<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Walter Sinnett<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Unknown<br/><strong>Date:</strong>February 3rd, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Evening<br/><strong>Location:</strong>London<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Closed<br/><hr/><br/><strong>“Did you think you could just mug me awff?”</strong><br/><br/>The taproom of the Ale and Crown was normally a bustling place full of noise and chatter. A burning fire kept the cold of the London evening, the roaring of the logs and the sound of the patrons drowning out the harsh patter of the rain outside. The Ale and Crown was not a classy pub but neither was it a dive. The tables were made of solid oak, darkened with age and smoke, the pewter tankards had just a few chips and the dark porter beer was only watered down slightly. It was always busy as hard working men came to slake their first and fill their bellies with hearty roast beef, the smell of it slowly turning in the back wafting out to tempt a hungry drinker (and hide other, less delectable, smells). Stuffed and drunk these men would stagger back to their homes, their pay packet already spent, the prospect of another day of poverty and suffering. And then the next evening that poverty and suffering would drive them to the Ale and Crown's welcoming hearth once again.<br/><br/>All life was reflected in this place. In one corner a sharp was broading, hustling the naïve and the innocent out of their coin. In another a small group of workers were quietly drinking themselves into oblivion. Amongst the masses walked the Judy's, easy smiles painted on their lips, treasures on display, sad, painful eyes pretending to glisten, pretending to offer the promise of joy and satisfaction while their pimps watched with hooded, hawkish eyes, quickly deciding whether a john was one worth keeping or one only fit for robbin' when the dark deed was done. To one side sat two young gentlemen, slightly too well dressed for this place, two young, rich things who wanted a taste of the seedy underworld of London.without diving to its depths. They would be well-looked after. No inn-keeper wanted the hassle of a gentlemen causing him trouble and their coin was both good and plentiful. The prettier of the ladybirds were gathering around them now, those sad, painful eyes lighting up at the prospect of the heavy gold coins. The inn had rooms... small, functional ones for those who simply wished to stay the night, tiny rooms that were little more than a bunk for a working man who wanted to avail himself of a Judy and a single well appointed room, the linen relatively fresh, the mattress somewhat free of stains, for if one of those young nobles wished to stay or wished to take their own pleasure with one of the women of the night. The best for the best, as they say.<br/><br/>Serving maids were wandering too and fro, a platter of meat here, a handful of tankards there, trying to avoid the more lecherous advances of their patrons. Every so often an offended squeak would go up as one left her bottom too near to a grasping hand and on occasion a shrill scream and a rough cheer as one was pulled over a lap and had the forceful attentions of a wastrel's mouth placed on her own. It was a hard job but it paid well and in the great scheme of things it was a better role for a pretty girl without an education then to be a Ladybird. Inn-keepers liked pretty waitresses for they attracted customers and most of those pretty things soon learnt to give as good as they got. The entire place was normally alive with motion and sound and life itself. There were fights of course... there always were... but they generally ended quickly and any which found themselves spiralling out of control soon found themselves subject to the attention of the ruffians Hugh the inn-keeper employed to keep the peace, their loyalty bought with coin, ale and flesh (both cow and female... although the uses were different). And if even they failed then Hugh himself was not a small man and he quite enjoyed laying about him with Bessie, the heavy iron-clad club he kept behind the bar. You may get a split lip from a brawl in the Ale and Crown but that was likely to be about it unless you pushed the limit. Then you'd get a sore head and were likely to wake up naked and alone in a backstreet, bereft of all your possessions and coin.<br/><br/>But it looked like this evening may be a little different.<br/><br/>Walter Sinnett was a known man around London. Some had seen him in the boxing ring, competing under the London Prize Ring rules, the barely enforced code of honour that allowed wrestling grappling, biting and gouging. Others had seen him at work, seen his brutal fists break a man, seen his great, baleful eye descend upon an unfortunate target, heard his voice freeze the blood in someone's veins. Others had just heard stories about the man in the ragged suit and the dark deeds he had done. How he always got his man. How you could run and you could hide but he would find you and do you down regardless. About how he broke heads with the heavy head of his cane and how he broke ribs with the brass knuckles he wore on his fists and how he could do deeds too terrible describe with his long and heavy knife, the edge kept sharp and ready. Others yet had no idea who this mysterious man who had claimed the centre of the taproom was but the hushed tones and fearful glances from their compatriots indicated that there was something about the tattered figure. A sense of imminent violence, of barely controlled fury, of cold, malicious rage, of... however trite the term... evil. That the sight of the man in the ragged suit, his face somewhat gaunt, meant that something bad was about to happen.<br/><br/>The Ale and Crown was not Walter's usual haunt. The sophistication of the place, limited though it was, was far above his usual taste. Rumours said he settled on the Nag's Head, the disreputable tavern on Tooke Street which was famed as being a scoundrel's pub. Rarely was there a night when a body wasn't found dumped outside or where some lurk wasn't devised. It was dark and it was grim and Walter Sinnett had made it his home. And for him to leave its loathsome embrace for the relative beauty of the Ale and Crown meant he was working. And when Walter Sinnett was working a god-fearing man should be minded to keep his head down and hope he had put his affairs in order.<br/><br/>One man in particular seemed to be more affected than any other by Walter's appearance. Sat at the bar within a group, if one was paying attention to him they would see the blood drain from his face and his eyes widen, giving him the appearance of a freshly found corpse. In truth it was probably the only notable thing about him... in every other way he was utterly indistinguishable from any of the other denizens of the place. His face had the dark and swarthy look of a working man... but so did many here. His clothes were rough but functional... but so were most here. He was with a  group of friends... but so were many others. But for all that he had Walter Sinnett's attention and for that the rest of the tap room breathed a sigh of relief.<br/><br/>For the man had got Walter's attention.<br/><br/>The man appeared to be trying to sink into the bar, hoping the wood would open up and claim him, hide him from Walter's gaze. He had no such luck. Those damned eyes surveyed the bar, causing a shudder in each person they fell upon until they fixed on this poor soul. And then Walter approached. Two of Hugh's heavies glanced nervously at each other, at Walter, at Hugh. Both were big men, hulking brutes... or maybe brutish hulks, both bigger than Walter. Each could give a child nightmares with their looks, neither were men you would want to meet in a dark alley late at night, both had broken bones and killed men in hot and cold blood. Neither man was soft, neither man was weak and neither man was given to backing down. Yet both were nervous and both were... though they wouldn't admit it... scared. This was Walter Sinnett. This was death given legs. And not a clean death. Not a quick death. A painful, brutal, demeaning death. He was not a man you went up against. He would get you. Maybe at the time, maybe later but he would get you. You could hit him, punch him, kick him, club him, shank him, shoot him. He would pull himself to his feet and hunt you down. He was a legend in the deepest, darkest pits of the underworld, the man people went to when there was no other choice.<br/><br/>Hugh waved them back. He was not a man easily intimidated. One couldn't run a pub like this and be like that. More than once he'd confronted men with a reputation, more than once he'd seen that reputation shattered and broken down at his feet. But he knew Walter. And he knew what he could do. Inwardly he cursed. Why his pub? Why had this bloody fool done whatever he'd done to get Walter's attention and then come to his pub of all bloody places? There was nothing to it. He could send his men in... but then all he'd get was a bloody brawl in the middle of his tavern and likely some dead bodies lying on the floor. Possibly his own if Walt took it personally. And you never knew if he would. Normally the man was able to separate business and pleasure but if he felt you'd wronged him he was not a merciful man. Rather the opposite in fact. His voice was normally famed for being loud and booming but even that seemed diminished as he slunk behind the bar, leaving the poor victim to his fate.<br/><br/><strong>“Don't want barney Walt.”</strong><br/><br/><strong>“Fen don't you be gettin' my bloody way. This bastard's due a dewsktich.”</strong><br/><br/>Hugh shrank back further as the crowd parted around the unfortunate man, even his own friends circling away. The man was in the room packed full of people but he was utterly alone. Except for Walter. And that was a position no man would wish to find himself in. Few women for that matter, even the ones who had been paid good coin.<br/><strong><br/>“Walter... I...”</strong><br/><br/>Walter didn't even pause in his step as the man's nervous voice rang out. He simply walked up, grabbed him round the throat and slammed him hard against the bar. Walt was not a huge man but he was strong, scarily strong and his grip was like iron.<br/><br/><div class="floatright">(http://www.history.co.uk/shows/pub-dig/pub-gallery/carouselGallery/0/assetPhotos/014/image/victorian-pub-2.jpg)</div><strong>“Are you trying to bloody mug me off Calvin?”<br/><br/>“Walter... you're choking...”<br/><br/>“I can't bloody 'ear you Calvin.”</strong><br/><br/><strong>“You're chokin...”<br/><br/>“I should choke the bloody life from you, you bloody runt”</strong><br/><br/>One of Calvin's friends was either braver or dumber than the rest. No-one quite knew what his intentions were, whether he intended to attack Walter or to be the voice of reason, to give an eminently sensible suggestion about how this dispute could be resolved. What they did know was that as he stepped forward Walt turned his head and stared deep into his eyes.<br/><br/>It's never been explained why one of Walt's eyes sometimes appeared to turn red. It was not the red of the Chinese poppy or a man who had got smoke in his eye. It was more sinister than that, darker, deeper, more powerful. The medically inclined suggested it was the result of a blow to the head he had taken, something having changed inside him. The more spiritually inclined suggested that it was a gift from God, a way for the innocent and the naïve to know that death stalked the land and his name was Walter Sinnett, a way to know that violence was imminent. What everyone did know was that to catch the red eye was to feel your strength drain away from you, to feel fear grow in your belly, to feel your legs start to weaken, to feel your body start to quiver and to feel your bladder and bowels twitch and want to open. More than one mark had pissed themselves, their urine staining their britches at the very sight of the red eye. This poor fool was made of something strong then that but he still froze in place as Walter eyed him, whatever his intentions were fading away as Walter raised the cane in his fee hand, the tip touching the bottom of the interloper's jaw. The cane wasn't as infamous as his knuckle dusters or his knife but people still knew of it. Thick and strong it had a heavy head. In truth that was why Walter carried it... less of a cane, more of a club. After all, while his knives and knuckledusters may be confiscated, who would take a cane off someone?<br/><br/><strong>“Sit your florin arse down before I make shillings.”</strong><br/><br/>The poor man did what he was told. He didn't really have any option. Leaving Calvin alone with Walter once more while a whole taproom looked on. Walter finally released his grip on Calvin's throat, hurling the man to the ground where he gasped and whined for air, hands clutching at his throat as he desperately tried to get his breath back.<br/><br/><strong>“Do I look like a feckin mug t'ya Calvin? Do you fink I'm a bloody mug?”<br/><br/>“No Walter I...”</strong><br/><br/>The man was virtually crying now. He knew what was coming. Maybe not the specifics but the general tone. Walt was angry. You did not want to deal with Walt when he was angry. Especially when you were the cause of said anger. Walter kicked him hard in the stomach, digging his boot into Calvin's ribs.<br/><br/><strong>“Don't you backchat to me, you scum. You need to pay your bloody debts...”<br/><br/>“I will... I will...”</strong><br/><br/><strong>“Fats what you told Morris last week. And you still aint paid your bloody debt”<br/><br/>“I don't have enough mon...”</strong><br/><br/>Walter kicked him again, eliciting a scream followed by a groan. The entire tap room was silent. Some openly stared, others hid their eyes but everyone was paying attention to a acts of violence being perpetrated. The Judys, ever conniving, we using the opportunity to sidle even closer to the young lordlings, mock looks of horror and fear on their faces, hands covering open mouths, the perfect picture of feminine vulnerability needing a strong (and preferably rich) young man to save them. A couple of dippers were working the scene as well, hands delving into pockets, knapsacks and purses. Walter didn't care.<br/><br/><strong>“Don't have enough money? You got enough chink to come to a fine place like this aint ya? To spend my scurf's chink on beer and whores? You made a bloody choice Calvin. And I'm the feckin' consequences.”</strong><br/><br/>While he was speaking Walter had leaned his cane against the bar and from within the confines of his coat produced two knuckle dusters. Now these were infamous. Solid brass they were splattered with the dried blood of his previous victims. Walter had beaten more than one man to death with them in the past, bones breaking under his assault, organs failing, blood seeping, skulls cracking. Walter's fists were hard and powerful enough on their own, the knuckles scarred from constant use, nerve endings deaden from blow after blow. To add a layer of solid brass to that was to turn them into lethal weapons. Calvin was holding his ribs and sobbing, unable to even crawl away from the monster that confronted him.<br/><br/><strong>“You see Calvin, I don't like feckless wankers who try ta mug me off.”</strong><br/><br/>Walter grabbed Calvin by his shirt collar, hauling him to his feet. Still holding him up by the neck he sunk a punch into his ribs, the sort of shot Tom Cribb would have been proud of. Of course, Tom Cribb boxed bareknuckle. He didn't have the advantage of having his hands sheathed in brass. Across the silent room the sound of Calvin's ribs breaking was audible, a slight gasp rising up. Calvin himself screamed from the pain, the only thing keeping him on his feet Walter's grip as he doubled over his hands clutching his gut. He was almost incoherent now, screaming and crying from the pain. Walter didn't care. He pulled him upright again and hit him in the jaw, feeling it shatter with the blow, a jolt running up his arm telling him the shot was good, letting go with his other hand as his victim tumbled to the floor. Walter was starting to enjoy himself now. He hadn't been in a good fight in days. This wasn't a good fight. It wasn't even a fight. But he was at least getting to punch someone. He took a savage enjoyment from that, from feeling his physical power overwhelm someone. It was as close as he got to joy. Calvin wasn't enjoying it. Not at all. Calvin was spitting blood now, barely conscious, his broken jaw hanging lopsided on his face. There were more gasps and shouts from the patrons but still none dared intervene. If any had doubts about Walter's wrath when he first arrived then this short display had removed those.<br/><br/><strong>“It's the damn whores ain't it Calvin? You been spendin' all my scurf's shillings on the ladybirds. Cos you like to get fucked don't you Calvin? And you're proper fucked now.”</strong><br/><br/>He lifted Calvin again, this time slamming him onto the bar, mugs and tankards flying. He pinned Calvin down with a single hand to the chest, making sure he couldn't move or roll off the bar and with the other drew his knife. “Knife” was perhaps an understatement. It was almost a short sword, a Bowie knife in the Sheffield style, 10 inches of steel, sharpened on both sides yet with a lethal point, heavy enough to slash and parry with yet sharp enough to pierce. It was a lethal weapon and experience had made Walt a master with it. Not that he would need to be a master if he decided to gut Calvin now. It would be little more than butchering a hog.<br/><br/>But Walt had something less final in mind. Dead men tell no stories but they also pay no debts. And Walt had been told to teach Calvin a lesson. A harsh lesson but a lesson none the less. Make an example of him but leave him alive. It was Calvin's lucky day.<br/><br/><strong>“The way I see it Calvin, only two things could 'ave 'appened here. The first is that you decided that my scurf weren't worth payin' back and that I was a feckin' mug and you could bloody mug me off. Now that would be damn stupid and you ain't a stupid man. So it got to be the other thing. You just need to get your prick wet don't ya? You got too much feckin' spunk in your balls so you spend all your money on Judys and then you try spreading the broads to get more money. And you're a shit card player so you lose money and you borrow off my scurf and then you spend all that on whores. So you can't pay 'im back and I 'ave to come round here and sort you out. All cos you got too much spunk in your balls.”</strong><br/><br/>The knife flicked out, a light, almost dainty stroke, incongruous compared to the brutal man who held the knife. Yet the effect was instant. Calvin screamed, a high pitch scream, a soul destroying scream, a heart wrenching scream. He screamed on and on, higher and higher, always rising until there was no breath left in his lungs. His hands dropped to his groin and he screamed again, tears streaming from his eyes.<br/><br/><strong>“So now you only got one ball,, so you only got half as much spunk to give to the whores right? So you can get me the blooming money! Or I come back and take the rest.</strong>”<br/><br/>The screams had descended to a wailing keen, piteous sobs that racked Calvin's entire body. He had been broken, physically and mentally. Literally half-a-man. All because he had the ill-fortune to draw Walter Sinnett's ire. In truth that's not really fair. Walter didn't give a toss about him. He was just another face, just another job. He'd have likely forgotten poor Calvin by the morning, lost in a haze of whisky and wine as Walter went back to the sewer he once crawled from, the tattered king of the Nag's Head.<br/><br/>Well, went back eventually.<br/><br/>Because he had one more job to do this night.<br/><br/>A certain posh bastard called Byron Horatio who wouldn't pay his debts either.<br/><br/><em>I think you hear me knocking<br/><br/>I think I'm coming in.<br/><br/>Something wicked this way comes... </em>