<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 13th, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Afternoon<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Walkin' into the Gates Ranch<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Letty, Open.<br/><hr/><hr/>Horses.<br/><br/>Why did it bloody have to be bloody horses?<br/><br/>Walter soddin' hated soddin' horses. Bastard things with their bastard mouths and bastard hoofs and bastard long faces and bastard eyes and bastard noses and bastard tails and bastard ears. They trotted around all bastard day and the bastards never did what you bastard told them to bastard do. You wanted to go one bloody way they went the bloody other. You wanted them to stay bloody still and they bloody moved. You wanted them to get bloody movin' and they bloody stayed still. You wanted them to bloody trot gently and they bloody bolted for it. You wanted them to bloody sprint and they slowed right bloody down. You wanted to stay on the bloody thing and it bloody threw you bloody off. And even if you could negotiate all of those difficulties and somehow get the bugger to actually take you where you wanted to go or pull whatever it was you wanted soddin' pulled you'd come to the end of your bloody journey with your thighs achin' from bein' stretched out as you sat astride 'em and your arse beaten black and blue by bein' bounched up and bloody down all day.<br/><br/>There was precisely one situation where Walter liked horses. When they were chopped up, boiled, had a few stringy onions, even more disreputable carrots and if you were really lucky maybe a turnip or two thrown in the pot, left for about six hours and then poured out over bread so hard you'd break your teeth on it, served with a warm, dark bear which was even thicker than the stew. Walter could get behind that... not just because it was tasty, filling and as close as he ever came to nutritious but also because it meant there was one less bastard horse in the bastard world. Some things were for eating and despite the fact that he was seemingly alone in his view, Walter firmly believed that the only good horse was a cooked horse.<br/><br/>Some people tried to suggest that the evident dislike horses showed toward Walter was nothing more than a reaction to them sensing the dislike he held for them. But which came first, the chicken or the feckin' egg? Walter had to have picked up his dislike for horses somewhere right? And if Wa;ter had a penny to gamble (he didn't), he'd have put it on some scheming, malicious, vindictive, sadistic bloody horse havin' done something to him when he was a bloody kid. But that's Walter's view. Nature or nurture? Because the truth was Walter didn't exactly like bloody anyone or anything (excludin' whiskey and his donkey of course) and while he always had a reason why he didn't like the bastards, sometimes you just had to take a look at the bigger picture. Maybe those bloody horses were like Walter's donkey and were smarter than they looked. Maybe the reason they gave Walter the evil eye and bared their vicious teeth and stamped their lethal hooves and waggled their... well, even Walter couldn't really think of anything nasty to say about their bloody tails... was because they realised that about Walter. But whatever the reason, Walter hated horses and they hated him. Once upon a pint in a dark and dreary English pub, the one respite from the joy of the English summer (read: it was raining), Walter had heard a story from some bugger who was too smart for his own good how some buggers called the Hyskos or somethin' had invaded Egypt and wiped the bloody place out, largely because the Hyskos had some bloody horses with them and the Egyptians had thought they were bloody man-eatin' demons or some such bollocks. Walter had a lot of sympathy for the Egyptians. Now, of course, those bloody sand eaters had eventually decided that horses were actually beasts of burden... but look how that worked out for them? You didn't see a bloody Egyptian empire around these days do you? The horses had done it again. They might fool everyone else, but they weren't foolin' Walter.<br/><br/>Bastards.<br/><br/>You remember how Walter wasn't in a good mood right? About the dust and the heat and all that crap? Well, Walter's not exactly pleasant demeanor had been struggling through that... and it certainly wasn't bloody helped by the fact that as he walked his tired legs and less tired donkey towards the house that was meant to be salvation (or at least a brief respite) he saw horses. And not in the “there's a big party ridin' towards you, duck behind cover and grab your shotgun” sense. That was alright. Sure, there was the risk of death... but at least you could shoot some bloody horses. No, these buggers were just sort of standin' there like they owned the place. Jesus, this was where horses<em>lived</em>. The house of horses. The edifice of equines. And in Walter Sinnett's not exactly sensible mind, pretty much hell on bloody earth. Behind a police station a place where horses lived was pretty much the worst place he could imagine being. But... and he threw a resentful glance over his shoulder and then coughed as they more dust made its way into his dry mouth... it was also a place likely to have something to drink. Which means Walter would have to brave the horses.<br/><br/>Bastards.<br/><br/>It was outside Walter's area of expertise... and for once he hadn't heard anyone talk about it down a boozer... but several cultures have myths and legends about creatures and demons from the desert, beasts which were half-man, half-animal and cloaked in sand which would rise up to attack unsuspecting travellers. Malicious spirits of the sand, as horrifying of visage as they were deadly. And to be honest, if one were to catch Walter out of the corner of their eye as he staggered his way into the clutch of buildings that formed the centre of this ranch, one couldn't be blamed if they thought he was exactly that. The man riding away from the place on his own bloody horse seemed to think so... the gentle trot breaking into something resembling a gallop as he passed Walter. The Tattered Man considered giving him a two barrel goodbye... especially when the gallop kicked yet more dust in Walter's face... but frankly he couldn't be bothered. And it wasn't like a bit more dust made any bloody difference... Walter seemingly already had half the Great Maze on or in him. So instead he simply continued to walk until he got right into the heart of the little collection of buildings. Which, from his limited view, appeared to be deserted but for the cluckin' of some bloody chickens.<br/><br/><strong>“OI! Who do I have to shag to get a drink around 'ere?”</strong><br/><br/>Never accuse Walter of bein' subtle.