<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Walter Sinnett<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 4th, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Early evening<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Scared Stiff Saloon and Casino Morongo<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Open<br/><hr/><strong>“I told you not to bring the damn thing in here!”<br/><br/>“And I told you to bloody shut your trap Ethan or I'd shut it for you.”</strong><br/><br/>The Scared Stiff Saloon was not a place many tended to frequent through choice. Even for a town with as rough-and-tumble a reputation as Gomorra, it was noted as the place where even the rough-and-tumble sometimes feared to tread. The décor... if it could even be called that... was little more than what bits and pieces the proprietor, Ethan, had been able to scrounge together from scrap piles and the like... and considering that few people ever threw out anything that was still in one piece you can imagine what the state of it was. The tables were rickety, the chairs normally had at least one leg missing, the bar counter itself was little more than a plank of wood placed on two slats. One could probably find a more salubrious location to quench one's thirst if one simply grabbed a bottle of whisky and sat drinking in the Flophouse. And it was best not to ask quite what the stains were...<br/><br/>The clientèle of this 'fine' establishment. It took a brave man or woman to wander into 'Stiffys' (as the locals sometimes called it). These were the lowest of the low, those shunned from campfires, refused service in most decent establishments. Ethan himself had a long and ignoble history as a drunk and a bar brawler during his days as a miner before an argument with a rock face led to him losing an arm. There was Billy the Knife, a rat-faced petty thief who as far as Walt knew had never used the knife he claimed her got his name from. Dirk, the bruising wagon driver with the lazy eye and a taste for moonshine so vile it would be rejected as paint stripper. Handsome Taw, a man who was neither handsome nor really called Taw. Scabby Sally, a whore so viscous of tempermant and repulsive of look that she seemed to make most of her coin through scaring young men into paying her to go away. Apache Matt... well, his name was at least 'Matt' but no-one knew why he had decided to take on the 'Apache' moniker. And for the last few weeks, one Walter Sinnett who, in this place had found something at gave him at least some memories of his beloved Nag's Head.<br/><br/>And, for this night at least, Walter's donkey.<br/><br/>Well, we shouldn't really call it “Walter's” donkey. He hadn't bought it and he hadn't even stolen it. The fact of the matter was walking across the plains wasn't the most efficient use of time when he was sent out to give some wilful miner's the evil eye and so his generous employers at the Sweetrock Mining Company sometimes provided him with a means of transport. They'd given him the wagon which he couldn't control and the horses which he couldn't understand and now they'd given him the donkey. Walter liked the donkey, despite it pitching him into the ground. It didn't run off in strange directions or snort and toss it's head. He could appreciate the donkey. He was sure that at some stage he would have to pay for it if he kept it but for now he doubted Sweetrock, even with their army of attentive beancounters would worry too much about him holding onto the donkey for a few more days.<br/><br/><strong>“The thing's a damn donkey Walt... what d'ya think you can bring it in here for?”<br/><br/>“I'll let you know my donkey ain't so bad. It's a damn sight prettier than Sally...”<br/><br/>“Hey!”<br/><br/>“It's got better conversation than that mug Billy”<br/><br/>“What?”<br/><br/>“And it causes less trouble than Matt”<br/><br/>“Huh?”<br/><br/>“What do you mean it causes no trouble Walt? It just shat all over the floor!”<br/><br/>“But Dirk does that all the feckin' time.”</strong><br/><br/>Walt may have managed to offend everyone in the bar but that was barely noteworthy; it was a talent he had. More, it was the sort of place where everyone offended everyone on a nightly basis, only to forget it all in a mist of cheap booze. The donkey, somewhat bemused at the whole turn of events and otherwise happily munching down on some straw that Walter had pulled up from somewhere, actually looked in place among this collection of the dregs of the West. It was certainly the most respectable creature there and probably the one with the most to be proud of about its life. Sally, her offence at being called uglier than a donkey (and in truth that was probably one of the nicest things she'd been called over the last few days) seemingly having passed, gave it a stroke along the back before turning to Walt as he hunched against the bar, a mug of murky liquid that was apparently alcoholic in his hand.<br/><br/><strong>“But why did you bring the Donkey in here Walt?”<br/><br/>“Because I knows you lot and I knows what you'd do. You can't leave nothin' around 'ere that ain't nailed down without one of you damn gonophs nickin' it. And I ain't nailin' down my damn donkey. And you...”<br/></strong><br/>He looked over his shoulder to Apache Matt, a fierce gleam in his eyes<br/><br/><strong>“... if I find my donkey with any 'oles in it I'll be 'avin' a conversation with you.”<br/><br/>“But I didn't say nothin'!”<br/><br/>“But you were thinkin' it weren't you? I told you about that thinkin' malarkey... you ain't no good at it.”</strong><br/><br/>Handsome Taw cut in, his face crunched in concentration.<br/><br/><strong>“Forget the damn donkey. What about this plan of mine?”</strong><br/><br/>Walter appeared to be barely paying attention while the rest all circled round, ready to hear the plan. They may not be smart or organised but they all dreamt of the big score, the one that would get them all the money they would ever need. As was the way with such things they never would but what man could live without dreams?<br/><br/><strong>“So listen. I've been snooping around town a bit.”<br/><br/>“Wanderin' around drunk more like”<br/><br/>“Shut up Ethan! And yeah, since the old sheriff got shot law and order isn't exactly a top line around  here right now. I think if we pull one off no-one's going to be looking for us, not right now at least.<br/><br/>“Pull what off?”<br/><br/>“I'm getting to that Dirk. So, as I said, I'm walking through town and I notice a house.”<br/><br/>“What house?”<br/><br/>“Well it isn't really a house...”<br/><br/>“But you called it a house...”<br/><br/>“Well, it is a house...”<br/><br/>“But you just said it wasn't a house...”<br/><br/>“Shut up Matt! It's a shop but it's also a house. I mean, the ground floor's a shop but then there's a house as well.”<br/><br/>“Which shop, house thing?”<br/><br/>“Agatha Dunwich's place”<br/><br/>“Agatha? What do we know about her?”<br/><br/>“Pretty little thing.”<br/><br/>“Ain't got a man in her life, although that Cuthbert man hangs round with her a bit.”<br/><br/>“He's just a pretty boy. Ain't got no balls to him.”<br/><br/>“Keeps havin' tea with that Mexican woman and the English lady.”<br/><br/>“Makes machines or inventions or something.”<br/><br/>“It's that last part guys. She's got a whole shop there that's going to be full of bits and pieces we can sell for a profit. There's always someone who wants some flashy gubbins whether we know what it does or not. And I'm guessing her stuff isn't cheap meaning she's gotta have a lot of coin hanging around as well. And ghostrock. Those inventors always need ghostrock and we can make a damn killing on that.”<br/><br/>“So what's the plan?”<br/><br/>“Nothing complex. She ain't got a man at home so we just kick in the door, tie her up and ransack the place.”<br/><br/>“Sounds good.”<br/><br/>“Sounds great.”<br/><br/>“Sounds excellent”<br/><br/>“Don't you scum even bloody think of feckin' doing it.”</strong><br/><br/>Walt had stayed silent throughout the “plan” but now he turned and spoke to the group, his baleful eye having the merest glint of red to it.<br/><br/><strong>“It's a bloody stupid plan anyway. First, ain't Agatha a member of that damn group of mad scientists fella's? They ain't gonna take too kindly to you thievin' from one of their own. It's not like you're all completely feckin' inconspicuous is it? Then there's the fact she's a bloody mad scientist and I happen to have some blooming idea what she invents. Guns. Big feckin' guns that  can cut a man apart and shoot quicker than a man can pull the trigger. You think she's just goin' to sit there and let you tie her up? She's gonna have a barking iron in your face before you can blink and at that range it ain't gonna matter if she ain't the greatest shot.”<br/><br/>“So what, you don't think we can do it?”<br/><br/>“No, I don't think you can bloody do it. And if I do hear that you tried to do it I will bloody find anyone of you scum who's left alive and give you a right bloody seein' to, you 'ear me?”<br/><br/>“Why?”<br/><br/>“Cos' she's a proper lady and I'm hopin she's gonna make somethin' for me.”<br/><br/>“Ah, I get it. You're sweet for her ain't you Walt? You want a nice bit of that redhead right?”<br/><br/>“Yeah Walt. You're thinking with your britches!”<br/><br/>“SHUT YOUR FECKIN' MOUTHES!”</strong><br/><br/>Walt roared as he powered to his feet, hurling the mug into the wall, his eye a murderous red, his face twisted into a snarl, his hands balled into fists, his heart pumping, his blood raging. There was murder in the air and the small group were sensible enough to shrink away from it.<br/><br/><strong>“You think I just want to fuck her? You think she'd have a second glance at a person like me? She's a proper feckin' lady and unlike you lunatics I know what I am. I'm scum. I was born in the blooming gutter and the gutter is where I've bloody stayed. Proper ladies like her don't look twice at scum like me and don't you insult 'er by thinkin' that she does. And don't you disrespect her. I eve 'ear about you plannin' this job again and I'll make you swallow your own teeth and piss blood for a month. Do you feckin' get it you slags?”<br/></strong><br/>A dull hush fell over the room, the sheer force of Walter's fury quelling any voices that dared raise against him. The red eye fell upon them one by one, the tattered man looming, a figure far larger in spirit than in body. Walter was in a killing mood and each of those here, despite only having known him a short time, knew it. They cowered away, scared of his wrath, terrified for his power. Even the donkey, an otherwise silent observor, hee-hawed and then defecated loudly.<br/><br/><strong>“Su... su... sure Walt. We'll leave Agatha alone.”<br/><br/>“You better had you feckin' scum. You know what, feck the lot of ya. What is this piss you're serving me? Boiled potato water?”<br/><br/>“But that's how you make alcohol Walt.”<br/><br/>“You're meant to do more than just boil the potatoes and serve the feckin' water Ethan. I want to go somewhere where there's actually a chance the drink has some bloody alcohol in it and a place where the whores don't look like a herd for bloody cows ran over it.”<br/><br/>“Hey!”<br/><br/>“Oh feck off Sally. When was the last time you got a feckin' punt who wasn't blind or blind drunk.”<br/><br/>“So where you heading to? The Den”<br/><br/>“The feckin' Den Billy? Where the goddamn judy's are so bloody strung out that they can't even blooming tell you're there? Feck that. I'm going to spend some coin on some actual bloody whisky and maybe a whore who'll act like she actually likes me. And don't you even think about doing anything to my bloody donkey!”</strong><br/><br/>And with that the tattered man strode from Stiffy's, virtually booting the cracked door off the hinges  and made his way to the more affluent northern part of town. More than one person had a long look at the man in the ragged suit as he walked the streets but a single look of that eye, still with a hint of red to it, sent them scurrying on their way. It was not a long walk to the Casino Morongo and soon Walter found himself settled at the bar, glass of whisky in hand. It may cost a pretty penny but compared to the bilge he had been consuming it was like milk from the Virgin Mary's own sweet tits. The depth of flavour and the complexities held with in almost demanded it be savoured. That didn't stop Walter drinking three in quick succession. A good start to the night.<br/><br/>Who knew where it would end...