That poster had no right to last longer than him. For that matter, neither did his sunglasses...

His glare extended through the glass, past the graffiti (some chap with a big nose named Killroy had apparently been here) and honed in on the what-had-been-his-face just'a smiling away at him before it had fallen off in one of the fountains back in the Residential District.

He'd forgotten what his smile looked like; his face definitely had not been smiling staring up at him from amongst the ancient chewing gum and penny coins congealing at the bottom of the fountain.

Had that really been his skin tone? Hmmm...darker than he remembered. Cut more of a 'Temptations' vibe than he'd thought. And here he'd always figured himself as a dead ringer for Bing Crosby.

His past always had that obnoxious 'sneaking up behind you when you weren't paying attention' quality about it. Forever out to spite him, clawing to catch at his boots with the heels falling off. 'Wonder glue works on any surface!' - apparently the advertisers didn't intend the words 'any surface' to apply to 100% authentic Savannah alligator skin.

Had to toss them in the desert – in the desert! - to replace with some dusty, dirt-ridden shoes he'd stolen off a carefully selected drinking partner. The sod hadn't on him but a twenty caps (a petty sum apparently, or so he'd learned), a revolver, and Dean Domino's less-than-brand new walking shoes.

Oh, and a blazer – though the damn thing had been stolen the minute he walked into Freeside. They'd hit him over the head and made quick work of most of valuables; would have killed him too, if he hadn't gotten hold of his gun and let out a shot into the air. They scattered like notes at the end of one of Carl Walker's infamous, er, "jazz" solos.

So now he had to trudge around the desert in a brown blazer with black pants. Good lord, if only the paparazzi could see him now...

Oh but wait – they were all dead.

Shame. But then again, no not really.

Lucky that Mitt fellow over at the pea shooter emporium spoke his language: the civilized language of bribery. The whole 'sneaking into Vegas' plan hadn't gone so well...turns out those robots of House's had perfect 20/20 vision, even in the night, and by vision of course he meant targeting equipment. Good thing he'd convinced that junkie to try it first (ahhh yes...drugs had survived the bombs, just as he'd hoped), otherwise he'd have ended up Dean Domino – world famous entertainer and, coincidentally, that pile of dust underneath your left shoe.

Once actually in Vegas, it was only a matter of time. His voice, while somewhat spoiled with age and radiation, no less drowned out the existing talent and sealed the deal for Mr. Torino.

They even touched up those old signs of his. Dean Domino – the king of swing, and, painted slightly below it in sloppy letters – now playing live at the Tops Casino!

Most came to see the spectacle. A ghoul, over two hundred years old, singing on stage? He got a lot of jeers his first act.

Not entirely unlike his very first few performances, honestly. Some gangly little shit stepping up to the spotlights, doing his best attempt to wrestle the notes and pitches of the greats into the range of his nasily Tennessee accent.

No, no, it hadn't been that bad. But he did have an accent. Learned to lose that bloody thing in a Peloponnesian minute.

Now the only difference was he had the ability to shut them up once they quieted down from their alcohol-induced frenzy and catcalls and broken beer bottles to actually let the music hammer its way through their neanderthal skulls.

Well, that and a few hundred years. Er, give or take.

And yet they didn't have the money to invest in some damn new advertising. No~, still using these same god awful black and white posters he hadn't manage to shake off when the photographer was still living.

He pouted, and grumbled in a voice low enough so that any of the passing NCR louts and gambling addicts were only able to make out part of what he said.

"...'s not even that good a picture..."