<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Walter Sinnett (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9812108#msg9812108)<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 11th, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Early evening<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Some posh private office in the Sweetrock complex that Walter would never normally expect to be allowed in.<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Mister Baine, Closed.<br/><hr/><strong>”Show up anyway boss. Make the bastards look at 'ya. Feck it, use it. So 'em what feckin' willpower is. Those ponces will shit themselves if you start forcin' things on them. They ain't goin' to want to bloody argue with you are they? Bastard's will give you what you bloody want just so they don't have to talk to you.”</strong><br/><br/>Walter may not have put it as diplomatically as others could but he was makin' what seemed to him to be a good point. The Tattered Man had lived a hard life, a tough life, a bloody life. He'd seen things that would turn the stomach and done things that would blacken the soul. And even he was feelin' a little uncomfortable lookin' at Mr Baine. Burns. Everyone hated bloody burns. You stick the feckin' business council in front of Mr Baine and those soft as warm shite suits would piss down their expensive trousers. Good ol' fashioned intimidation. Walter understood that. You could use that. And with what Mr Baines had in mind, it may be that they had to.<br/><br/>You know, Walter wasn't as dumb as he (and I) sometimes made out. He understood Mr Baines' point. He understood it well. He appreciated the fact that any time people organised together they became just another gang, whatever the bloody hell the buggers tried to call it, and that a lot of the principles were the same. And he understood the fact that he hadn't been brought to this office and given this expensive whiskey because of his ability with hostile takeovers but because he could take over hostilely. But the major feckin' point remained; why the bloody hell bother to call him a vice-president? Why the palaver? Walter didn't need the respect a title brought. He didn't need respect. He needed fear and when he needed that he found someone who needed punchin' and punched 'em until the fear came. Give him the money and give him the tasks but you could keep your bloody fancy title. It didn't mean anything. And if it did mean something then it wasn't appropriate for Walter feckin' Sinnett.<br/><br/>Walter didn't say that though. No need to pick an argument with the boss. Not about technical details. If Mr Baines wanted Walter to be called “vice-president” then so be it. Didn't really make any sodding difference to Walter. Call him vice president, call him president of vice, call him head of security, call him a consultant in the special operations department, call him an enforcer, call him Sweetrock's bloody left hand, call him Dorothy, Walter didn't give a toss. Well, he may give a toss if you called him Dorothy but the others? The others were fine. Just show him the money and point him in the direction of what you want crushed.<br/><br/>He took a sip at his refilled whiskey, noting Mr Baine's point about burning mines. Walter understood that concept as well. Some posh bastard had called it “scorched world” or some bollocks like that. He'd heard some drunken fool who fell in love with a whore say somethin' similar as well... that if he couldn't have her no-one could. He'd been right, although it would have been more accurate the phrase it the other way. If no-one could have her than he couldn't have anything. You couldn't have people gettin' away with damaging property could you? He had stabbed the whore and then Walter had been sent to stab him. This was sort of the same right? You can pay us many a pretty penny so you get even more pretty pennies or we'll burn down the world.<br/><br/>The last part wasn't hyperbole. Walter didn't know what hyperbole was, but this wasn't it.<br/><br/>Walter didn't claim to know a lot about world events, the shifting power of varying economies or the strict workings of supply and demand. But he knew a few things. He knew that the world was being run on ghost rock. He knew the civil war that still bubbled along was driven by it, he knew empires feasted on it, he knew that the whole world needed it. That's why it was so bloody expensive afterall. And he knew that most of the ghostrock in the world was in the Great Maze, only revealed when the land twisted and shattered after that bloody quake that these bastard yanks couldn't shut up about. And he knew that a pretty vast amount of the ghostrock in the Great Maze came from Gomorra. It's why the bloody town existed in the form it did... to exploit that ghostrock. So if Sweetrock did decide to burn their claims then they weren't just costing some railway tycoon some bloody money, they were breaking the world. For what happens to a world addicted to ghostrock when the supply of ghostrock suddenly disappears? Or at least is reduced dramatically? What happens if the Great Maze suddenly stops being the water of life for the new world? What happens when the world goes cold turkey on ghostrock? What happens if it starves? Walter understood that part of supply and demand and he understood it didn't have a nice ending. He thought he could see the light of madness in Mr Baine's eyes. He liked it. It had bollocks. Big, brass bollocks. Another sip of the whiskey.<br/><br/><strong>“Aint' nothin' wrong with my donkey. Does what he's told... most of the time... and does it well... most of the time... and don't complain unless he don't get a carrot and a good rub behind the ears from time to time. If everyone was like my donkey things would be feckin' mint.”</strong><br/><br/>Walter wasn't entirely sure he needed to defend his donkey. Frankly he hadn't entirely followed that part of the conversation but he'd heard his donkey mentioned and his donkey was a good beast, even if Walter did get the feelin' it was hidin' something and laughin' behind his back. Smart creatures donkeys. Too smart. No-one ever suspected the donkeys.<br/><br/>The seemingly new member of Sweetrock's management and the man easily the least likely to win “employee of the month” took Mr Baines' handshake, although he was careful not to exert his usual grip. No use crushing the hand the feeds you. Especially not the burnt one. Truth be told there wasn't really a “usual” handshake that Walter fell back on. Walter didn't usually shake hands. Shaking hands put you in knifing range, distracted you and opened up the armpit so a man... or woman... could drive a dagger right in. Walter only shook hands with people he trusted and if he trusted them he didn't need to shake hands. Scratch that. Walter didn't trust anyone. But Mr Baine had stuck out his hand and Walter rather suspected that if Mr Baine wanted him dead he wouldn't have bothered to have brought him all the way over here, given him the good whiskey and then made him listen to the speech. He'd have just killed him. So he took Mr Baines' hand and tried not to make Mr Baine scream in agony by clutching it too hard.<br/><br/>Walter followed Mr Baine to the table, starin' with a certain blank incomprehension at the map and the pins but listening intently as they were explained. This weren't exactly what Walter would consider his comfort zone. His comfort zone was someone else lookin' at the feckin' pins and decidin' that one of the bastards needed doin' down before sendin' Walter to do it. Decidin' which pin to give a beatin' to was somethin' for other people, not Walter. Terrorisin' half of London made Walter a stratergist? No, Mr Baine, it made him someone who killed people, often in brutal, public ways. Ways that kept children up at night. Ways that meant people thanked God every day they didn't have to interact with him. It didn't make Walter a stratergist, it made him a monster. He was the bogeyman, the werewolf, the evil spirit. He lingered on the edge of nightmare, a dark legend, the patron saint of bastards, killers and torturers, a ghost story for villains and chancers. He was God's one mistake and his everlasting regret. He was the thing that stalked the shadows, that haunted your footsteps, that struck you down with malevolence and no regret, that slaughtered dreams and defiled innocence. He was a weapon, pointed and fired. He was anger made flesh, pain given form, fear trapped within a ragged suit. Triumph if you could but survive only if he let you. For you shall know him by the trail of the dead.<br/><br/>Again, Walter didn't say any of that. No point in pissin' in his bosses porridge... or grits or whatever the feck it was they bloody called it over here. Instead Walter took a large gulp of whiskey, scrunched up his face in concentration as he tried to answer Mr Baines' conversation. The man was convinced Walter was a strategist after all. What did Walter see...?<br/><br/><strong>“An opportunity.”</strong><br/><br/>A finger that was only slightly dirty rose up to scratch his nose.<br/><br/><strong>“We can't fight 'em. Not all of 'em at not at once. There's too many of the bastards and they got too many feckin' guns and people. And they'd see us comin'. Once we step on one the other bastards are goin' to get antsy and start lookin' to each other. If we could have just fecked 'em right up you'd have bloody done it by now. No, we need to do somethin' else. We need to make sure they never see us comin'. We need them to think everythin' is feckin' pretty when it comes to us and then they wake up one bloody day and realise we own this whole feckin' place.”</strong><br/><br/>The finger dropped to point at the yellow pins.<br/><br/><strong>“The Collegium, they're simple. They don't give a toss about minin'. They only care about ghostrock and they only care about bloody ghostrock because it means they can build their bloody toys. They don't care where it comes from or who gives it to 'em, just that they have it. No point in fightin' em. If they're doin' some of that bloody weird science thing to get 'em goin' then we couldn't keep the bloody mines workin' even if we did take 'em. And their bloody mesa ain't far from here... I don't want them firin' off some feckin' explosive rocket bollocks across the feckin' pond if we piss em' off. Nah, we buy those bastards off. We pay 'em in ghost rock, we give 'em the best deal they've ever seen, we apologise and we bend over and we take it. We feed them ghostrock and let them sit in their bloody workshops and make more and more feckin' toys but we buy the mines and we buy the stuff that makes 'em bloody work. We keep it nice, we keep it honest. We send some of those fancy dan bloody suits you talked about and we get 'em to apologise for us. We talk about how we always appreciated their stuff, how there's been a change in attitude, how we realise we made a mistake. We guaren-bloody-tee it won't happen again, how we'll give 'em more ghostrock than they'll know what to bloody do with. Sure, it will hit profits in the short term but if we're sellin' the bloody lot then that don't matter does it? We buy the Collegium off. No point in pickin' a fight there. Might even get some stuff off them if we keep 'em sweet.”</strong><br/><br/>Over the finger came to the Whateley mines.<br/><br/><strong>“Whateley's are even easier. Those mines ain't all they got is it? They got other earners keepin' their bloody creepy house goin don't they? And hell, aren't there feckin' Whateley's all over the bloody country? It ain't like Gomorroa is all they have. So losin' a few mines ain't the end of the world to them. And we got somethin' they want.”</strong><br/><br/>Walter grinned. Like a shark.<br/><strong><br/>“That mad, feckin' Whateley is in jail right and they're talkin' about hangin' her. I imagine they want her crazy arse back although God knows bloody why. And we've got a bloody relationship with the pigs right... sorry, the law. We want Bilton to do somethin' and we can convince him pretty easy. So let's bloody use it. We tell 'em straight. You want crazy, screamin' Whateley back, you give us the mines and she'll come back just fine. You don't give us the mines and she'll hang. But before she hangs we'll show her off to the world. We'll make a bloody scandal out of it. We'll call down every reporter we can find from across the country and put her on display for 'em. We let her babble and get her every word put down on bloody paper and read on every street corner in the whole bastard country. We humiliate her and we humiliate them. If they don't give us the mines then we'll make the Whateley family a bloody laughin' stock across the world. We'll take all their respect and all their history and piss on it. We'll make 'em look like a bunch of imbred, crazy, cunts and then we'll hang her. Or they can give us the mines. Feck it, we can buy 'em off em to sweeten the pot, make the deal a little less shit. Do that first actually. Offer to buy the mines and if they refuse then we hit 'em with the fact we can make sure one of their bloody own gets her neck stretched. And if that still don't work then there's always that Ginny bird. She walks around Gomorra on her bloody own and she lives in her own place. Wouldn't take much to stick a burlap sack over her head and drag her to a dark corner. Sure, it would piss 'em off but what are they goin' to do? Talk about how bloody rude we are at a creepy tea party? What are a few mines compared to two of their own? Although we'd need to gag Ginny. Woman's got a voice like a pig with its dick cut off.”</strong><br/><br/>Now the mines controlled by Black Jack fell under Walter's gaze.<br/><strong><br/>“Now here's the bastard. Those mines are givin' the cunt ghostrock in exchange for protection? Then we show he can't protect 'em. When miners start turnin' up dead... and not just dead but bloody tortured before dyin'... then those miner's are goin to start wonderin' why the feck they're payin that bastard to keep em safe when he's failin'. We bleed 'em. We cut and we slash and we hurt the bastard. Cos' we're not only takin' the mines for ourself, we're also makin' sure he ain't getting' no more guns and bullets. We scare the miners and scare 'im. Bring the Law Dogs in on that as well... if Black Jack is in the dock for shootin' Coleman than they're goin' to want the bastard caught and raidin' their mines is a good bloody start. Or..."</strong><br/><br/>The grin grew. It still didn't touch his eyes.<br/><br/><strong>“... there's that bloody alliance with the chinks. I don't know what the feck that is all about but people are sayin' it and if he's got a bloody boat that doesn't have chinks attackin' it then it must be a bloody alliance. So we put pressure on it. We take the mines but we leave a few cutlasses around. Maybe I kill a few bloody Rats and we leave the bodies at the mines. We make it look like the Rats are goin' after him, are betrayin' him. Maybe he falls for it and we can watch those bastards shoot each other while we sweep in later. Maybe he don't and he works out its us. So what? He may know that but what about the miners? They hear rumours that the Maze Rats are slaughterin' miners how long are they goin' to listen to Jack tell 'em they ain't? How long before the feck off to the group who can make sure those attacks don't happen? How long till they come to bloody us?”</strong><br/><br/>Over the finger came, now to the red pins.<br/><br/><strong>“The Rats themselves are the bloody issue. Kang ain't goin' to give a toss about buyin' from us if he already controls most of the bloody mines. And if one of the other bloody railways gets there first then he ain't goin' to tuck tail. It'll be open bloody warfare before he gives up. And we don't want to piss him off too much... not too openly. Don't want to run the risk that he thinks it's worth losin' money just to feck us. People tell me he's got a bloody alliance with the Indians. Let's test that. Sure, they hate the white man, but they hate us because we got there first. How are they goin' to react if a feckin' chink railroad gets sickened on 'em? Somehow I think their great nature spirit or whatever the feck it is that they worship is goin' to be too happy if Kang bends it over and rapes it just because his cocks yellow and not white. Can't imagine too many of the Indians are happy at bein' his personal feckin' slaves either, whatever their feckin' chiefs say. So we do the same there that we did to Blackjack. We kill a few redskins and leave a few chink bodies nearby. The Indians are already getting' close to bein' on the warpath against us ain't they? Wouldn't be too hard to direct that anger against anyone who ain't a bloody redskin. Get them to fight our battle.”</strong><br/><br/>The finger moved to the edge of the map and the route to Lost Angels.<br/><br/><strong>“That Grimme fella don't like railroads does he? He hates all that bollocks and he's got a horde of feckin' fanatics with full bellies but empty heads. How about we get word to him of what's goin' on, about how Kang's usin' the Maze Rats to take over mines so he can bring his railroad right next to his bloody holy city? That'll give him some itchy bollocks... and he'd want them washed with blood. We get him and the Indians to fight our battle... maybe even the Jack bastard if he's dumb enough to fall for it. Feck it, perhaps even get the bloody independent union bastards in on the act. Sure, they hate us because we make 'em pay through the bloody nose and kill em if they don't, but at least we give 'em the chance to pay. The Rats don't. They just kill 'em. Better the devil you know right? And while those miners are off tryin' to avenge their fallen brother's against the Rats that leaves their own claims open don't it? Or we simply buy 'em. If the miner's know that the Rats are comin' and that we'll give 'em some money for it, then they'll sell. Maybe not for what they want to, but when the choice is death, they'll bloody sell.”</strong><br/><br/>Now the grin touched the eyes.<br/><br/><strong>“So while they're all shootin' the shit out of each other we move in quick and quiet. They're all at war, we're nice and safe... and strong. We take the mines, we hold the mines, we pump out ghostrock and spend it all on makin' sure we keep 'em and we wait for the first bloody railroad to show up so we can sell 'em Gomorroa on a plate. If Kang gets here first and he's stuck at war with Grimme and the bloody redskins then he'll bite our hand off to get the rest of the mines without a fight. If it's someone else then the Chinese, Indians and bloody crazy preachers will all have shot their load all over each other and will be easy pickin's if you get all the mines. The Collegium are bought off and that only leaves Jack. One band of raiders ain't so bad. We can cut those feckers to pieces. None of them will see us comin'. They all know Mr Findley ain't here right? They know you were runnin' a bar and have just been injured right? They're goin' to think we're weak, that we've given up, that we're happy with what we have. That we're just lookin' to keep what we already have, not lookin' to get any more. They won't think we're a threat. And before they know it we'll have fucked 'em good and proper.”</strong><br/><br/>The finger moved again, running over the pins.<br/><br/>Collegium.<br/><strong><br/>“Buy.”</strong><br/><br/>Whateley.<br/><strong><br/>“Blackmail.”</strong><br/><br/>Black Jack.<br/><strong><br/>“Scare.”</strong><br/><br/>Chinese.<br/><br/><strong>“Trick.”</strong><br/><br/>The finger rose from the map and eyes turned to Mr Baine.<br/><br/><strong>“That's what I see Mr Baine. What do you see?”</strong>