Lonesome Road: Primm

Had a hell of a time getting into Primm. The walk itself wasn’t so bad – like any courier or Junktown Vendor can tell you, once you can see the rollercoaster, you might as well be there, and you can see the rollercoaster just outside of Goodsprings – though I did have to teach a few stray Powder Gangers a lesson. I was prepared to let bygones be bygones; might not have much love for the raiders, but I’ve got a job to do, and they didn’t seem to be bothering anyone. Just holed up outside of some skydiving joint. One of ’em took a potshot at me, though, and I don’t stand for that kind of crap. Managed to find some useful things among their rickrack – picked up a 10mm that looks almost brand new, and a shotgun that’s seen better days but still’ll tear the face off any coyote dumb enough to come sniffing – and kept on.

Then, just as I was about to hit town, a flurry of iron peppered down by my boot. Looked up, and there’s more of the stupid bastards hanging over Primm’s outer fence, taking potshots at me. For guys who were supposedly just some chain gangers not all that long ago, they sure are enterprising sons of bitches. I ducked beyond a rock formation, and made it a priority to keep a lower profile while I circled the fence to get to the main thoroughfare. Didn’t have any other incidents, though I could feel ’em up there, watchin’ me. When you’ve been doing this job for as long as I have, that becomes natural, knowing when people are looking at you… or for you. Let me tell ya, the tingling ain’t nice.

I figured this’d be an easy stop. Milk run, basically. Dive for the Mojave Express office, grab all the paperwork I could cram into my pocket, and exit, stage left, like. Judging from the snipers on the wall, I probably wasn’t going to find anyone with anything useful to say here, and I didn’t feel the need to try beating it out of guys who’s IQ was probably in the same zip code as their shoe size.

The pile of explosives and not-so-friendly NCR armed guard holding watch outside changed my mind. They tell me nobody’s getting into Primm, violent convicts, blah blah blah. Then one of ’em mentioned a few of the Primm residents were still alive in there, holed up in that crappy vintage casino, the Vicki and Vance. Like I’ve said before, that kinda crap doesn’t sit right with me. The fact that the NCR was just standing out here, not doing a damn thing about it – and they’d been there awhile; there was a C.O. on site, and they’d had time to build barricades – when the only thing between those survivors and help was, so far as I could tell, a handful of cons with some explosives… well, that didn’t help none.

“I got this,” I told their C.O., who starts blustering and sputtering. He didn’t try to stop me when I stormed out of his tent, though. I imagine the sight of the shotgun strapped to my back, the bullet hole above my eye, or that gleaming 10mm hanging off my hip might have had something to do with it. Besides, it was all a show, anyway. NCR can’t tell me what to do, and the only reason he wants to is probably fear that he and his’ll look bad when one busted-up courier does what a whole platoon of fine NCR boys couldn’t.

The guard at the gate was even more agreeable. He didn’t bother telling me to steer clear or try to dissuade me none. Just stepped aside while I loaded my pistol, tipped his head and said “Good luck.”

Like luck’s got anything to do with it. I’ve lived in New Vegas my whole life, and I’ll tell you the first lesson you learn out here: Luck’s for suckers. And Courier Six is nobody’s sucker, no matter what Benny might be thinkin’ right now.

I marched right into the middle of town – not as impressive as that sounds, newbie; Primm’s maybe a mile wide, tops – and put a few slugs into three raiders who were banging on the door of the V&V before they even knew I was there. Shoved the last body away from the door and slipped inside before the snipers on the wall had time to stop pickin’ their noses and draw a bead again.

Inside, it was a sad state of affairs. The huckster ‘bot, Primm Slim, was sputtering some half-assed version of his usual spiel about Vicki and Vance almost being notorious criminals, but he kept shorting out, losing his train of thought, and seemed oblivious to the fact that half his “treasures” regarding that couple’s misadventures were missing. Looked to me like somebody’d been tinkering with his programming, but I didn’t really have time to go poking around with busted robots. There was a handful of other folk in there, all looking scared and holding rifles that it was obvious they didn’t know how to use, plus one familiar face.

Nash, proprietor of the Mojave Express outlet ’round here. He was the one who’d given me the contract that had gotten me shot, and the one I’d have to talk to about the whole mess. Neither he nor I really had time to get down to business, though; there were bandits to be dealt with, first. He said somethin’ about the local law being locked up across the street at the Bison Steve, under the care of the leader apparent of the psychos outside. Then he added the juicy tidbit that the lawman had been putting together a file on three recent newcomers to town: One card sharp in a checkered suit and a pair of Great Khan heavies.

Bingo. See? Luck’s for chumps. Fate wins, every time. And me and Benny, we’ve got a date.

Looks like I’ve got me a deputy to save.

Courier Six out.


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