An undying man is a man with little to no worries, a demimonde. An undying man especially doesn't expect someone to try and kill them with a peashooter - but to be fair, he was kind of expecting it, just not the way it went down, though.

Jack has lived through everything you could imagine: the Wastelands of the former United States of America, every single one of them - DC, Boston, the Mojave, Caesar's Lands, Texas, Chicago -, you name it. Jack has lived through it all.

And in that time, Jack has lived through perils no ordinary man could ever imaginably survive. But he did it, good ol' 250-year-old Jack was unkillable. Which is why he wondered:

"Did you really think a dinky .22 bullet would kill me, ya weirdo? Why'd ya do it?" he asked in a deep, dramatic, authoritative, baritone voice.

Dave was only semi-conscious to hear that. He'd been drifting in and out for the last couple of hours. He was tied to a chair, he was able to guess, but he didn't know where. Where am I? W- what is this place?

Shit. Courier Six's nose was invaded by the choking reek of shit. A sewer would be his best guess.

But assessing the situation was quite difficult, especially when the grizzled hobo smacked the mailman's face.

"Answer me, asshole. Why did you try to kill me, and who sent you?"

"Meh-meh, meh, m- I- I- con- con-" it was hard for Dave to talk, Jack knocked the living days out of him.

"Fucking useless, absolutely fucking useless; you must be one of those junkies that attack anyone and everyone on sight."

Jack paced around the damp, shit-stained room. His shoes were caked in brown stuff. It wasn't dirt, obviously. Six took the time to lift his head as much as he could - it wasn't much, but he could make out some stuff around the room: A table laid to the back corner, with metal objects on it and a bottle of whiskey - Courier Six's whiskey. The objects looked... strange, some of them gave off a weird, faint, greenish glow, and softly hummed incessantly, and another glowed slightly red.

Jack noticed Six's gaze, looked at the strange object then back at Six, and smirked. He walked over to the table, and again looked at Six, and smirked. Jack whirled himself around and floated his way to Courier Six, now holding a small metal prod in his hand.

"You like this pretty little thing? It's a gift I got from some men in suits, great guy - except for the old one, he was as emotionless as wood. Know what it does?"

Six mumbled, Jack smacked him across the face.

"No talking, this is a dramatic moment. Okay, you listening now? Good: This thing, this thing right here? It can make you forget anything I tell you to forget - I can make you forget who you even are, I can make you forget your mama, boy, it honestly depends on what I'll make you forget and how much. I used to use it on them government boys, but I haven't seen them for years; I honestly thought you were one of them - I guess I'm just missing the action. Still, I can't ever be too careful."

Six didn't respond.

"Hey. HEY! Wake up, pay attention when I'm talking to you!" his voice filled Six's ears, chilling him to the bone. God, was his voice scary.

Six lifted his eyelids a quarter-way. My head hurts, everything hurts. I can't open my eyes, they're too heavy.

"Whatever, not like you'll remember this anyway." Jack pressed a button, and the prod beeped and blooped, its top came up, revealing a small, red glowing screen. "When I flash this thing, you won't remember this encounter. In fact, you won't remember anything from the past 20 years - I'm taking some precautions here - you dress like a stunted, 20-year-old male hooker either way, so I'm sure you'll be fine; you're in Vegas, baby, you won't be homeless like me at least - they've got demand but no supply, you're in luck."

Jack placed the metal stick up next Dave's face. The hobo took his time putting his finger on the button, for dramatic effect. This guy is a blowhard, seriously. Six clenched his fist, awaiting whatever was about to come.

But Jack didn't press the button. He had a quizzical look on his face, then sighed annoyingly.

"Fuck, this isn't working," Jack mumbled under his breath, in a nasally voice, different from the imposing one he was putting on earlier.

Jack stumbled over to the table, head down and looking defeated. He opened the bottle of whiskey and took a swig.

After a long minute of awkward silence, Six finally spoke up:

"Mind giving me some? I'm getting thirsty."

Author's note: Got bored and check one of my many stories that I haven't updated in months (and honestly will probably never finish - even so, it'd be at a snail's fickle and arbitrary pace), so I decided to write this on the spot.

Hope you enjoy this slightly. Comments and criticisms are welcomed, but honestly I don't care about them for this particular story; I wouldn't have made uploaded this hot-off-the-press had I really cared.