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Now, on with the show, thank you for reading.
After three hours of cleanup, Nyko tossed his keys in his pocket and walked across the concrete floor, through the door to the living quarters. He stopped in his room to wash his hands and face, changed clothes, and got ready for work.
The old familiar sound hit him as soon as he opened the door; a live band was playing on the stage. He vaguely remembered hearing them on the radio back in the day. They were currently singing a song about some girl. Three of his girls were dancing in cages around the bar, slowly grinding around the pole in the center of the cage. From the notes folded up in their garters, they were having a good night. Nyko made a mental note to invite this band back any time.
Behind the bar, Nyko’s favorite girl Charlotte was opening a Miller Lite. He must have ponied up something good; he had half a dozen empties on the bar and Taylor sitting on his lap.
The burly man walked behind his bar. “Hey Charlie,” he said as she came walking over, hips swaying as she strode across the distance. She was wearing a black leather bustier, black lace booty shorts, fishnet stockings and heels. She kissed him on the cheek.
“Hey Nyko. How’s stuff?”
“Not bad. What’s his story,” he said, nodding almost imperceptibly towards the beer drinker.
“Name’s Brad. He turned in five boxes of shotgun shells. I gave him a hundred in credit.”
“How much did we give for the beer he’s drinking?”
“I brought that in. It’s my own brew, just reused Miller light bottles. That’s why I open them for him; I had to find new tops.”
“Charlie, you’re a god damned genius,” said Nyko, grabbing her and twirling her around behind the bar before walking over to Brad.
The man looked up at Nyko. Fear crossed his face momentarily. It was a look Nyko was used to getting; most people found him intimidating. “Hey man, I’m Nyko,” he said, extending his huge paw over the bar.
“Brad,” the customer said.
Taylor looked up from nuzzling Brad’s ear. “Hey Boss.”
“Thanks so much, Brad. Those shells will help a lot. Being outside the wall, we have to worry about those pus covered freaks all the time out here.”
“No problem,” Brad replied. “I’ve been looking for something to get me enough credit to spend a whole day with Taylor.” Taylor winked at Nyko as he spoke, a silent acknowledgement that she was amenable to conducting business with Brad. Had she shook her head, Brad would be out on the street before he finished talking, and if she’d given her boss a high five, Nyko would have shot poor Brad on the spot.
It was a code he’d worked out with Charlotte when the two of them first started the bar, and she’d passed it on to all the girls who were in his employ. Nyko cared about his girls. He genuinely liked all of them, and felt personally responsible for their safety.
Nyko grinned at Brad. That was the best way someone could spend their credits. Taylor was well compensated, but alcohol was hard to come by, especially when he was trying to save most of it for fuel. The train itself was diesel, but the fleet of support vehicles were all gasoline powered. “Brad, any chance you’ll tell me where you found them? I’ll toss in a hot shower tonight and another in the morning.”
“Sure, man. I found them in the trunk of a cop car just outside the wall. They were in the well where the spare tire goes. Whoever looked through that car first must have missed them.”
“Fuck,” Nyko thought to himself. “No more where that came from.”
“Thanks,” He replied. He turned his head and raised his voice. “Charlie, see that Brad here gets a shower tonight and another in the morning.” Taylor nodded her thanks to Nyko. Brad, like most of the people in Vegas smelled horrible. All the girls tried to talk their clients into a shower. Not only was it a luxury, it made their job easier, and allowed them to inspect the prospective client for signs of disease or infection. Condoms were a must, but there were any number of STD’s that could get around a condom, and of course, any sign of The Infection meant immediate ejection from the premises.
Charlotte nodded and Nyko left the bar. As he stepped into the trading post, he nodded to Brian, who was working the door. “Hey Brian.”
“Not bad, boss. How was the run this afternoon? I didn’t get a chance to ask before the attack.”
“Fantastic,” he said as he kept walking. “Picked up a scout truck.”
“That’s fucking awesome, dude.” Brian’s strong southern accent hadn’t faded a bit.
Anyone coming into the bar entered through the store. It was a front showroom, designed to remind people that they needed something. Nyko’s version of putting the candy bars across from the cashier in the grocery store. Tonight, everything in the front was in good order. Shelves all fully stocked, and there was plenty of variety.
Everything Nyko did was done with a purpose. The bar created a need for people to have and a place to spend Nyko’s credits, which were earned by turning goods in to the store. The customers kept bringing him goods to trade for credits, and the girls had access to all the secrets of New Vegas.
The Governor of New Vegas, a little squirrely man called Jim Ratton had made a career of trying to shut Nyko down publicly, while making full use of the services he offered in private. Nyko was reasonably certain Jim was in the back getting his little dick sucked by Remmy at that exact moment.
When Ratton was done, laying back on one of Nyko’s feather pillows and smoking one of Nyko’s cigarettes, Remmy would steer the conversation towards what was going on in the political spectrum. Remmy was so deft, he just thought she was a good listener.
Satisfied that everything was in order in his establishment, Nyko went back to his apartment to prepare for the night’s activities. He donned heavy black leather pants, a black tee shirt, and a black leather vest. Over that, he slid his leather motorcycle jacket on. Inside the jacket, he kept a small caliber pistol under each arm and in a last minute decision, strapped his short barreled shotgun around his waist and tied the strap around his leg.
He slipped quietly down the back stairs and straddled his motorcycle, a custom 1992 Harley Davidson dresser, painted flat black with gloss flames that you could only see when the light hit them just right. He fired his bike up and rode off into the night, away from New Vegas, away from the din, and away from people.