<hr/><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/8b/Maxbaine_2.png)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Max Baine<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Sweetrock (Vice President)<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 11th, 1876.<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Early evening<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Private offices<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Closed, Walter<br/><hr/><div class="floatright"><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Farmer in the Dell</div><div class="spoiler_body"><em>The farmer in the dell<br/>The farmer in the dell<br/>Heigh-ho, the derry-o<br/>The farmer in the dell<br/>The farmer takes a wife <br/>The farmer takes a wife <br/>Heigh-ho, the derry-o<br/>The farmer in the dell<br/>The wife takes the child<br/>The wife takes the child<br/>Heigh-ho, the derry-o<br/>The farmer in the dell<br/>The child takes the nurse<br/>The child takes the nurse<br/>Heigh-ho, the derry-o<br/>The farmer in the dell<br/>The nurse takes the cow<br/>The nurse takes the cow<br/>Heigh-ho, the derry-o . . .<br/>The farmer in the dell<br/>The cow takes the dog <br/>The cow takes the dog <br/>Heigh-ho, the derry-o . . .<br/>The farmer in the dell<br/>The dog takes the cat<br/>The dog takes the cat<br/>Heigh-ho, the derry-o . . .<br/>The farmer in the dell<br/>The cat takes the mouse <br/>The cat takes the mouse<br/>Heigh-ho, the derry-o . . .<br/>The farmer in the dell<br/>The mouse takes the cheese<br/>The mouse takes the cheese<br/>Heigh-ho, the derry-o . . .<br/>The farmer in the dell<br/>The cheese stands alone<br/>The cheese stands alone<br/>Heigh-ho, the derry-o . . .<br/>The farmer in the dell</em></div></div></div>Max Baine picked idly at the scabs which still covered much of his face.  The Sweetrock offices of the Vice President were lavishly appointed, covered with imported velvet and polished hard woods, but no amount of padded cushions or Arabian carpets could take away the heat that still festered beneath the surface of his skin.  His teeth ground, the lyrics still haunting his mind.<br/><br/>In his mind’s eye, he saw the blond man stalking back towards the newly reopened casino, bucket in hand.  The way he’d departed had been eerie, whistling and singing that damn children’s nursery rhyme.  He’d stepped through the doors of the casino, hefted the bucket - and dust filled the air.  It hung, catching light, and for a moment Max’s brow had knitted in confusion.<br/><br/><em>”The cheese stands alone.”</em><br/><br/>The giant blond man’s words had been intoned gravely, and then he’d drawn, and fired.  Max had thrown himself to the side, but the bullet wasn’t meant for him.  It had whizzed through open air - and the spark from the hammer had lit the ghost rock which filled the Casino floor.  Fire had flared through the Casino, burning green and ghostly, howling faces roaring towards Max before searing across his skin.  He’d heard himself screaming, distantly, his face and arm ablaze, and from the floor of the casino he’d seen those black boots turn on their heels.  A handkerchief had been casually dropped in the entryway, and the devil had moseyed along while the town burst into panic.  It had been minutes later that he’d been dragged from the smoking wreck of a building, powerful arms lifting him from the floor.  He’d spent days in bandages, praying for his heart to stop, for the opium to once again work its magic through his body and give him a few seconds reprieve from pain.<br/><br/>The scars were livid and hideous.  Max Baine had never been a vain man, but women had never turned their heads at the sight of him.  The expensive suit hung around his thinning frame.  It was hard to eat.  Not painful.  But between a diet of whiskey and laudanum he had no appetite.  He forced himself to eat, forced himself to drink, but took no pleasure in either.  He would take no pleasure in the company of a woman again, either.<br/><br/>But the pain and the scarring and the time to reflect had given him… clarity.  He looked up to the stunted, weasely man ironically titled ‘Big Jake.’  Big Jake was like the new hire - Walter.  A man who enjoyed violence for its own sake, a man who liked to see people bleed and die.  But while he enjoyed it, he had a … timidity that didn’t suit Max Baine.<br/><br/>It grated at Max, actually.  Timidity had brought about his ruin.  Willingness to toe the line when his own interests were not being served.  He was the vice-president of Sweetrock’s operations.  Playing bartender - no matter how valuable the information he might acquire - was far beneath him.  His time to think, his newfound clarity had made it perfectly clear that Findley had begun to see Max as the heir apparent.  It was Max’s cunning that had arranged the death of J.P. Coleman, Max’s cunning that had secured the arrangement with the Greater Rockies, ensuring that Sweetrock saw coins from every ounce of ghostrock that passed through Gomorra.  It was Max’s cunning that had delivered their mines and their stake in Gomorra to Sweetrock in the first place - but it had been Findley’s pocketbook that had financed it all.  Max had made certain Walters was declared insane - and Max had been at the silent auction while Findley corresponded from the safety of his office in Pittsburgh.<br/><br/>There were rumors.  Telegrams.  The possibility that Findley might be recalled to Philadelphia.  Findley would never go - but that meant Sweetrock’s faith in him was waning.  Waning, even as Max’s ability to act had been curtailed by his burns, by his injuries.  Now he would be stuck, at best, behind a desk.  Findley had no need of a paper pusher.  An accountant.  It was the time to act.<br/><br/>He realized he was still staring at Big Jake, the man squirming under his gaze.<br/><br/>“Go see Walter in.  Then take Scooter and go enjoy a night at the Perch,” offered Max.  He reached over to his desk, drawing out double eagles from a drawer and tossing them across the table to Big Jake.  Big Jake gave a wide grin, eager to be gone from his master’s disturbing presence and off for a night of revelry.<br/><br/>He rose - the simple action was painful, making the burns hidden by the expensive suit grind against the softest fabrics money could buy.  His jaw clenched at the effort to simply lift his hand, and clasp it around a bottle of bourbon.   His unmarred hand retrieved the lighter glasses, bringing a pair of gold rimmed glasses down to set next to the bottle.  His hand - nearly skeletal, with the loss of flesh and skin - carefully uncapped the bottle.  Every tiny motion was an exquisite kind of agony, and he tipped the bottle slowly, pouring out the superlatively expensive contents until the bourbon had risen to the golden rim that ornamented the glasses.<br/><br/>He heard footsteps at the door.<br/><br/>“Mr. Sinnett,” he offered, without glancing up.  “I understand you have an appreciation for bourbon.”<br/>