Moira hummed to herself as she wiped off the counter, wondering if it was possible to ever really attain a state of "clean" outside of a Vault. She'd always wanted to find out what life in one of those was like, but nobody ever answered when she knocked on the door. Oh well. She was still humming and wiping when Two-Bit Tommy walked in the door.
Every trader in the Wasteland knew Two-Bit Tommy--or if not him, then someone like him. When Tommy walked in the door, you know you were about to do a fair bit of business, but it was going to take you all day to do it. Tommy picked up every bobby pin, clipboard, and hunk of mole rat meat he came across, no matter how rank or battered; if it was worth a single bottle cap, he wouldn't leave it behind.
"Howdy, Moira," he said, smiling broadly. "Need to pick up a few things."
"Now, I don't suppose you're payin' in caps this time?" Moira asked, smiling back.
"I thought you knew me better that that, darlin'. Got the caravan waitin' outside."
"Fine, then, you start bringing it in and I'll start sorting it into piles." Moira waved a finger at him. "But I'll have you know, I've instituted a sorting fee, Mister."
He laughed. "No need for that. Only brought you item. Just brought a lot of it, that's all."
"Tom! I sure never thought I'd see the day you made things easy on me. What's the catch? Did you bring me ten thousand teddy bears?"
"More like ten thousand boxes of Fancy Lads, give or take a hundred or so."
"Wh-really? Now how on Earth did you pull that off?"
"A man has his secrets." Tom winked. "First of all we'd better dicker on what exactly I'm gettin' in return for all that sugary goodness. F'its all the same to you, I prefer t' be paid in lead. Only currency pretty much everyone accepts, regardless of their inclination t' do so--if you get my drift."
"I think I can manage to scrape up some ammunition," Moira said. "Now, I assume you're offering a bulk discount? After all, it won't be easy for me to move that many of a single item--"
"Why, I never saw the day when sweet little Moira Brown would utter such a bald-faced lie! It's no secret that you've got quite weakness for Fancy Lads yourself. We both know your only problem will be resistin' the urge to eat your profits."
He reached into his pack and drew out a familiar red-and-white package and tossed it on the counter. "Go ahead. Check the quality."
Moira opened the package and sunk her teeth into the spongy cake. Either these little lumps of chemicals and creme were as delicious as the day two centuries ago when they were first extruded, or they had at one point truly been the food of the gods. She slurped out the creme, they stuffed the rest of the cake in her mouth. She'd always eaten them that way, ever since she was a little girl and she'd been given her first package. She remembered that day...she'd been badly stung which trying to train bloatflies to carry letters, and the doctor gave her one so she'd stop crying.
"Good?" Tommy asked.
Moira swallowed. "Good," she admitted.
"Well, then, shall we discuss the matter of my compensation?"
"Sure thing." Moira licked a few stray flecks of creme from her lips. "But while we do that, bring a few loads in and I'll test a few more packages. Just so I'm completely sure I'm getting quality goods."
Tommy smiled. "No problem at all, my girl, no problem at all."
-------
"Let's go over this again; now I've got a claim on your full stock of ammo, thirty-five hundred in bottlecaps, and five Chinese assault rifles in exchange for nine thousand boxes, an' that's settled, right?"
Moira folded her hands over her pleasantly creme-filled midsection. "Right you are, Mr. Two-Bit."
Tommy looked offended. "Please! Mr. Two-Bit is my father. And you're seriously tellin' me that the remainin' thousand boxes--and change, I remind you--aren't worth slappin' a new hose in my generator?"
"That generator is on its last legs." Moira stifled a belch. "Well, it doesn't have legs, but you know what I mean. It'll take a week to fix! And if you think you're going to get special favors out of me by walking in here and pumping me full of creme, well, you'd better have another look at the chapter in my survival guide on not getting suckered in a deal!"
"All right, all right." Tommy held up his hands. "I know when I'm beat. I do need that generator looked at, though. Tell you what; how about I give you a certain choice bit of information."
"And what might that be?"
"Oh, nothin' much. Just--" he lowered his voice "--the location where I happened to acquire my present cargo."
Moira's ears pricked up. "I'm listening."
Tommy picked up a discarded wrapper. "What if I told you I knew about a certain warehouse in the DC ruins--a warehouse untouched by scavengers and Super Mutants, a warehouse nobody but me knows about--and that what I brought you today is barely the beginning? I'm talkin' pallets of Fancy Lads, stacked floor to ceilin'. A glorious sight." He let the wrapper flutter to the counter. "You mark my words; you lay claim to this warehouse, and you'll be able to stuff yourself with Fancy Lads until the wasteland blooms. But, now, if that doesn't interest you..."
"Yes!" Moira said. "I mean no. I mean... it does! As a matter of fact, I was planning a trip to the ruins anyway. If you can give me the coordinates--"
"We have a deal, then?"
"Of course!" Moira shook his hand. Tommy nodded and handed her a folded-up scrap of paper.
"There's the location. I'd keep it under wraps if I were you."
Moira nodded and slipped it into her jumpsuit. "Pleasure doing business with you, Tom. I'll leave first thing tomorrow morning."
"Now, hold on, girl! What about my generator?"
"Oh, that?" Moira shrugged. "I'll get that for you now. Won't take more than five minutes."
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