That does it. Face livid, she spins, shoots one sprung boot out and nails him square, right in the soft meat of his side, knocking all his air out in a woosh. Everything in his stomach nearly joins it as her heel comes down sharp in his gut on the return.
"Right, there enough bitch in that one for you?" Charlie pauses long enough to wrap her kerchief around her bleeding hand, strips anything resembling a weapon from him, wrenching one of his ears in a twist when he tries to object, stuffs the contents of one of the cash registers into his pockets and leaves him lying on the floor. "I'll be damned if I allow you to make me your penance for the evening. I'll let you punish yourself, instead. Victor, throw him the hell out. Don't let him back in 'til he's broke and sober. Don't let him leave the Strip, either. He causes any real shit, haul him down to the NCR Embassy and make him their problem."
"Well, alrighty, pardner!"
Victor grabs his arms and starts dragging. Boone lets him. He deserves to be thrown out like trash.
Somehow, drunkenly wandering around with his last handful of cash after the last casino throws him out, he ends up with a prostitute. At least he thinks she is, since the money disappears, but then he may have lost it somewhere on the way from the dark corner he had been dropping trou to piss in to the other he has ended up fucking her in. Nice girls didn't spread their legs for washed up NCR grunts, at least without the money going in barter for booze and chips, and she isn't local. She's soft, and smooth, her hair and skin scented with things he has only encountered back west, the same kind of perfumes and soaps Carla had loved and could never afford to get after her small supply ran out. Now he has it all at his fingertips, and no one to buy it for, to give it to. All the comforts of home, including home-grown whores, courtesy of an east-bound caravan.
Had he found her, or had she found him? He's too drunk to remember, so drunk he shouldn't even be standing anymore. God, but she smells like her. It's too dark to see each other behind what he thinks is the monorail station, she's keeping her mouth shut, and it is so easy to pretend. The perfect company to build up a broken fantasy on, really; amorous, anonymous and nearly guilt-free. She would never find him in the daylight, he could blame everything he did with her on the drink. It is not a pretty thing, he thinks as things fade out into the dim, but then neither is his guilt.
He wakes up behind the Ultra-Luxe, when the sun is just high enough to shine over the wall and feel like a knife to the eyes. "Damn. Thought I passed out under cover."
"You did, idjit." Boone jerks, immediately regretting it, then again when a boot gently pushes down on his neck. "Lay still before your brains end up out your ears. You're lucky they didn't end up on somebody's plate, sacking out here. Apparently you're stupid as shit when you're loaded, along with being nasty."
Not quite ready to recognize something as complex as a voice yet, particularly not with so many words involved, he only relaxes when another extremely familiar set of scents washes over him, the parts of his brain responsible for processing it apparently primitive enough to cope through the hangover. Clean sweat, dirty leather, and warm, oiled metal. He takes in a deep breath, filling his head up on the tangy reek until the person it belongs to floats to the front of his head, clearing out those last sweet remnants from the dead of night that always seem to turn so bitterly ugly once the sun comes up. This time, he wasn't sure if it was an improvement. "Charlie."
"Ding ding." The light pressure on his neck lifts, and the swirling mess of light and shadow resolves itself into a figure standing over him. "Stars and sky, I leave you alone for a few hours and look what happens."
He sits up, moving with infinite care. The first thing he notices are the drag marks trailing out from a set of legs, then the fact that he is the owner of those particular limbs. "I did lay down in cover."
Five Times Boone's Brawled With Charlie: Dead Rabbits 2/?
"Right, there enough bitch in that one for you?" Charlie pauses long enough to wrap her kerchief around her bleeding hand, strips anything resembling a weapon from him, wrenching one of his ears in a twist when he tries to object, stuffs the contents of one of the cash registers into his pockets and leaves him lying on the floor. "I'll be damned if I allow you to make me your penance for the evening. I'll let you punish yourself, instead. Victor, throw him the hell out. Don't let him back in 'til he's broke and sober. Don't let him leave the Strip, either. He causes any real shit, haul him down to the NCR Embassy and make him their problem."
"Well, alrighty, pardner!"
Victor grabs his arms and starts dragging. Boone lets him. He deserves to be thrown out like trash.
Somehow, drunkenly wandering around with his last handful of cash after the last casino throws him out, he ends up with a prostitute. At least he thinks she is, since the money disappears, but then he may have lost it somewhere on the way from the dark corner he had been dropping trou to piss in to the other he has ended up fucking her in. Nice girls didn't spread their legs for washed up NCR grunts, at least without the money going in barter for booze and chips, and she isn't local. She's soft, and smooth, her hair and skin scented with things he has only encountered back west, the same kind of perfumes and soaps Carla had loved and could never afford to get after her small supply ran out. Now he has it all at his fingertips, and no one to buy it for, to give it to. All the comforts of home, including home-grown whores, courtesy of an east-bound caravan.
Had he found her, or had she found him? He's too drunk to remember, so drunk he shouldn't even be standing anymore. God, but she smells like her. It's too dark to see each other behind what he thinks is the monorail station, she's keeping her mouth shut, and it is so easy to pretend. The perfect company to build up a broken fantasy on, really; amorous, anonymous and nearly guilt-free. She would never find him in the daylight, he could blame everything he did with her on the drink. It is not a pretty thing, he thinks as things fade out into the dim, but then neither is his guilt.
He wakes up behind the Ultra-Luxe, when the sun is just high enough to shine over the wall and feel like a knife to the eyes. "Damn. Thought I passed out under cover."
"You did, idjit." Boone jerks, immediately regretting it, then again when a boot gently pushes down on his neck. "Lay still before your brains end up out your ears. You're lucky they didn't end up on somebody's plate, sacking out here. Apparently you're stupid as shit when you're loaded, along with being nasty."
Not quite ready to recognize something as complex as a voice yet, particularly not with so many words involved, he only relaxes when another extremely familiar set of scents washes over him, the parts of his brain responsible for processing it apparently primitive enough to cope through the hangover. Clean sweat, dirty leather, and warm, oiled metal. He takes in a deep breath, filling his head up on the tangy reek until the person it belongs to floats to the front of his head, clearing out those last sweet remnants from the dead of night that always seem to turn so bitterly ugly once the sun comes up. This time, he wasn't sure if it was an improvement. "Charlie."
"Ding ding." The light pressure on his neck lifts, and the swirling mess of light and shadow resolves itself into a figure standing over him. "Stars and sky, I leave you alone for a few hours and look what happens."
He sits up, moving with infinite care. The first thing he notices are the drag marks trailing out from a set of legs, then the fact that he is the owner of those particular limbs. "I did lay down in cover."