[color=00aeef][u]Herb Fernandez – Freeside – Evening, October 17th[/u][/color]

That evening, they met in the old tin shack which served as a makeshift All Faiths chapel, one patronised by the Followers. There were many places of worship in Freeside, as there had been in Eastside before the Green. Many more than in the Strip itself. 

The Strip had its own religion. Worship was confined strictly to the goddesses of Fortune and Desire, and their brother, the god of Commerce. The genius of Vegas was its construction of the casino, a temple in which all three divines could be propitiated at once, in rites which would put the decadence of the Old World to shame. Their High Priest, Mr House, had anointed the Three Families as his chosen people, and given them the Strip to rule over in his name. Each of them enforced his Law with a terrible vengeance - or at least they had until recently. 

Mr House had been even more silent than usual, ever since Caesar’s Legion had departed. No loudspeakers thundered the decrees of the city’s Architect from on high. None dared voice the blasphemous thought that the Lucky 38 might now be empty, that the Throne of Vegas stood abandoned by its Maker. At least not out loud, and not while legions of heavily armed Securitrons hovered over the Strip, ready to visit their creator’s wrath upon his enemies, with machine gun fire and lasers, more terrible than swords flashing lightning, and whirlwinds of flame. 

This particular All Faiths chapel was different from most. Herb had chosen it as a meeting place because its chaplain, Brother Marsilio, was sympathetic to Herb’s aims. Brother Marsilio believed that religion was the opiate of the masses, and that the same poverty and desperation which made Freesiders vulnerable to chems pushed by the Omertas, made them vulnerable to subtler poisons peddled by preachers and prophets. 

“Never trust a pastor who teaches you to quietly endure the suffering of this world, for hope of something better in the Hereafter,” he would say to his flock. “Who benefits from such an attitude? Who benefits from conditioning you to be slaves, and to meekly obey your masters? If such a preacher isn’t in the pocket of Mr House, he may as well be. It wasn’t the plan of an omniscient, Divine Will which designed Vegas. This city was designed by wealthy men for their own benefit, not yours.”

Brother Marsilio was away now, ministering to the poor and sick. He had turned the space over to Herb, whom he trusted. And now Herb and his associates sat in a circle in the center of the floor, speaking of a different kind of judgement, a different kind of balm for the spirit, from that offered by spiritualists and believers in afterlives. 

“Did you get Alphonse to change his tune?” Herb asked. 

The question was addressed to Ralph Granger, a brawny man in the shirt, suspenders and cap worn by a particular class of workers in Freeside. Troublemakers, the Families called them. 

Vegas was a city which ran on an illusion: that everyone could be rich and glamorous, or at least rent the experience for a time. Everyone came to Vegas with something precious to gamble with: caps, beauty, luck, youth, or musical talent. The city made their dreams come true, provided they worked hard, had faith, played their cards right, and cultivated the right attitude. 

Even the poorest in Vegas desired to be [i]cool.[/i] They spent what little they had imitating the fashions of their superiors, and if they couldn’t afford the clothes, the shows, or the status symbols, they still had the swagger, they spoke the right jive, they instinctively knew what was hip and what wasn’t. 

The poorest beggar in Freeside was prouder than a wealthy Brahmin baron from out in the sticks. A Freesider could look at two men in rags and know which was a tourist, and which a local. The Freesider’s clothes might be just as poor, or poorer, but he wore his grimy, torn outfit with… [i]razzle dazzle.[/i] That couldn’t be bought by any outsider. 

In many ways, the city was a microcosm of the Old Republic’s promise. A promise that anyone could make it if they had the right stuff. Consequently, if you didn’t make it, you didn’t have the right stuff, and you had only yourself to blame.

There were some in Freeside who didn’t dress in the cast-offs of the wealthy, however. These were workers who did not consider themselves temporarily embarrassed millionaires, one roll away from their big break. These people dressed like workers who had the audacity to [i]take pride[/i] in being working men. Their fashions were derived from the materials worn by caravan hands, porters and craftsmen. Their pants were of thick, durable fabrics originally designed to absorb sweat and stains. Their plain white shirts were woven to wick sweat and dirt away from those who moved heavy goods or bent at their work all day. 

These were troublemakers. Of course, there were lots of poor people in Vegas, but they mostly had the decency to be ashamed of their situation, understanding that it was a personal failing. Those who did not desire to be rich, or worse, to even look rich, were not Vegas material. They did not buy into the Dream. More dangerous still, they made others lose faith in the Dream, wanting everyone to be as miserable as them.

Ralph Granger was one of these Red-sympathising, anti-social types. He paused to take a puff of his cigarette before replying to Herb. 

“Alphonse,” he said, “is like a Brahmin whose two heads can’t agree. But he’s more amenable to workin’ with us now. I wouldn’t rely on him for strong support. But he’d be happy to put pressure on our NCR friends.”

Edith Summerton, a motherly looking woman in a neat but plain frock, spoke up. “You got Alphonse on side? How on Earth did you pull that off, Ralph?”

Ralph shrugged. “I can’t take credit for it. Alphonse genuinely cares about the welfare of his boys and girls, I’ll give ‘im that much. See, what you know full well, Edith, is that much as the NCR ‘as done to screw us over, a lot of folks see them as an improvement over the Families and Mr House. And they probably ain’t wrong.

“Lots of Alphonse’s people work in the Strip. Sure, they ain’t allowed to live there, or go in the front doors of the casinos. And a lot of them had families what was caught up in the Riots. But a lot of them was in the Strip when the worst of the fightin’ broke out. And since they was in Strip territory, workin’ in the casinos or under the protection of the Families, they escaped the brunt of the NCR assault.

“See, the trouble we all have with the Families is that they ain’t too keen on people beneath their station. Ain’t got no clue why they consider [i]us [/i]beneath them - we’ve all heard the rumours. They was mostly swampfolk, or tribals, or cannibals, before Mr House showed up and put ‘em in sharp suits. 

“Anyway, they’re happy for our boys and girls to do all the dirty jobs in the Strip, provided they stay in the kitchens and back alleys and don’t show their faces in front of them fancy folks. But the Families ain’t never let us organise. They never let us demand higher wages. We tried it a few times, and they made it clear the only way to terminate one of their contracts is at the business end of a bullet.

“So Alphonse, and a lot of folks like him, are thinkin’ the NCR is the lesser of two evils. They got laws in the NCR. Sometimes they even enforce ‘em. They got Merchant Houses. They got tradespeople, and Congressmen who are meant to stand up for ordinary folks occasionally. They certainly ain’t like Mr House, who gives the Families a free hand in doin’ whatever the hell they please to us.”

“Alphonse is thinkin’, if the NCR comes, maybe things’ll get better. And a lot of workin’ folks are thinkin’ the same.”

“And what changed his mind?” Herb asked.

The cigarette went back into Ralph’s mouth. He took a long pull, as if drawing strength from it, and then exhaled a billow of smoke as though expelling a bad memory. 

“The fuckin’ Green changed it. All these people displaced from Westside and the surroundin’ areas – well, we could deal with that. At least they was from New Vegas. But this was on top of the drought, which brought all those goddamn NCR refugees. And then the Green kept spreadin’, and the NCR folks kept comin’ and comin’. Heck, you walk down a Freeside street these days and half the time you won’t hear goddamn Mojave accent.

“What the f–beggin’ your pardon,  Edith – what the hell has the NCR done for these folks? Nothin’, that’s what. Yeah, I know Denver and his army have protected them from bandits, helped settle ‘em in available land - Mojave land, by the way. And this is the same goddamn army that tore up Freeside not long back. But here’s the thing, there are things an army can’t do. Can’t feed folks, educate their kids, teach them to farm or practice a trade, treat their medical conditions. So who’s been doin’ all that?

“The Followers, that’s who. One of the many reasons a lot of us have begun to question our leadership. 

“Well, it turns out that if you dump a shi–a crapton of desperate refugees in an area over 5 years, that has an effect on the labour market. So now Alphonse and his boys – who couldn’t form a guild to represent themselves, because the Families believe they have a monopoly on organised crime in this city— are facin’ a situation. Turns out the Families would rather employ some desperate NCR asshole who’ll work for a tenth of the price and thank them for it. And these assholes are being protected by Denver, which we ain’t got the benefit of. All we got is the Followers— but they don’t turn the NCR folks away either, so the NCR folks are sucklin’ at both titt– at both ends of the bottle, if you’ll excuse the expression.”

Herb nodded. “So Alphonse is ready to work with us? To put pressure on the NCR?”

“Yeah. The fact is, the NCR wants to tax the hell out of this place, when we’ve been hosting their frickin’ parasites for years, at our own expense. If we’ll back Alphonse, he’s ready to demand the NCR will pass minimum wage legislation to stop their folks undercuttin’ our standard of livin’. Plus he wants them to guarantee the right to organised labour, and protection from retaliation by the families.”

Edith scoffed. “The NCR will never agree to that.”

Herb smiled. “Then the workers will know who to blame for their living conditions going to hell. And they’ll know where to direct their displeasure. I’m sure they’ll find a way to make their voices heard. Mr Ben Watts wanted this post. He can have everything that comes with it. If he thought it was all fine dining and champagne on the Strip, let’s show him the other side of this fine city.”

“There’s another point that occurs to me,” Edith said. “On the subject of the Followers’ leadership. We have quite a dominant pro-NCR faction in Vegas. I’m thinking of young doctor in particular.”

“Oh, don’t worry about Chez Nathan,” Herb said. “He’s been called upon to put his money where his politics is. The timing is quite fortuitous. He and some of his flunkies are going away to meet the good Colonel Abernathy. Judging by what happened the last few times the 3rd battalion rounded up some of our doctors for a friendly chat… I’d say that’ll give us plenty of time to put things in motion without interference from that quarter.”