Edit (12-21-15): Due to some major continuity problems and various other issues, I've gone over GATG and identified some problems. Mostly it was just minor plurality issues (dropped or added), or sentence restructuring, but I opened up a real big plot hole and it had to be fixed. I went back and edited a few concepts for consistency, because I noticed a problem there. Italics might have been moved around or removed, as well, so the nature of the beast is slightly different... but it's still Maggie.
I'm at Chapter 33 in editing, please bear with me
Maggie remembered the exact moment she wanted to kill that good-for-nothing husband of hers.
She would always remember. You just didn't forget someone shooting you in the face! She was going to kill him, so help her God―she would be a widow before the end of the goddamn year! That son of a bitch set her up! She tossed back another shot of whiskey and growled to herself.
She'd been borderline alcoholic, before. It pushed her over the edge when she woke up in that dumb little town called Goodsprings. Woke up being talked down to by the town doctor like she was an imbecile and hadn't got two rocks to rub together in her head. Oh, she would've―she would've liked to give that man a proper thrashing, but she knew better. He had helped, really, even if she wanted to kill the first person she saw when she woke up.
After all, murder was most properly reserved for those who deserved it, yes? The Family taught her that. Once doesn't simply run about murdering people just because one is angry. One works up to murder, makes them earn it, and then one makes money from it.
Oh, and she was going to, so help her God, so help her―
She was going to make a shitload of money off that rotten, no-good, piss ass, calculating motherfucker that she had married!
...Just as soon as she got out of this hellhole, and back into the hellhole she called home.
Maggie sat in the saloon in Goodsprings. She was weighing her options. Her head, newly unadorned of a lead piercing, was banging like a drum as she slammed back shot after shot of whiskey. The booze wasn't going to help, but she couldn't stop herself; she knew she had a problem. So far, it hadn't gotten her killed―
Maggie snorted. She sure as shit wasn't drunk when that slimy bastard shot her in the head!
There was an argument behind her that she paid no mind to, but she had no money so... maybe she ought to. Maggie pushed herself back and turned to look at the asshole arguing with the saloon owner. Some idiot in blue and black, like a big fucking bruise walking 'round the wastes.
She opened up her straight edge and watched it catch what little light there was in the saloon. A nice little shave would do this man some good―not his hair, neither. She grinned to herself maliciously, and listened to the argument. Looking for some guy named Ringo. Wanted him given up, threatened the town.
"Aw, now, that's all wrong," she muttered. "You can't open like that."
Trudy, the owner of the place, shot her a look that harbored no safety. Maggie closed the razor and put it back into her pocket. In another time she might have been inclined to ignore the whole thing. There was some value in endearing herself to the natives, though.
She shrugged to herself. It was worth a try. She pushed herself up off the bar stool, wobbling to a stand. She'd fixed Trudy's radio in return for some caps that she'd promptly spent on whiskey, but she needed more caps. The woman might pay her if she got rid of this guy. At the very least, she might give her a free drink.
"I think," Maggie started, her voice beginning to slur, "that you ought to beat it." She pointed hazily at the man, seeing his outline wavering in the dim interior of the saloon.
"What the hell―listen, I ain't talking to you," he started up. His voice was smug, full of itself.
Maggie chuckled to herself. "Hey, you're one a-them gangers, aincha," she slurred, and held her stomach with laughter. "So big and bad in them prison blues!"
Trudy made her way behind the counter as the jackass turned on Maggie. Maggie wasn't worried. Hell―she'd just died, she was pretty sure of that, this guy had nothing that would scare her! A lazy grin slid across her face; she put her hand behind her and grabbed the bar stool for balance, her fingers gripping the edge of metal with more strength than she could feel.
"Look, you stupid bitch, I ain't talking to you here," he said, and pushed past her. "You all need to pay attention better." He left, slamming the door. Maggie shook her head, and guffawed at the man as he walked away. What an idiot.
"Best to ignore that one," an older man said from a booth.
Maggie looked over at Trudy. "The hell did he want," she asked, her grin fading slowly.
"It's some nonsense with a trader what come through," Trudy said.
Maggie got the specifics. Sounded like a hell of a lot of fun, actually. A reason for a shootout. Hell, she'd love to shoot someone, that was for sure, but in the absence of that asshole, she might as well have a little fun!
And she'd get some money, and hie herself north and find that fucker and shoot him too―she started taking stock of her options again.
Maggie found herself trying to figure out how to talk Easy Pete into helping. Shaking down the doctor and the shopkeep, pssh, she'd been taught to do that shit since she was thirteen. And, God, that was such a long time ago now, between New Vegas and her getting married and that fucking asshole shooting her in the head―
She snorted to herself. Well. She had a gun now. Wasn't the best of guns, just a little varmint rifle, but it was a gun and it did shoot legit bullets. She wasn't wanting for anything yet. And she wasn't scared of some small-town criminal what thought he was hot shit.
Maggie was from New Vegas. She was a goddamn Omerta princess! Omerta meant silence. You didn't talk shit about nothing, you just did what you wanted. And you never, ever, betrayed the Family.
Maggie bought herself more whiskey, downed the whole bottle, and set herself down on the old motorcycle outside of the saloon. She stared across the highway, adjusted her ass on the seat of the old bike, and aimed her rifle down at the men. After a moment she lowered the rifle, blinked the blurriness out of her eyes, and raised it again.
Couple of guys, not too many. Not enough of them to try to take down some sleepy little town. She grinned. Hell. The goddamn Bighorners could probably take these idiots down, given the right provocation.
She sat up a little straighter, and called out to the leader. "We doin' this, Joe? You really wanna try taking out this town, for one man?"
"I ain't afraid of some shit-shoveling sheep herders!" he yelled back.
"Alright," she chuckled to herself. "Don't you go whining when I gotta step on your neck or something!"
Maggie turned to the townsfolk. "I'll shoot first, then you guys. Stay on your feet." She looked back to the Powder Gangers and nodded. "One more time, Joe! Say it again!" she yelled.
He opened his mouth to issue some more stupid words and she brought up her rifle, shooting him right in the smacker.
Man, she thought it would be nicer out. The Strip was great and all, got your comforts of home and whores at Gomorrah and the "nicest" guys ever what walked the Strip, those crafty-ass Chairmen, and even all the great food you'd ever want at the Ultra-Luxe―not that she'd ever eat there, ugh, she knew better.
But the wastes were so crude compared to all that shit. Like roughing it in the wastes made you tougher, somehow. Meaner. More badass.
Maggie supposed that it was same for people who lived out in the world, hearing about all the crazy awesome shit that went on in New Vegas. No one really believed it 'til they got there, and then they lost all their caps and ended up on the ass end of Freeside in that refugee park. Maggie shook her head at that. She never wanted to be back in that place.
Ought to know better, these idiots come to the Strip wanting quick fortune. She was bred and raised right outta the wastes herself, but she'd lived in Vegas since it all began. She knew better. Still got fleeced, though.
Made her blood boil. She wanted to crush that bastard's nuts in her right hand and rip his throat out with her left. They'd had good times, they had. But he went and spoiled it all just for some stupid-ass delivery she was picking up, on account of his brown nosing the fucking boss? Not-At-Home better pony up some decent caps for her tracking him down and flat-out murdering him for his tricky steps.
Oh, and he'd better not be fucking around with that thing, that chip that House wanted so badly. House paid good money to bring that thing to the Mojave Express and she'd been down to pick it up, and then Benny had to go and kill her just to get it off of her?
She groaned to herself. What the hell could that asshole want with the chip, want so badly he'd shoot his own damn wife for it? It had better be something insanely valuable―she grumbled to herself, the volume of her voice rising higher and higher as she made her way along the highway. She was going to―ohhh! She was going to destroy that backstabbing bastard like the dog he was!
Maggie stopped in mid-stride. Hell! She should plan this out. So much pain, so little time to inflict it in.
She sneaked around the towns, ignoring the people in them. Nipton was on fire, sure enough, and she wasn't going down there. Fire under her own ass propelled her around to the highway, up into the mountains. Killed Vipers and damn near lost a toe from "finding" a landmine.
Maggie scoffed and tromped up the highway. Legionaries out and about, ignoring her. She ignored them, too. Never bothered with 'em, before. That was politics, the only thing she'd ever done for politics was marry into the damn Chairmen. Shoulda never had to do that―
She shoulda found some dumbass soldier on the Strip like Carla did, and hightail it south. She looked around. Shit, she was near wherever it was the idiot had gone off to, what was the name of that damn place? No-something.
No-Brains, like Carla had, maybe. Pissed the Family right the fuck off when she bugged out of Vegas. Everyone knew why she'd run off. No one could go after her, not unless they wanted to find out just what Big Sal could do with a little ingenuity and some elbow grease. Big Sal didn't want Carla touched. Even if what she'd done hurt the Family.
Nero didn't want her touched, either. As boss of the Omertas, he was in a position to say Carla was safe. Maggie knew the reason why; Nero always got what he wanted. If it took him five years or fifteen, he always got what he wanted and he worked stealthy. He had very good reason to dislike Carla for running off, to want to make a plan to retrieve her. He would know when and where and how. And he would do so, once the time was right.
Maggie hadn't wanted to marry that cocksucker. Carla was supposed to get herself married to Benny, not Maggie. Carla would have had Benny's nuts for breakfast long before she'd ever get herself shot in the fucking head for his plans. Maggie... she was the younger one, she wasn't even on the table until Carla left.
Maggie stopped walking and parked herself on a rock. Her head pounded with anger and the beginning of fear. If she went back now... if she made it to the Strip, if she killed Benny in cold blood in the Tops, she was gonna get herself killed again. It meant starting war between the families on the Strip, killing the boss of the Chairmen like she wanted to. Even for revenge.
Fuck, this was all Carla's fault!
Omertas wanted her back. Them and their damn idolizing asses, wrapped around her stupid finger. Right up until and even after the bitch had ducked out and left Mag holding the door. Everyone in Gomorrah loved Carla. Except for...
Maggie coughed and spat a wad of snot onto the highway. Nero and herself, she guessed, were the only people who'd ever known better than to listen to Carla's stupid manipulation. She'd been unlucky, having Carla for a sister.
Omerta women didn't live happy lives. Maggie knew. She'd had her fair share of trouble. She and Carla were only a few women out of many in Gomorrah, and probably the only two who were spared a life of prostitution. She was lucky she hadn't been tossed into a cage and starved half to death, as a child living among the Slither Kin. Tribals, she snorted. Growing up in the "best" of both world had left Maggie heartless. There was nothing that fazed her.
Once New Vegas started up, Maggie had been lucky to be Big Sal's daughter. It was a status symbol, to have legitimate children in a sea of whores. Meant she and Carla were marked for nicer things. Marked for politics. Fuck all, Nero was a crafty bastard. He'd been planning this diplomatic shit for ten years, now, and he'd probably banked on Carla killing Benny anyway. Maggie knew Nero wanted Benny dead; with Swank in charge, the Chairmen were weakened and could be crushed. Swank was such a moron.
One less Family on the Strip, one less trouble to have. Maggie knew she would do the same thing, if she was in Nero's shoes. Fucking Chairmen thought they were classy with their New Vegas shine, now that they weren't forced to scratch out an existence in the wastes.
And until New Vegas had come along... Maggie remembered the old days. She wasn't gonna forget. It had been a bad life.
Maggie cracked her neck and checked her gun. Maybe she would look up Carla. Go and see her and the husband, find out how she was doing. Maybe she'd give her a good rough-up for ditching her in New Vegas, stuck with that wily fucker, and be on her way. It was the least she could do for her sister, the sister she'd left trapped on the Strip without so much as a how-you-do. Carla wouldn't cave easily, but she would if Maggie beat her ass sufficiently.
It sounded like a plan. She might be able to get some more money off the bitch, too. Man, she needed a damn drink.