I can’t say we’ve got the crowd I expected now that Wattsworth Gardens is open for business, but I’m choosing to count the two hunters that frequent the area around the fuselage shack and the war memorial- so, we got something. Were they already out here? Possibly. But now they have a cultural hub, see? That stuff is important in the wasteland.
The Mr Handy considers scorpions the enemies of some long dead empire and attacks them with a colonialist’s zest for violence. The coyotes are kept out by the hunters and the junker protectron tends the toilet mushrooms- all in all it’s a happenin’ spot.
I buy a cool knife and some home-made antivenom off one of the hunters too. Nice folks.
Meanwhile, our own hunt awaits. Wattsworth and I check our weapons as we tromp past the deathclaw warning signs heading North by Northeast. Time to bag us a bigbird.
As the memorial cross slips ever behind us, I hear gunfire, and what sounds like explosives going off to the Southeast. We stick to the gray stone walls of the canyon and keep a low profile. Well, I do. Wattsworth has one walk setting and it’s “smashing tin cans for recycling”.
Luckily all we come across is a lone bloatfly, which I dispatch with my usual twang. The wood of my guitar club is so soaked in icor now it adheres to my jupsuit’s back easily, with no need for straps or supports of any kind. Neato.
As we round more walls of stone I catch site of some old industrial equipment on the other side, tall enough to peek over the cliffs.
I can’t help but notice that the red paint on all these “Warning, deathclaws” signs is exactly the same shade as Wattsworth’s custom paint job. There’s a story there, I bet.
Eventually we rejoin the road, and carefully make our way north, picking the best bits from bloatfly carnage and the remains of a dead ghoul I find under a crumbling overpass. Another loaded laser weapon just left around for anybody to find. Tsk tsk.
As we approach a small group of red corrugated metal shacks on the left, a man in a construction hat flags me down. A man named Chomps.
Chomps Lewis is the latest scaredy-pants to warn me against continuing this way, but at least I’m able to ask some follow-up questions now. What I am not, sadly, able to discuss with him is the incredible storied trumpet career that a man named Chomps Lewis must have had. That’s pound for pound the jazziest name I’ve heard in a long time. We talk about Powder Gangers, and how New Vegas is a big money trap, and what a dragline is, and of course, deathclaws. But not a word about proper embouchure. He’s clearly protecting his trade secrets.
When I tell Chomps that I mean to take care of his little deathclaw problem on my way through town, he tells me I don’t look the part. Oh ye of little faith, Chompsky. He says something about a breeding pair, gotta kill the alpha male and the brood mother in the nearby quarry, got it. But before I glide through this undoubtedly simple task, I decide to check out the little ring of shacks the quarry-workers call Sloan.
Sloan is not even half the size of Goodsprings, and falling apart even faster, which is impressive. There’s even a molerat wandering around in the open, which I briefly consider stomping, but I notice the nametag in time. Code of the wastes, I guess “Snuffles” belongs to somebody. Gross. I make my way inside as quick as I can.
The Sloan Mess Hall is not what you’d call a 5-star eatery, but then I’m pretty sure nobody from Zagat’s has been through in a century or two so, it’s all subjective. Jas Wilkins, proprietor, serves cold beer and cocktails, and has some great stories from back West. I crack a beer, trade her some steaks for a sixpack and something called an Atomic Cocktail that I couldn’t resist, and we jabber for a bit about the quality of pre-war rations these days. Nice gal.
Now, you may be thinking, gosh Johnny, you sure are brave to head out deathclaw hunting after all those warnings. The scrawled signs and terrified townsfolk and all that. First of all, thank you kindly, I like to think I have a certain… daring do. But to be totally honest, friend, by now even an experienced, level 2 badass like myself can’t help but have a couple nagging doubts. Those drawings I keep seeing on rocks and wood scraps, they’re a little intimidating, not gonna lie.
Which is why thank goodness for Jas Wilkins, best barkeep this side of Dogtown. Just as I’m getting a buzz on and dancing around my doubts, she tells me the most charming story about a deathclaw that her grandma out West in the original NCR territories kept… in a chicken coop. A chicken coop! I damn-near laugh my head off at that, and my fears dissipate. Her gramma had a recipe for deathclaw egg omelettes she says, and I agree to bring her back one. Hell, I’ll bring you six in a little paper carton! A chicken coop, hilarious.
My drink finished, I gather Wattsworth from the dance floor, thank Jas again for lifting my spirits, and stumble back out into the sun, still laughing. In a chicken coop! I even manage to snatch a sarpsarilla cap from another table on my way out the door, and would you look at that? Another blue star.
I spend a little more time in Sloan picking up bottles and cans, like I do, but there’s no more special bottle caps. These guys are lucky I’m honest, in their office are two suitcases just crammed with regular caps, not even locked or anything. All I help myself to is a couple Nuka Colas outside in the freebies box, which I’m coming to expect in Nevada towns. I like it, free mixers is a great tradition.
I fix the generator near the Sloan barracks without even thinking about it, some fool has just put the pieces back together all wrong, and the workers in their barracks even seem grateful to me for a change.
It’s a shame nobody just read that copy of Dean’s Electronics on the shelf by the toy dinosaur and did it themselves. Is anybody even gonna notice if I… no, I tell myself, no. It’s the code of the wastes.
Full of confidence and a couple breakfast beers I saunter north out of town with Wattsworth ever dutifully beside me. A few of the quarry workers give me sideways looks but I don’t care, they’ll all be singing a different tune when I come back with 4 or 8 dead deathclaws and a basket of giant eggs. A… giant basket, I guess. I dunno, I might have to make several trips for all my trophies. Pff. Chicken coop.
Just as I’m considering building a cart for all the eggs I’m definitely bringing home, my Pip Boy alerts me to a hostile figure up ahead.
Of course so do my eyes, and ears, and feet, because the spiky beige thing coming at us is pretty big and shakes the ground with every step. And is it… 11 feet tall?
Kinda hard to tell when it’s moving so fast. But that’s okay, you want it head-on mr deathclaw, that’s no problem for Johnny Smash! Batter up!
Oh no.
Okay so… I learned a few things. Deathclaws can rip me and my robot companion to pieces in an instant, good to know. My guitar club does aproximately 0 damage to them, even if I stand there wailing on their head directly several times it just seems to make them angry enough to twist my neck and the guitar neck around each other like a rope. This… is not good.
But I can’t give up quite yet. Because what’s that just to the other side of this horrifying not-at-all-like-a-chicken-what-were-you-thinking monster?
I knew there’d be a hotel out here eventually!