuck out on my hands and in the broken piece of mirror that I used to straighten myself up after a Johnny, I looked haggard, dark circles ran under my eyes, lips were dry and cracked. I knew it was the Med-X that was really fucking me up, killing me slowly. You just had to look at Joanna or Dazzle, they were both pretty fucked up, and they'd been here longer than she had.

I'd made my decision, I had three more Johnnies to work that night, and in between each one, instead of using Jet, or Psycho, I drank water. Clean fucking water, how I'd missed the stuff. I knew it would be a while before all the shit had worked out of my system, but hell, it was a start.

When the last of the Jonnies had finished and gone his way, I went to the footlocker in my room. There was a dress in there that another Johnnie had made me wear, said it was his dead wife's dress, fucking creepy, but he paid good caps for it, and he even called her name when he came. Some freaks out there.

I put on a scarf and some glasses, and dabbed a bit of pre-war make-up powder on my face and walked right out there, without an Omerta noticing. This time I was going to change my luck for the better.

Or so I thought.