Gray Squirrel Clothing Store.
With two logs nearly burned to ash in the fireplace, Seer, wrapped in an old fur coat, had his leather shoes propped on a moldy wooden table as he dozed off.
Business here had been slow for nearly four whole months, from late September last year until now.
Still, he wasn't worried about going bankrupt.
It had been the same in previous years.
Come winter, only rats visited his wardrobe. But that was fine. Once winter passed, the streets outside would be packed with people, and business here would pick up soon enough.
Even raiders who had devolved into primitives still needed a pair of pants.
His shop stood at the entrance to the market, and this market was the closest one to Boulder City's main gate.
As long as wastelanders passing through came to this market, they would spot his sign at a glance.
The clothes that cost two or three chips apiece were the most popular. Even workers from the factory next door could afford them, and wastelanders short on money would consider them too.
However, the origins of most of these clothes were rather questionable. Many had been stripped off corpses, some still bearing patched bullet holes and slash marks. The cheaper ones had not even been stitched up.
Caravan guards and mercenaries from elsewhere usually spent much more freely. The leather jackets and jeans hanging on the racks were prepared for them. Some came from garment factories in the industrial district, while others were made by tailor shops.
After all, for people who traveled far and wide, whether they would return next year was anyone's guess. No one carried those plastic chips around in their pockets.
Before leaving, they would trade their chips for cigarettes, liquor, bullets, even gold, silver, or Legion