[ The thing about people who spend too much time in New Vegas is that they get impatient. They forget what it's like outside of House's concrete walls: the constant threat of Fiends, the encroaching presence of the Legion, the everyday stress of needing ever-decreasing resources. They move too fast, bet too high, go all-in too quickly. Burn the candle at both ends and eventually you get burnt too - plenty of high-rollers have gotten kicked off the Strip and ended up in Freeside's gutters, begging for spare caps and barely scraping by. That's the problem with getting too comfortable in the physical embodiment of the Old World's hubris. You start thinking you're invincible.

Benny reaches for his gun with the confidence of a man who thinks he has the advantage and Len reacts like a rattlesnake. His right hand darts quickly for Benny's wrist, grabbing it tightly before he gets a grip on his pistol, and with his left hand he grabs a fistful of the wet shirt at Benny's shoulder. It isn't a pretty maneuver: swift and sharp as he presses his weight in to pivot the man in place, twisting his dominant arm behind his back as Len crushes him against the corrugated metal wall of the garage. A flare of righteous fury wells up into Len's chest at the fucking audacity. Let bygones be bygones, his ass.

Much less politely he feels over Benny's front with his other hand, confiscating the gun and tossing it somewhere behind him with a loud clatter. The laugh he breathes over Benny's ear lacks the humor Len normally lends it. ]

You've gotten lazy up there in The Tops, Ben.

[ He chides, as though reprimanding a kid for leaving their toys scattered across their bedroom floor. There's a muffled jingle of metal as he unbuckles Benny's belt, yanking the strip of leather free loop by loop. ]

Why don't you try answerin' that question, before you really piss me off?