The saloon doors swing open as Mr. Fahrenheit saunters in, a gladius hanging from his hip, D-Day’s thoughtfully loaned grenade launcher holstered on the opposite side. The Duke had been wearing most of his ammo, but he’d scrounged enough up to get his point across if it became necessary. Mr. Fahrenheit had no intention of letting things come to that, but he believed in being prepared. Generally, in situations where bribery, blackmail, intelligence, his connections, or a silver tongue couldn’t solve the problem, the threat of high explosives and a strong sense of self-preservation did the trick. Sure, he had no problem with simply removing obstacles, but he found people could often be more useful alive, assuming the proper leverage was applied.
Stepping through a pool of blood, likely caused by the ever-rambunctious crowd FUBAR seemed to draw, he was sure, Mr. Fahrenheit settles in at the bar. He gives the bartender an appraising look, vaguely remembering the man. It had been some time since he’d passed through Hollow Point, only a few times in total at most, setting up relations with a potential agent, while tracking his quarry at the time. But there were some people it always paid to know, and the owner of a popular bar is one of them.
A family man, as he recalled. Wife, maybe one kid, if memory served. Ran a respectable establishment, or as respectable as anywhere in the wastes could be while catering to raiders, mercenaries, bounty hunters, and whatever else crawled out of the desert. Most importantly, he knew how to keep his mouth shut, and to keep out of business that didn’t concern him.
The bartender didn’t recognize him, as he greeted Mr. Fahrenheit. Little wonder, with the intervening time, and the fact that he looked more like another Duke than anything else, in his borrowed olive drab flack jacket and coat.
“Nothing to drink, thanks,” he says. “Not thirsty just yet, though I may stop by a bit later once I round up my friends.”
The bartender opens his mouth, ready to object to giving counter space to someone there to loiter, but stops as Mr. Fahrenheit places a stack of caps on the bar. Courtesy of D-Day, to be reimbursed at a later date.
“I’m looking for your assistance on three matters. Number one. The location of your nearest postal worker. I don’t care who they are, or who they work for, as long as they’re reliable. Number two. I’m looking for someone new in town, goes by 516. A clone. Long hair, odd sort of mask/crown combo piece, possibly in chains. He’s a troublesome individual, but I have a vested interest in reuniting with him. Healthy. There’s a good chance that he’ll come through here. If he does, keep him here, secure and out of sight, and I’ll be back when I've concluded my business in town. Use whatever methods necessary, including employing some of the more… reliable sorts here. They’ll obviously be compensated for their efforts if successful, as will you, of course. If he doesn’t come in of his own volition, I’d appreciate him found and brought here, if possible. Same conditions. Number three.” Mr. Fahrenheit stares the man in the eyes, his friendly smile and casual demeanor turning to stone. “One of your regulars. Man with a deathclaw tattooed on his left arm, red birthmark on his face. Tell him I need a resupply. Weapons, armor, ammo, whatever he can put together on short notice. Tell him it’s for Mr. Fahrenheit.”
The man’s eyes widen as memories flood back to him, of a night over two year ago, when a man claiming to be a bounty hunter had come into the saloon, spending caps freely on the other patrons, somehow talking his way into having a late dinner back at the house, and marching the former tenant of his upstairs room out at gunpoint, strapped with dynamite. After coffee and conversation, of course. And his second visit, some months later.
“So,” Mr. Fahrenheit says, smiling warmly, all traces of his grim countenance vanishing. “What do you say? Any good postal workers around town? I have some letters and a lovely care package to send out, and I’d hate for the recipients to have to wait because I missed a departure cutoff. How is Gracie, by the way? Terribly rude of me not to ask after her straight away. I’ll tell you, it’s been a day.”
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