Journal of Honcho Biggs - Chapter 12

Chapter 12 of the Journal of Honcho Biggs, titled "Cloudy Forecasts".

## Cloudy Forecasts

   We spent the rest of the morning at the 188, stocking up on supplies for the remaining half of the journey up to Vegas. "Niner, we got new company," I said, pointing at our tribal. "Hared, meet Niner."

Niner shook his hand. "You know Jessup?"

"Watched him die yesterday."

"...oh." Niner rubbed his back. "He can make some mean chems, man. Well, I guess not anymore...but you know what I mean."

Niner and Hared went to buy food and water while I looked for weapons. I found a presumable arms dealer leaning against the edge of the bridge, looking down onto the road below. "Hey, you got weapons?" I asked.

The dealer fixed her hat and started to shine the goggles on her jacket (she had another pair on her hat for some reason). "You a merc?" She asked. "'Cause you don't look like a prospector."

"I'm...well, for hire. Not exactly a merc."

"What then, like some kinda sex worker? Don't exactly have the face for it-"

"No, more like an enforcer." Since I still needed to buy guns from her, I decided to ignore her comment. "Honcho Biggs," I said, holding out my hand.

"Arms merchant," she answered. I looked in confusion as she shook my hand.

"Don't gotta name?" I asked.

"Just told you it. Arms Merchant."

"You're name...is Arms Merchant?"

"Guess my ma and pa saw my destiny laid out when they picked my name. And destiny seems inescapable. So here I am." She waved her arms and presented herself.

"Right..." She showed me her weapons and explained how she was a former NCR soldier til a grenade exploded right 'round her head and left her with some memory loss. She did remember Arms Merchant was her name, though, and definitely not her role in the military. I bought some ammunition and looked for a real merchant.

I headed below the bridge and found a brahmin packed with Gun Runner-emblazoned satchels hanging from it. It's owner stood next to it, leaning against a column puffing a cigarette.

"You got guns?" I asked him.

He exhaled and looked at me like I had two heads. "Yeah, I got guns." He looked away and inhaled from his cigarette.

"Well...you selling?"

He let the air hang silent for a moment. He then turned back to me and blew the smoke in my face. "Am I selling? Yeah. Am I selling to you? No. Sorry to hurt your feelings, but you're small time. Move along."

I am Honcho Biggs. Enforcer for Atomic Wrangler, killer of Vipers, owner of 1600 caps, future casino extraordinaire. I am not "small time". I decided to make a mental note to ice this fucker when I made it big. As for right now, well, I still need him.

"Look man, I just thought you were an entrepreneurial fellow. Knew how to make some side money, some under the table selling," I said, putting my bartering skills to the test.

"Still here?" He asked in faux surprise. He sighed. "Fine, got some shit for you. If anyone asks, don't say it came from Alexander though." I bought a metal casing for the baseball bat and some ammunition before moving on. Instead of breaking all his limbs, maybe I'll just break his legs before offing him.

There was a kid down here, too. He wore some kind of device on his head and he leaned back in his chair, gulping down a Nuka Cola. I walked over.

"Hey kid, you here by yourself?"

He nodded. "My ma and pa are long gone."

"Same, kid." I looked at his junk. "You sell scrap?"

"I sell thoughts."

I didn't understand. "What?"

"I...have some kind of ability. I can see thoughts, or rather hear them really well. The people here, the people that come through here...their thoughts just radiate off of them. I wear this helmet, or sometimes the thoughts can become overwhelming."

"Interesting." I handed over a handful of caps. "What's radiating off me, kid?"

He placed the caps in a sack, then took off his helmet. He looked at me for a moment, then sighed deeply, closing his eyes. "Desires mingled with thoughts, all leading toward a light over Vegas. But the light...the wheel spins, pistols beat spears, suits beat gecko hides. Wanting something, something big...but its indescribable, an idea, a future. Two paths intermingle, your path pristine hiding dirty, the other path, ridden with scars, two bullet holes at its entrance, yet the dirty hides the pristine. Forecast: Stormy clouds ahead, but if the storm is weathered, light remains."

Yeah, I have no idea what any of that means. Good thing I recorded it on my old pipboy so I could write it down later. Maybe some reader of this here journal can decipher it.

"Aw, well, thanks kid," I said as I went on my way. Looked pretty fucking cool, not gonna lie, but I do wish I had kept the caps.

I walked back to the top of the bridge. A mercenary looking guy shook his head. "Got suckered by the kid, eh?" He laughed as I pushed by him.

I regrouped with Niner and Hared. "Biggs, we got word that the Courier is up the road nearing Vegas. Came through here yesterday, picked up some broad dressed in rags here, too," Niner informed me. Goddamn, another girl, the Courier seemed almost as bad as James.

"Ready?" I asked the two. They nodded. Cloudy forecasts ahead, but we're pushing on. To Vegas.