Bruiser whistled in admiration. One didn't see many monuments in the Mojave, but the NCR did love their memorials, didn't they? There was nothing wrong with that. With the world going to hell, holding on to better memories was sometimes the only way to make it through tomorrow. And the two bold figures exchanging handshakes was certainly better memories. He suspected people hoped that day would change everything, that the alliance would be just what they needed to win, to bring peace. Funny thing about peace, like hope, it's never there when you need it . And peace, like war, never changes. It is always a lofty goal, forever distant , at times miles away and at other times at the tip of your finger tips. If you do manage to grab it, you'll just lose it again. Peace was like a needle in a haystack, and every time you found it, you put it in your pocket, only to find that you have a hole in your pocket. Then you have to search for it all over again, and if you ever find it, you forget you have a hole in your pocket again. Vicious cycles. Sometimes it felt like humans were composed of nothing but vicious cycles.
Such cynicism was rare for him, but it had been a long walk and his bag was heavy with miscellaneous weapons and electronics, some food. He had started his journey from Goodsprings, and such fights were still new to him. His stimpak supply was low, and he was hungry for something besides the canned food in his pack. But, thankfully, he had found the Mojave outpost. It was hard to miss, really.
He came in a couple hours after dark and the Outpost was especially crowded that evening. A caravan had just come in to drop off the regular shipment of ammo, stimpaks and combat armor for the troops and when they did they usually liked to get a stiff drink. A couple other wastelanders like Bruiser had wandered in as well, and the drinks were being poured, flirts exchanged, and hands of caravan played. Bruiser stood in the threshold awkwardly, all the bar stools were occupied and most of the tables as well. Bruiser spied a pretty, short haired girl whisking around behind the bar, filling drinks and taking caps. He barged to the front, standing at the corner of the bar silently. Drunken troopers glanced at him briefly, and to his amusement, he heard one say to his friend,
"Christ, look at the arms on that one."
"Aw, don't be such a puss. I bet I could take him."
Bruiser shot them both a glance, and they instantly turned their heads and went back to their drinks, alcohol buzzes temporarily lost. As the bartender came near, Bruiser set his heavy pack on the table with a thump and a nod. She nodded in reply and hovered over to him.
"Whatcha got?"
"Weapons, some armor, food." She nodded again.
"Give me a second." She made another loop around the bar, filling more drinks and returned to him.
"That'll keep em' occupied for a little bit, but I've only got a couple of minutes."
Bruiser started pulling odds and ends from the bag, dropping a couple of knives, a lead pipe, a sawed off shotgun, a laser pistol, some rag tag raider armor, and several other items on the small bit of counter top he was given. The bartender looked them over with a thorough, though expedient eye, and found them to her satisfaction. She glanced at the armor, still blood stained with long slashes through it, and thne glanced at the chopper on Bruiser's hip with wide eyes.
"Christ, you took these guys down with a knife?" Bruiser only nodded in reply.
"I'll be sure to put you on my not to fuck with list. What do you want for all this?"
"Stimpaks. And dynamite, if you have it." She hummed to herself, silently.
"I might have some long fused dynamite in back..."
"Lacey! I'll finish off that bottle." A voice called, and her head shot up.
"Sorry big man, customers calling. I'll make another round and we should be able to finish the deal." She grabbed less then half full bottle of whiskey from the shelf and carried it to the first one who called to her, a pretty red head with a cowboy hat. To his amazement, the redhead drank it straight. Bruiser also noticed the two stools around her were empty, and he wondered why. Pretty girls like her were usually the center of attention in bars like this. After a couple of minutes, Lacey seemed to have vanished, and Bruiser grew impatient. Tired and hungry, he crossed the bar to the empty stool next to the red head, and took a seat. She eyed him warily, and without greeting, simply asked him,
"Looking for trouble?" He could smell the whiskey on her breath.
"No. Just a drink. Since the bartender's busy I thought I'd buy a glass off you."
Bruiser watched her take a long pull off the bottle.
"Why me?" She asked after a pause.
"Whiskey is my drink. You happen to have it." With a smirk, the girl replied,
"Usually, guys offer to buy me a drink." Bruiser sighed, tired of the games.
"I'm just here for some whiskey." With a twinkle in her eye and another quick smirk, she took the bottle and with one fluid motion was draining the last quarter liquor. As the empty bottle slammed on the counter, the rosy faced red head let out a belch.
"I don't have any whiskey." She said with a self-satisfied smile. Bruiser was frustrated enough to punch her lights out, but restrained himself.
"Fine." He said, turning quickly.
"Hey, wait!" Bruiser kept walking, not wanting to continue the conversation any further.
"I don't have any here. But I got the good shit in back." Curiosity queued, Bruiser turned around.
"What makes it special?" To which the girl grinned.
"If you can drink more of it then I can, I'll tell you the recipe." Bruiser held eye contact with her, not believing what he was hearing.
"You're mostly tanked already. You think you can down more shots then me, stone sober?" He asked, disbelieving and amused.
"I told you," She paused to belch once more,
"It's MY secret recipe."A couple other customers took notice, listening shook his head.
"Not interested." Those listening in booed him jovially, and started to jeer.
"Big man afraid he'll lose to little ol' me?" The girl asked. Bruiser glared at the increasingly large mob, and it occurred to him that if he didn't take her up on his offer, the mob wouldn't let up on him all night. And he didn't want to move on. Realizing he had no other option, and with a heavy sigh, he accepted the challenge.
Hell, it might even be fun to watch the bitch pass out, he thought, as she brought out her "special" recipe and started pouring shots.
After the first shot was knocked back, and the crowd cheered, Bruiser realized something was terribly wrong.
This wasn't whiskey at all.