"Of course you've heard of me. I'm a 14-foot tall, fucking quantum-blue-glowing female Deathclaw wearing an eyepatch, and a trenchcoat made out of tarpaulin. I speak perfect fuckin' English, with the broadest Bostonian accent ever fuckin' heard from any goddamned woman in Massacheussets. And yes, I'm that Deathclaw who started a Private Investigation career. Not working that job any longer, though. Not exactly subtle now, am I? And I don't have faith in smoothskin humans to do the job properly like I wanted, so yeah, I quit. Being a PI gave me a taste for hard liquor, pungent cigars, and seedy dive bars, like this one. I guess you wanna ask some questions of the genuine 'Clawdine Grayze, Deathclaw Private Investigator'? Spit it out, buddy. I'm a bloody busy woman with drinks to kill." She sits back heavily in a couch made from a converted shipping container. She has her own section of the bar. None of the other patrons come close, nor do they bother her, except for you. She slams her fiercely-clawed footpaws onto the bar and crosses her ankles, reclining with a deep, gutteral grunt, and a misty, luminous cyan snort of radiation-laced breath from her snout. She wedges a thick, dark cigar (made up of ten cigars lashed together) between her razor-sharp teeth, chewing the tips off and simply swallowing them, tobacco and all. She searches the sack-sized pockets of her own home-made tarpaulin trenchcoat, and grips a customised briefcase-sized Zippo lighter between her rough, scaly digits. She flips the top open with an air of non-chalant cool and style. She flicks the flint wheel, then glares at it with her one good eye in annoyance when it refuses to light up. She gives out a low, gutteral, irritated growl from deep in her fat belly. The nostrils on her scaly snout flare in irritation, another light-bluish cloud of radioactive vapour leaves her lungs. She's really getting pissed off. She flexes her footpaws, her lethal talons scraping one another like sharpening butchers' knives. She flicks her forked tongue at the air out of habit, her jaw clenches in anger, and she looks to be nearing her wit's end. And nobody will like what happens if she finally gets there. There'll be nothing left of the settlement.