The Courier had never felt the way she did about Sunset Sarsaparilla before she was shot in the head. That checker-suited guy and those good-for-nothing Kahns stole her package, put a bullet in her brain, and left her for dead in a shallow grave. You all know the story: a for sure deadly encounter narrowly saved by a cowboy robot and an extremely capable surgeon in the right place at the right time. Even the most capable surgeons, though, sometimes can't put the brain back together 100%. Luckily, the Courier's lingering side effects from the attempted murder weren't THAT bad, were they?
Anyway, Sunset Sarsaparilla. A sugary, carbonated beverage that was very popular in the Mojave region before the war. Not nearly as popular now, of course, but it's got a dedicated fanbase. The Courier never saw the appeal. Why should she drink some fizzy desert-hot swill when there's plenty of purified water and alcohol to go around? What's the point? At least, that's how she felt before a certain gun went off into her frontal lobe.
The first thought that went through the Courier's mind after stepping out of Doc Mitchell's house into the familiar, humble dust of Goodsprings wasn't "Who shot me?" or "Why did they take my package?". It was "I'm thirsty." The sunlight kissed her face like a flyswatter to a hornet. She squinted her eyes and took it in. Downtrodden houses with crappy Brahmin. Eh. General store. Maybe. Saloon. YES. That's the place to whet her whistle. Speaking of whistle, a farmer out in his little yard field gave a shrill, detuned "WHEE-WOO" with two fingers in his mouth as the Courier passed. Not batting an eye, she responded with a quick middle finger and carried on. The Courier was what many people would describe as a very beautiful woman. The kind of knockout gal your average wastelander could only see in pre-war pin-up drawings. She had short, black hair, vivid blue eyes, and pouty red lips. Her stomach was flat and smooth as could be, though it was difficult to be anything but thin in this nuclear wasteland and all. She had a feminine hourglass figure with heavy breasts, wide hips, and a bubble butt she was quite proud of. Her legs were long and lovely, with just enough meat on them to inspire thoughts of being crushed by her thighs. All in all, a picturesque figure that was being accentuated by the spandex vault suit the Doc gave her. She didn't usually like to wear such form-fitting clothing, but those bastard Kahns stripped her down before shooting her and the Doc didn't have any other clothing to spare.
The saloon was a dingy yet homey place, the kind of spot you might expect a middle-aged townie to come for a drink after a hard day of work. It smelled exactly like it did outside: like sand and weeds. The Courier wrinkled her nose. Yup, this was the spot. She ambled over to the bar and took a seat on one of the stools like she had lived there for 25 years, resting her elbows on the wooden surface. The bartender approached: a plain looking woman in a homely dress. Young, but with a wise look in her eyes. "Oh, you're that girl the doc's been fixing up, aren't you? Nice to finally meet you. Welcome to the Prospector Saloon." She gave a shallow but genuine smile.
The Courier smiled back. "Well, I need a drink. What do you got?"
The bartender turned around to look at what she had, even though she had the drink menu committed to memory. "We've got beer, wine, whiskey, vodka, scotch… Nothing special, really."
"Lemme have a beer." The Courier slid a few caps over the bar. She was a woman of simple taste, and a beer sounded real good about now. The woman opened up a brown bottle with a satisfying *CRACK* and placed it where the bottle caps used to be. Wordlessly, the Courier grabbed it and took a big swig… and as soon as the liquid hit her taste buds she spat it out all over the floor. It was VILE. She exhaled and stuck her tongue out. "Holy shit, are you tryna poison me? What was in that?"
The bartender was dumbfounded. "I, uh… Beer? Here, let me get you another one."
And that's how it continued. Another beer: horrible. A whiskey: disgusting. Vodka: repulsive. Even a bottle of water tasted like sewage. By the end of her taste-testing, the Courier was exhausted, distraught, and thirstier than ever. The bartender felt nothing but pity for the poor girl. Something awful must have happened to the part of her brain that determines taste when that bullet got lodged in her skull. The Courier leaned back on her stool and looked at the ceiling. How is she supposed to even survive if she can't even drink water without wanting to hurl?
Then, something happened. A sound from across the room: "sssssSSSSS". The Courier's ears perked up. Then, a smell. A subtle, tiny smell, but a smell that permeated her nostrils like a sledgehammer. What was that earthy, sugary smell? She turned her head like a dog in its direction, making some sniffs. She easily located its source: a man at a table, opening a bottle of… Sunset Sarsaparilla? She turned back to the bartender. "Can I have one of those?" She pointed to the guy with the bottle.
The bartender put down the glass she was polishing. "Oh, of course, dear. We've got plenty of those. They barely sell, really." She looked under the bar and grabbed a brown bottle of Sarsaparilla. "Here. Free of charge. I hope it works out." She handed it to the Courier.
As if opening a buried treasure chest, the Courier twisted off the bottle cap with a pop. The insides fizzed. The heavenly smell hit her nostrils even harder. It was the best smell she ever did smell. Her jaw dropped. "Fuuuuck." Then, she brought the bottle to her lips, letting the warm, foamy water rush past her taste buds and down her throat. *GLUG. GLUG. GLUG.* "Ahhhh. urrp. Oh, excuse me!" It was gone as soon as it was opened. And it was AMAZING. Everything that she had previously thought about the fizzy drink was WRONG. Sunset Sarsaparilla made her feel like she was on a fluffy cloud, or on a luminescent animal traveling through the depths of the ocean. It made her feel like she had transcended her mortal body into a realm of pure feeling. It was incredible. And she needed more. Much more.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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