Under the rule out Queen Victoria the Empire expanded, Industry flourished, wealth amongst her subjects saw the rise of the Middle Class which served to support the Arts and artists of every kind and yet the East End of London, home to so many Prosperity forgot, was known as one of the worst of the Empire's, “hideous slums, some of them acres wide, some no more than crannies of obscure misery ... ” Even so, in such a place of hopeless deprivation there are those who did more then just survive, they thrived. The slumlords, the fences, the Master criminals who owned those who preyed on the weak and the vulnerable, those were the men who put their boots on the throat of Opportunity and squeezed until it begged to give itself up to them for the pleasure of another gaping breath of the unclean air of the slums. In Whitechapel two such men ruled with iron fists, Jack McCarthy and William Crossingham. Their will was made manifest in the strong arms of the bully boys in their employ, their fortunes made from the packed to bursting cheap houses they owned, the light, quick hands of the pickpockets they 'protected' and the large number of girls and women who lay on their backs and spread their legs for the men with coin to pay for their pleasures, no matter how base and vile were the delights they sought.<br/><br/>Thomas Crossingham, aka Bedlam Boy Tommy, was William's son, a not so tall brute of a man with legs like tree trunks, a broad barrel cheast, long arms cordoned with steely muscles, and a rough-hewned face that sported a nose that went this way and that, a sign it had oft been broken, and eyes that burned with a cruel and bestial light. His pride and joy was the Doorknocker beard he carefully maintained, shaving his sideburns and the front of his face only leaving his hair to grow out around his mouth and from his neck to the edge of the underside of his pointy chin. Every bit his father's son, he'd made a name for himself as a viscous pit fighter and now, after proving himself, had mov ed into being a Punisher and was now building a stable of girls to pimp out.<br/><br/>"Caw... Look at the bacon and eggs on the Duchess o'er here," Bedlam Boy Tommy spat out cheekily at Melinda Sullivan as he stepped out of a shadowy doorway to stand right on her path. He cast as appraising eye over her like she was some prize lamb on display on  Market Day, paying particular attention to the rise of her legs, the curves of her hips, the tightness of her hunger tightened belly and the swell of her breasts. He sucked air in through his teeth then turned his head a touch to the side to spit out some Tobacco he'd been chewing before fixing his dark, beady eyes on hers.<br/><br/>"Yer comin' wit' me to the Blue Coat," Bedlam Boy Tommy said in a tone that held more command then invitation as he named the pub/public house just a few doors down. "We'll tickle out innards then see what else tickles my fancy," he explains as he informs her they'll be drinking together and hints at what'll come after. "Play yer cards right, dearie, and maybe you'll be my Mollisher instead of just my prized bit of tail," making her options clear, she could end up his girl... Or his prostitute, but also making it known to her she belonged to him from this moment on.