<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>Afternoon<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Mesa outside Town<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Agatha, Open<br/><hr/><br/>It wasn't a particularly unusual reaction for Walter to arrive somewhere and immediately have a gun shoved in his face.<br/><br/>He was a man who's line of work generally involved approaching people and either intimidating the hell out of them until their bladders and bowels loosened or laying his fist upon them until they bled all over the floor. And that was only the nine-to-five stuff. Murder, torture, kidnapping; they weren't daily occurrences but they happened often enough that they weren't particularly special. Walt was what he was; a killer, a ruffian, a scoundrel, a villain. If you were unfortunate enough to attract Walt's professional attention then sticking a gun in his face was probably one of the few sensible decisions you had made. The even more sensible one would be to then pull the trigger until you ran out of bullets... and then reload and empty it into his head just to make sure.<br/><br/>Even when Walt wasn't around out and about doing his business he still knew what he looked like. Perhaps if God had blessed Walt by making him be born in some affluent household with a decent and proper family he'd have turned out looking a bit respectable. But God hadn't. He'd had Walt been born in a whorehouse into abject poverty and misery. They say you can tell a lot about a person by looking into their eyes but you didn't need to look beyond Walt's face, resplendant as it was with scars and crooked teeth, a nose that had been broken one too many times and rarely set in anything even resembling the correct manner to see that this was a man who had lived a hard life. And his whole “begger king” look... Walt wouldn't have ever thought to call it a “fashion sense”... wasn't exactly respectable either despite the fact he wore a suit. In truth that in some ways made it worse, almost a sneering mockery of respectability. If Walter was a respectable person and saw himself then he'd stick a gun in his own face. It was almost an amusing thought. What would Walter do if he met himself? There'd be blood. Walt was pretty certain on that.<br/><br/>So, suffice to say Walt was used to having guns stuck in his face.<br/><br/>Not that he particularly liked it though.<br/><br/>The girl was wearing goggles. Walter didn't really like that. I mean, they did say you can tell a lot about a person from their eyes and beyond all that “look deep into their soul” bollocks there were far more useful practical benefits. That sudden narrowing that came before action. The slight widening as fear set in. Watch them flicker as the person took in aspects of your appearance. Work out what they're looking at. All those little things that were the difference between gettin' a belly full of lead and gettin' to walk away unharmed. At least her voice was calm and polite. He liked that. Liked it far more than a scared voice. A scared voice meant the person may do something hasty like pull the trigger. A calm person was more likely to ponder on the matter. Walt's the face already looked like a woodpecker had decided to nest in it, it certainly wouldn't be improved by having it get shot off. But there was something else in the voice.<br/><br/>Feckin' Irish.<br/><br/>There was no particular reason for Walt to dislike the micks. Sure he'd brawled and fought with a few in his time and the slums of London were full of Irish who had left the homeland in search of riches and fortune only to find Walter and his brass knuckles but if those were the only reasons for dislike then Walter would dislike everyone. Well, he sort of did dislike everyone, but that's not the point. Perhaps it was simply burned into his psyche from an early age, a part of his national conscious, Walter a mere prisoner of fate, bound by history he could not change and did not understand to dislike the Irish. Bollocks to it. He just didn't like the Irish. But it was only a dislike. Walt went through his day disliking everyone he met. He didn't even like himself that much. He could deal with mere dislike. His own tone as he spoke was equally, polite... well as polite as Walt could be... and somewhat light-hearted.<br/><br/><strong>“But let me guess... you'll happily give the bullets in that there shooter for free right?”</strong><br/><br/>He smiled, although it must be said with his teeth being the state they were it was hardly the most pleasant or welcoming of sights. The gun she currently held out was large and likely heavy and she didn't look to be the strongest of lasses. He imagined that under her clothes her muscles were starting to tense and tremble a bit. Not that he was imagining what was under her clothes. Well, not much. Anyway, the end result was that she wasn't going to be able to keep that gun aloft indefinitely. Meaning she either had to lower it or shoot him. He hoped it was the first. His free hand reach up to tip his hat to her, a slow, deliberate movement.<br/><strong><br/>“The name's Walter mam. Walter Sinnett. And this 'ere...”</strong><br/><br/>His hand came across to tape his donkey on the head, rubbing it gently back and forth, the dokey giving a small, contented sound.<br/><br/><strong>“... this is my donkey. You'll 'ave to excuse my appearance.”</strong><br/><br/>The hand came back, this time brushing some of the dust that had appeared on his duster away.<br/><br/><strong>“We was just 'avin a little ride out 'ere when I'm guessin' you let off that barker you got pointed at me. He may not look it, but my donkey is a bit of a high-strung fella, ain't you donkey?”</strong><br/><br/>The donkey seemingly replied with a “hee-haw” although it could just have been that he was due a carrot by now.<br/><br/><strong>“Gave him a right fright it did. So he decided to go for a little wander and I decided to fall off his back and land up in the ol' dirt. Not that I'm blaming you love. Just explainin' why I aint lookin' my prettiest if you get my meanin'.”</strong><br/><br/>The donkey hee-hawed again, although once more it was unclear whether it was the thought of Walter ever being pretty or the lack of carrots that caused him to make the sound. Walt glanced to the wrecked tree stump and back to Agatha.<br/><strong><br/>“Now, I ain't much one for barkers myself but I seen a few in my time and I can't say I seen one like that before. Certainly ain't heard one like that. Gave me a bit of a bloody fright I tell ya, though not as bad as it scared poor donkey over 'ere. He's still terrified he is.”</strong><br/><br/>The donkey looked more content to slap at flies with his tail rather than “scared” but I guess it's hard to tell with donkeys.<br/><strong><br/>“And that there is one tree stump that ain't gonna be botherin' anyone ever again. Made a right blooming mess of it you did. You make the shooter yourself?”</strong><br/><br/>And Walter was beginning to see the start of a plan. Not a good plan. Not a great plan. Not one he could put into place quickly. But a plan none-the-less, an ambition, a hope, a prayer. a