Earlier I left the bustle of Vegas alone, to instead visit Freeside. Not because it was my favorite place on earth, merely because the King and some of his cronies were actually performing at the Atomic Wrangler. The dusty little stage may not have looked like much, especially after I got accustomed to Ultra-Luxe's huge concert theatre, but the packed audience was entranced by the sight of the Kings and their dance moves. From retrieving the holotapes and mimicing the moves of whoever the original King was, they had a full set and attracted tourists from all over, some even venturing like me from their hotels in Vegas to see the show. I glimpsed Beatrix Russell in the cheering, rowdy crowd, catcalling at the King.
The King...when he slid down the pole from the second story, lithe as I'd never seen him, he immediately took the role of leader to entertainer, doing the strange signature dance, moving his hips, his hair liquid black under the stage lights. At one point in their Jailhouse song, he'd slid on his knees across the stage and pointedly winked at me, which threw me into a fit of laughter. And caused me several irked looks from the barely-dressed groupies standing around.
But shortly after their show, the Kings and the clients in the Atomic Wrangler were all partying, and I had to head back to the Lucky 38. Rex was my only pal as we crossed the dark streets, Arcade and Boone opting to pass on the lewd Freeside entertainment. That's when I felt the glass smash against the back of my head, and the dirty town spun in a circle as I dropped to my knees.
"Why...always...in the head," I said, my eyes crossing, falling from my knees to land facefirst in the pavement.
I came to slowly, a dull throbbing in the back of my head. How much longer would I hold together, and what fucked up memories would this concussion trigger...I tried to lift my hands to my head, but it was no use. They were bound in front of me, connected to another rope that was tied around my waist. I was laying sideways on the ground, and I shivered; I had been given no blanket, nothing. Now I sat up. It seemed to be early morning, but I had no idea where I was, other than it was outside, in the Wasteland, far far away from Vegas.
"Well well, look who the fuck it is," said a snide voice. I rolled onto my back, looking up at the circle of men.
The Omertas.
"So Mr. House has a new personal aide, is that it?" One of the men in white asked. "Heir to the throne? I don't fuckin' think so."
"Maybe he knew what we was up to, and that's why he hired a flesh and blood cronie to check shit out."
I closed my eyes against the headache, still slightly drunken from my stint in the Wrangler. They thought Mr. House hired me because of my terminal message. Thrilling.
"Well either way, I don't see why we haven't killed the bitch," there were six total. They all held the signature Omerta fully-auto rifle. I sighed, not bothering to sit up.
"Or better. Some things is fun the warmer the whore," came a hungry-sounding reply.
"No, the agreement was alive. We don't deliver, we don't get the goods. What part of that don't you thick skulls understand?"
"And what part of the agreement said she had to stay untouched?"
The man, obviously used to just shedding his pants and raping girls who were tied and helpless, descended upon me. Thankfully, my legs were free, and my boot connected with his teeth. He reeled backwards, spitting up blood and hopefully a few incisors, cursing loudly.
"Fuck it!" he said, grabbing my hoodie and jerking me to a sitting position. I gagged at the sudden lack of air, and was thrust forward from the force of his shoving. The man backhanded me, the beret flying off and landing in the dust. I chanced a look at it; there, in the corner of Boone's patch...the Platinum Chip glinted.
They didn't know.
Whatever idiotic plan these guys had, it didn't involve anything but getting rid of me. I thought of Boone, Arcade...I couldn't even get to my Pip-Boy to see where the hell I was. And now, thanks to the backhand, my nose and mouth smarted, blood springing up from both nostrils and my busted lip. I licked it tenderly, thoughtfully, as the enraged Omerta-obviously on some sort of chems-pulled out his pistol and jammed it into the side of my temple.
"You like that, huh? That better for you than a pork? You couldn't just play nice, now you're getting a different kind of shaft on your face, you stupid cunt," he jerked my hair, the pistol pushed so roughly against my head that I cried out involuntarily.
The other men didn't seem to care about their deal too much; they were having fun watching his display of power. Snarling grins were etched on their faces, guns held lax. I had no way out, and to beat it all, I was about to get shot in the head. As my hair was pulled violently back further still, the Omerta slid the hammer on his pistol.
"Oh well, guess he's getting a dead House cronie," the Omerta shrugged. I squeezed my eyes shut, knowing the chances of getting out of two bullets in the head were slim to none.