"If I had a dollar for everytime I didn't have a dollar, I'd have a paradox,"
Daniel had always been taught that money was important until you die. So that's why he never understood why people spent money to come to Vegas to spend money trying to get money when they could be sleeping. Or drinking. Or both. Daniel loved sleeping. In fact, he was probably the laziest person he knew, and Daniel was proud to know that he owed his lack of excitement and motivation to nobody, not even himself; Daniel was an un-selfmade man, because he didn't make himself anything. He just liked lounging and sleeping. Even in his sheriff days, he would always delegate to his deputies unless the situation called for some big guns. Daniel could only be spurred into action by threats - whole threats, not empty ones, mind you - or philosophical conversations. That's why he enjoyed Gunslinger Greg so thoroughly.
When he entered Vegas, Daniel had walked straight to the Tops. He had heard from various passersby that the Tops was the classiest joint on the Strip, and that gentlemen went their to gamble, drink, and be entertained by the Tops' high dollar theater, the Aces (trademark Tommy Torini and you bettah believe it or he'll get someone tah make ya, pal!). The Tops' slogan was "You can dig us baby, we're the Tops!" and Daniel could definitely dig it.
A man by the name of Swank had greeted him at the reception counter. Behind, a giant plant stood which blocked Daniel's view of the interior. He could see a gambling hall that stretched off diagonally from the lobby. A staircase led to a balcony with more roulette and blackjack, and a door that had a neon "Aces" above it.
"Hey pal, welcome to the Tops. Before I let you through, I'll need you to surrender your weapons to the desk he-ah," Swank's accent stuck out, and caused Daniel to hesitate. He had heard some rumors of the Strip's families. The Omertas at Gomorrah would just as soon shoot you as look at you; gangsters and murderers. The White Glove Society were a bunch of rehabilitated cannibals, and the rehabilitated part was under some intense scrutiny by private investigators. But the Chairmen of the Tops had a reputation of cool, laid back, and classy - and fiesty if you crossed them. Swank stared blankly ahead. His hair was slicked back with some high dollar pomade into a high pompadour.
"I - I don't have any weapons," stammered Daniel.
Swank raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "Cayre to explain the pistol undah your arm there, pal?"
The new suit James Garrett had gifted to Daniel could do much. For one, it replaced the duster and rawhide pants. It was brown, so the dust of the wastes and the Vegas streets would be easy to hide, and it matched Daniel's hair. He even had a matching fedora. But one thing it couldn't do was provide adequate shelter for a shoulder holster - also provided by James Garrett.
"Ca-y-re to explain what that plant is going to look like when I pull this pistol out - if I do decide to show it to you?" retorted Daniel. "This he-ah is a 22.7 Sig Sauer handgun, the most powerful handgun in the wastes. It'll blow your head clean off-"
"Yaah, yaah, save it pal. Just go on and git outta he-ah. Don't cause any trouble, dig?"
"I can dig it baby, you're the Tops," smiled Daniel.
Swank looked at him blankly. "What?"
But Daniel had walked on already. He traveled straight past the gambling halls and up the stairs, into the Aces Theater.
The Aces was a big, square room with a stage opposite from the door. Tables surrounded by plush arm chairs sat scattered across the galley. A bar stood in the back left corner, and Daniel took residence on a stool there. He ordered a bottle of the house's finest whiskey, popped the cork, and drank away.
Over the course of the night, he never left the stool. His laziness prevailed. The Rad Pack, led by Tommy Tornini himself performed, followed by a crooner and some comedians. Daniel polished off the bottle of whiskey and asked for some coffee. A strong brew was delievered, and Daniel poured whiskey into it from a tin hip flask. The bartender then delivered Daniel a biscotti, and paradise had arrived. On stage, a man in a duster and a thick moustache played guitar.
That's when four interesting characters entered the theater and took refuge at a table and four plush chairs across the room.
Daniel watched them enter: one tall man followed by three others - whom Daniel thought to be cohorts. The leader dressed in a long black duster and top hat, while his friends dressed in seersucker suits. They didn't walk with the swagger of street gang members, but the looseness of men who work hard by day and play in the night. His coffee now refilled, Daniel stood to walk. The bartender was amazed at how steady he was - Daniel could put down alcohol like no other.
When he pulled a fifth chair up to the table, the leader and his three friends welcomed Daniel with a smile and a laugh. But then the leader turned to Daniel and astounded him with a philosophical wonder.
"If I had a dollar for everytime I didn't have a dollar, I'd have a paradox," he said through a giant smile. Daniel sat riveted as the philosopher grinned back.
"It seems as though you would," Daniel finally choked out.
The leader in the duster clapped him on the back. "Fellas, it looks like we have a new friend!" he announced to his followers. The man spoke with an easy tone, like he hailed from the city but lived in the wild. His friends sounded the same.
"Friend, what's your name?" the leader asked.
"I'm Daniel. Daniel Fuller, former sheriff of Caliente,"
"Ah, Caliente! A fine good stickball team you boys got up yonder. We beat those boys in a tight game a couple of weeks ago, right fellas?" the leader asked, and his followers quickly nodded. "I'm Greg. Don't bother with the last name. People around here call me Gunslinger Greg, on account of these here beauties I got on my hip," Greg patted two black .45 revolvers with gold trim. It reminded Daniel of the revolver NCR Rangers wore. "And because I can throw a baseball faster than any man alive. See, me and my boys? We're known as the Rambunctious Bunch, defending champions of the Mojave Stickball Leage."
"Stickball?" asked Daniel. He remembered vaguely a team in Caliente who played the old game. In fact, Daniel had played stickball as a child in Arroyo.
"That's right, friend-o. Let me introduce you to my pals." He started on his right, to another tall man with light brown hair. A pump-action shotgun was strapped across his back, and a straw hat sat atop his head. "This man is Rambling Roger, the co-captain. He is a fine shortstop, and can hit the ball a mile. Good shot with that shotgun of his, too," Roger smiled and nodded slightly. Gunslinger Greg moved his point across Daniel and to the man directly across, a short slender man with sunglasses and a black fedora on. Daniel noticed short blonde hair underneath. This man had a hunting rifle strapped to his back. "Meet Killer Kevin. See, Kevin likes to hunt wildlife, but he can also put the gun on any man who forgets the law, or crosses him. Kevin runs around in the outfield. He's a quick sucker," Kevin winked a devilish wink at Daniel. "And last but not least, we have Eviscerator Evan, the team catcher. He loves throwing the baseball, and he loves shooting things with that airborn carbine of his," the carbine Gunslinger Greg spoke of bore the insignia of the 82nd Airborne, and looked deadly.
"Now that you've met us, what do you think?" Greg asked.
"Well, you fellas seem friendly, but I don't think I'd want to cross you," observed Daniel.
The Rambunctious Bunch laughed. "Indeed," Rambling Roger stated. "In fact, we are down one team member. Wild Willy ran off and got married, so he's out of the stickball game forever," Roger paused and looked at the gunslinger, and with a quick smile from Greg he continued. "So we need one person to be eligible for team play."
"And," Killer Kevin interrupted. "We are on our way to Goodsprings to participate in the annual Tortilla Shoot, and we would love to have the extra firepower."
"If you can handle yourself in a fight, sheriff," Eviscerator Evan chuckled with a pat of his carbine.
"How about it, Danny?" Greg asked.
Daniel hesitated. One part of him wanted to remain in Vegas and drink and sleep the days away. He had worked hard to arrive, and to give it over to travel the land with a stickball team sounded dreary. But, the other side of him longed for excitement. "I guess I accept! The alternative is getting drunk and losing my money."
The Rambunctious Bunch flew into loud hoorays as the Aces Theater clapped for the moustached guitar player. A slim older man walked onstage and sat behind a dusty old grand piano, and began to play a soft jazz ballad.
Drinks were exchanged, and the five friends chatted excitedly about plans. Daniel was anxious to hear all about the Tortilla Shoot, and Greg was eager to tell him. However, before he could, the door flew open and a man in a leather vest and bandana stormed in, flanked by six men with automatic weapons.
"Greg, I've got a bone to pick with you!" the leather-clad man yelled across the theater. Onstage, the man ceased his piano playing. The theater grew quiet.
"Howard! Nice of you to join us!" shouted Greg from his chair.
"Who's that?" whispered Daniel to Roger, who was wide-eyed.
"That's Howlin' Howard. He is the leader of the Waste Warriors Gang. They tried to fix the Stickball Championship series between us and the Junktown Jerky Vendors. We agreeed to take the fall for money, but then the score line grew too much, and people started betting for us, so we won and received a much larger payout."
"So now Howard is here to collect his due?" asked Daniel worriedly.
"It appears so," Roger said.
"I want my money back!" Howlin' Howard yelled. Behind him, Daniel noticed more leather-dressed men with heavy weaponry stack up on the door way. Tommy Torini had begun ushering people out a back door.
"Howard, I would love to give you your money back," Greg crooned. "But I already spent it. All of it. Every. Last. Cap."
Howard flew into a rage, and pulled a belt-fed machine gun from around his back. The Rambunctious Bunch turned over their table, and Daniel dove behind another. Light flashed and bullets flew above the five as the Waste Warriors opened fire. The pianist flew into a quick ragtime, and the Aces flew into a frenzy. Wooden tables splintered from the barrage of bullets, and the sound of gunfire was deafening. Daniel pulled his Sig from the shoulder holster, and felt a hand tap him on the shoulder. He looked beside him, and Killer Kevin was laying there.
"That won't do much good. Here, take this," Kevin held a 12 gauge, lever-action shotgun to him. The end had been sawed off, and Kevin had another wolfish grin on his face.
Daniel took the shotgun with a nod of thanks, and Kevin crawled off. The Rambunctious Bunch spread out, and waited behind overturned chairs and tables. Evan darted up sporadically and sprayed his carbine on full automatic. He was precise enough to keep the Warriors at bay. Gunfire prevailed across the theater. Roughly twenty-five Warriors had run into the room, and Daniel swore he could count more waiting on the other side.
"Greg!" he shouted above the din. "What's the plan?"
Gunslinger Greg's tactiful eyes darted across the room. He was laying behind a chair flipped on its side, across the middle aisle from Daniel. His two revolvers were out. "Shoot fast and shoot true! We'll take some down, and then get Evan to give us some cover fire as we make for that emergency exit door!" They won't be able to fight us in force there!" Daniel nodded, as that sounded like their best option. The five then began fighting back.
The boom of Roger's shotgun blasted tables into pieces and sent Warriors flying backwards. He rolled and darted between cover as he fired from the hip. A few rows over, Kevin carefully aimed with his hunting rifle. Shots cracked into the warm bodies of Warriors with frightening precision. Five shots and reload, five shots and reload, Kevin worked like clockwork. Evan ran wild throughout the theater, diving under the piano and sliding behind chairs and tables as his carbine spewed forth bullets in a blaze of glory. Greg showed why "Gunslinger" fit hisself perfectly, as he sat crouched behind his chair, waiting and calculating each shot that leapt from his revolvers.
Daniel watched in amazement as the group worked cohesively, and acted cool and experienced in the face of death. It was as if the Rambunctious Bunch stared Death straight in the face, and then slapped him multiple times.
And then a Warrior flew from above a table and nearly stabbed Daniel with a long machete. He reacted just in time, rolling and flinging the shotgun out, activating the lever-action, and pulling it back all in one sweeping motion of physics and momentum, before pulling the trigger and sending 12 gauge buckshot into the man's heart.
And suddenly, the smoke cleared, and it was quiet. The pianist sat sweating as his ragtime piece ended and he darted off stage. Warriors filled the room, some dead and others close. Yelling could be heard, and Daniel guessed it was a combination of more Warriors and the Chairmen coming to put a stop to it all. Daniel noticed a slumped Howlin' Howard across the bar, with a bullet hole through his bandana, right in the center of his forehead. The hole looked big enough to fit a .45 caliber bullet.
But Gunslinger Greg had rallied the Rambunctious Bunch, and with a yell and a flurry of motion, they were through the emergency exit, and away.