Whatever he said, whatever exists in Mojave exists without my knowledge, exists without my consent. In order for the Mojave to be truly mine no one must be permitted to occur upon it, save by my dispensation.
He looked at the dead bodies of the NCR soldiers and the legionaries. He started to laugh loudly. War was always here in the Mojave, even before the Courier was here, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner.
He stepped into the strip with Yesman by his side, the people of the strip watching him, waiting for him to say something anything. He removed his helmet and revealed his face to his people for the first time.
He was huge and pale and hairless like an enormous infant. He started to laugh, he couldn't stop himself. He started to dace laughing. He forced people to dace with him, and they are dancing. The roads of the strip slamming under the Jack-boots and the Fiddlers, grinning hideously over their caned pieces.
Towering over them all is The Courier and he is laughing, dancing, his big boots hard and quick and now in double time and he is bowing to the ladies.
He never sleeps he says. He says he'll never Die.
He bows to the fiddlers and sachet backwards and throws back his head and laughs deep in his throat and he is a great favorite the Courier. He wafts his helmet and the lunar dome of his skull passes under the street lamps and he swings about and takes possession of one of the fiddles, and he pirouettes and makes a pass, two passes, dancing and fiddling at once. His boots are big and hard.
He never sleeps. He says he'll never Die.
He dances in the light and in shadow and he is a great favorite.
He never sleeps, The Courier, he is dancing, dancing, he says that he will never Die.
I WON, he says THE MOJAVE IS MINE, YOU ARE ALL MINE.