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That new Overboss was wild. Wild and without any sense of fashion - small, one-eyed, dirty, with ugly screaming pink warhawk and huge collection of very distasteful tattoos. And with unhealthy sympathy to those black-clad faceless creeps. No skills to proper stealth, no patience for sniper rifles - he was fast and quick and loud, like his western revolvers from Dry Gulch. But he was a gunsmith and pretty fine one. He stroked parts of rifle or gun or assorted scrap like a pet cat, tenderly and careful. And changed them into deadly, much more deadly weapons than before . So now even William, despite that man walks and talks, was obliged to thank.
The new rifle became more heavier - heavy frame, hardened receiver, but now that baby could drill a nice hole even in the Alpha Deathclaw thick skull. Heavy and glinting with a menacing copper red - two snakes are locking in the dark wood of full stock.
- A fine gift, but is this for 5.5 bullets or 7.62 ones?"
-The latter, - Overboss was shining with pride. - Fine for a kill, one shot-one bullet-one kill thingy. Like in that pretty poem about a loaded gun.
- What poem? - Mags Black never heard anything about that poem and she had education, good Upper Stands one.
- Old poem, "My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -
In Corners - till a Day
The Owner passed - identified -
And carried Me away ". Very pre-war thing. It has more verses, but I can't remember any other. If you want more, go to Boston Public Library and look for Emily Dickinson. She was very famous with this stuff.
- So who you are, boss?- Mags Black was a bit smitten. That brute can recite poetry without any swear. And very strange poetry, indeed. -Gun or Owner?
- Neither, Mags. Me and you and your brother are bullets in that gun, made to kill. And don't we love that?