Desperado Casino, New Reno
It started the way all the good funny stories begin: a man walks into a bar.
They called it the Desperado, but inside it reeked more like desperation. A haze of smoke clung to the ceiling; a bountiful crop of damp and mold clung to the walls. Buckshot and bullet holes were peppered about for flavour, sprawling strings of graffiti font left to fester because for better or worse they brought a much needed splash of extra colour into the dull and dismal place.
Not that the patrons weren't colourful enough, of course. Desperado catered for any vice: drunken, smoked, swallowed, injected, violated, or otherwise consumed. In one corner slumped a group of patrons burned out on jet, deposited there out of the way until they sobered up enough for the casino to sell them another fix. Those still cruising high on narcotic fumes hunched over slot machines, huffing new hits from their inhalers as the casino slowly chewed it's way through their caps. At the bar a highly dedicated alcoholic swayed on his stool, flaunting the laws of physics in preparation for a short-lived brawl with the floorboards.
It was the caravan table though that drew his attention as he entered: three grizzled and road-weary couriers following each straight and flush with a whiskey chaser. They were armed almost certainly; dangerous quite possibly; but for the moment two of them were utterly inconsequential.
His footsteps didn't falter as he walked calmly to the table; an unfired pistol round tumbled through his fingers, tiny letters carved into the lead surface. "Nicholas di Naso," he spoke in a soft, deep purr, as if reading the bullet aloud. Play at the caravan table faltered mid-hand; the eyes of the ghoul courier furthest away with his back to the wall climbed upwards, incredulously at first until they settled upon the face of the man who'd spoken.
"Nicky," the new arrival spoke again, "I think you know why I'm here." The courier's mouth opened as if he was about to speak, but a tired sigh interrupted. "You tried to pull a fast one, Nicky, but you made a couple of rookie mistakes."
With each passing second, more attention from the casino patrons snowballed to the scene unfolding at the caravan table. The arrival wasn't phased; not by the attention, nor by the fact that the hands of about a dozen people were straying nervously towards their guns. So unphased in fact that a hand calmly delved into his jacket, a pristine polished revolver brought into view.
"First of all, Nicky," he explained, a subtle motion of his wrist flicking open the cylinder to allow the single named bullet to be chambered within, "You didn't run for long enough. Think about it: after the scam you just pulled against our mutual employer, you should be half way to California by now, not pissing it away in the first shithole of a casino you stumbled across."
There was a satisfying click as the cylinder swung back into place. "And second -" A much more chilling sound followed as the arrival cocked back the hammer and prepared the pistol to fire. A subtle edge crept into his voice. "- you made the mistake of trying to rip off someone rich enough to afford me."
Nicky's face didn't pale; it didn't do anything really, save scrunch a little. It was one of the many hateable things about ghouls: all that scabbing and scar tissue made their faces nigh impossible to read. His voice however faltered, a slight panicked stutter creeping into his radiation-scoured growl. "C'mon, man. It's not like they're going to miss a few measly caps -"
"Clearly they did," the arrival countered, "Or they wouldn't have bothered hiring me."
"Be reasonable," one of the other couriers chimed in. "He'll pay them back. Right, Nicky? Just give the man what you stole -"
The arrival shook his head. "Doesn't work that way. The Family didn't hire me to recover their money: just to deliver a message."
"A message?" There was a flicker of hope in the ghoul's words.
"Yeah -"
The explosion of gunpowder ripped through the air a split second before the hollow point ripped through the courier's skull. The entry wound was a near perfect circle, but the exit wound was far less so, fragments of skull and everything contained within adding another splash of colour to the Desperado's walls.
"- don't steal from the Family." The Messenger's voice rose as he tucked the pistol casually back beneath his jacket. "Message received?"
All that answered him was silence, save for the nervous shuffle of the barman who'd managed to summon enough balls to grab the shotgun from beneath the counter, though he wasn't quite brave enough to do anything threatening with it just yet. "You've done what you came to do," he mustered. "The rest of us don't want any trouble."
The Messenger's eyes scanned the patrons. "No trouble," he agreed, his attention turning to the satchel slung across his shoulder. A moment of rummaging produced a grubby cyan box; a casual toss landed the Abraxo cleaner on the bar as he made for the exit. His head jerked over his towards the carcass he'd just created. "Sorry about the mess."
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