Snippet #1970343

"HHHUUHHHCOFFCOFFCOFFHACKHACKCLINK". Atlas doubled over on the sidewalk in a violent coughing fit followed by a bout of dizzyness. As he hurtled toward the ground his revolver fell from his holster to the ground beside him. Scanning the environment, he was glad no one noticed him huddled on the pavement.

This was becoming more and more common - the coughing fits that was. His health was deteriorated from the booze, or cigarettes, or drugs, or a combination of all three. He couldn't run as fast, or lift as much, or remember that well as he used to. At this point, he couldn't even recall his age. He wasn't sure the average death age of ghouls, but he met some wrinkle skins that were alive since the great war.

As he reached down for his pistol, something caught his eye. A rather stocky build of a man stood right across the street watching him like a hawk and leaning against a light post. He wasn't there when he checked a minute ago? Could he really move that fast? Atlas took a double take and noticed two more men on each side inching their way toward him.

Somewhat knowing his surrounding, he realized they were forcing him toward and into the Lucky Forty-Eight. That wasn't good. It was easy to sneak a knife into the casino, stick someone like like a pig, and lurk out before anyone even got your name. He knew security would do nothing about it unless they made their move.

What really shocked him was how they dressed. More specificity the insignia that was branded all over them. He knew that sign anywhere. He always hoped he would never see it again.

He knew the only chance he had was to reenter the casino and get out of there with his so called "team". As he slipped through the door, he prayed to what ever god their was that this wasn't his last day on earth.