<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, Agatha, Open.<br/><hr/><hr/><strong>“Yeah, he seemed like a right bloody wanker to me to. Feck ‘im… I see that bastard again I’ll give him a right piece of my bloody mind.”<br/></strong><br/>Walter didn’t know exactly what had caused the old bint’s distress, but he could hazard a good guess. There weren’t many truly independent businesses around in the world for a reason and that reason was that everyone wanted a piece. This bloody horse house was on one of the relatively few wide and open parts of the Great Maze where there weren’t a bloody feckin’ crevice for you to suddenly tumble down. That meant it was a worth a penny or two. You only had to look at what Walter was doin’ for Sweetrock to see that everyone was gettin’ in on the act. Maybe the bastard had been from one of the railroads. They also wanted the flat land for their soddin’ tracks. Bugger didn’t look Chinese though… maybe some other group of cunts who wanted to bend Gomorra over and fuck ‘em.<br/><br/>Walter knew how it worked you see. He’d done pretty much that exact job himself. Some guy runs a businesses… could be a family firm, could be he’d bought it, could be he’d stolen it, it didn’t bloody matter. But that business was located in a slumlord’s territory and that meant Walter was sent off to “negotiate” for it. If the slumlord liked it then they’d keep it for themselves, if they didn’t like it then they’d just get a bit of the action… “protection” they called it, ‘cos if you didn’t pay the money then there was nothin’ protectin’ you from Walter. And Walter could be a very aggressive bloody negotiator. And in this case “bloody” wasn’t just a bit of slang to add emphasis… it was actually true. First off Walter would ask for what he wanted. If you said yes, no harm, no foul, on you go with your day. If you said no, Walter broke a bone. Then asked again. Say no again and another bone got broken. Repeat as necessary… and if Walter got bored of breakin’ bones he could get a bit bloody inventive. And let’s say you had the sort of courage tales are made of, the sort of moral fortitude that even the great feckin’ heroes would aspire to and you resisted even after havin’ your bones broken, your teeth smashed out with a hammer, your fingers and toes chopped off, your eyes and nose sliced away, your eyes put out and some rather important bits severed with a rusty hacksaw then Walter would simply ease your sufferin’ by slittin’ your throat, dump your body in the Thames, sit in the house till some more goons arrived and Bob’s your uncle, the place was yours.<br/><br/>But Walter was smart enough to know that he weren’t the only type of bastard sent to places like this (well, not like this… who the feck would have a horse farm in central bloody London to begin with… but you get what I mean) and slumlords weren’t the only sods interested. Sometimes men came with sharp suits and arrogant smiles. Walter knew to avoid them. Often they called  ‘emselves lawyers. Somnetimes they even were lawyers. And they might not have broken bones ‘emselves but they could break a man just as well with little bits of paper sayin’ little words that meant a big deal, at least to the soddin’ magistrate.<br/><br/>Walter suspected that if he were right the man was more of the second than the bloody first.<br/><br/>But he might be wrong you know. It could be that the man wasn’t tryin’ to get a piece of this places’ action. Maybe he was a simple liar and thief tryin’ to claim a reward for somethin’ he’d “found” which belonged to the old bint. Maybe the whole thing was a bloody front and as it turned out the old bint was usin’ the horse farm as a front for a smugglin’ operation or some such and the bastard was from the government (which government was an entirely different and far more loaded question) and was tryin’ to get a piece of the action. Maybe it could be a whole host of things. Hell, maybe the man was was from the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty by Horses and he was ‘ere to shut this bloody place down. Walter grinned. Then he remembered that the bastard had been ridin’ a horse. No such soddin’ luck.<br/><br/>Anyway, Walter didn’t really have time to think about that any more or even ask a question, cos for a crone that bloody women didn’t half leave when she wanted to. Walter didn’t meet that many old women… his lifestyle wasn’t exactly conducive to meetin’ grannies  and if he did it was generally only because some other rotter wasn’t doin’ what he should and the Tattered Man needed to exert some pressure. But when he did meet some wizened old creature (and he weren’t talkin’ about his donkey there) it seemed that all they did was natter on. And on. And on. And on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on. Endless small talk about absolutely nothing that anyone other than the feckin’ crone herself cared about. And tea. They always wanted to give you some bloody tea. I mean, Walter liked tea, he liked it almost as much as he liked beer and whiskey but come on? You couldn’t spend every moment of the bloody day drinkin’tea. Yet for these old dears the teapot never ran dry. Not this woman though. She’d asked Walter if he wanted a horse, he’s said no and she’d fecked right off as soon as she realised she weren’t gonna make any bloody money out of him. Walter sort of liked that. If a man had done it Walter might have punched him in the face for the disrespect but this old bird weren’t a man and so he sort of didn’t mind. Perhaps Walter was an accidental gentleman.<br/><br/>Anyway, the older ladies departure meant he could concentrate on the other one. One looked like she was made out of wood, the other one gave him wood and he couldn’t help a slight leer from appearing on his face as his eyes ran over her curves again. Although the leer lasted all of about two seconds before she opened her mouth and Walter’s own expression crossed over to something of a cross between bewilderment, shock and despair.<br/><br/><strong>“Jesus bloody Christ, do you feckin’ colonials not speak bloody English or what? That bird don’t know what shag means, you doesn’t know what feck means. Seriously, why don’t you speak no proper English like what I does? </strong><br/><br/>Walter shook his head dismissively and let out a big sigh.<br/><br/><strong>"To feck, to shag, to bonk, to bone, to boink, to bump uglies, to make the two backed bloody beast, to bof, to bang, to boing, to do the deed, to flop the hay, to get it on, to hammer, to hit it, to smash it, to knock boots, to mount, to do the naughty, to test the springs, baggin' the bishop, ploughin' that furrow, to do the bedsheet shuffle, to plant your seed, to pork, to pound, to probe, to ram, to ride, to ring 'er bell, to spank the cat, to get busy..."</strong><br/><br/>Walter illustrated the point with a series of rather crude but informative hand gestures involving one hand forming a ring and the other thrusting a series of fingers inside. The effort was unfortunately wasted as by then the pretty bird had turned her back and was wanderin' off. In reelin' off the list of terms... and that was only a small selection of Walter's euphemisms... Walter almost missed her next comment... but only "almost".<br/><br/><strong>"... Oi. <em>He</em> needs food? What about bloody me?"</strong><br/><br/>There was an almost... no screw it, it actually was, not "almost"... a plaintive note to Walter's voice as he spoke, not helped by a preening donkey playfully headbutting him in the side at the mention of gettin' fed. Walter glared back at him, the donkey taking on a look of playful innocence.<br/><br/><strong>"And 'ey, don't you soddin' start either donkey."</strong><br/><br/>Muttering under his breath, Walter started to wander after Letty, although the grumbling was cut short by the mention of alcohol, replaced by a revolting grin and a distinct brightening of the eyes. Few things brought Walter pleasure in his miserable, worthless life. Alcohol was one of them.<br/><br/><strong>“Drink of the devil? Whatever you say love; you weren't exactly reluctant to throw a few down your throat back at Babel's were ya? Aggy that old bird right? So who the feck is George or Jorge or however you soddin' pronounce it?”</strong><br/><br/>Walter's demeanour had notably improved since the mention of alcohol was made, his irritation at his donkey getting' fed before him from a moment ago dismissed without a thought. Tired, dusty and ragged as he was there was still a spring in his step as he came closer to Letty and the now open barn door. Although to be fair his face did somewhat drop when the opening of the portal didn't reveal six kegs of beer, 32 bottles of whiskey and a feast fit for a king but instead showed two goats and some clucking chickens, along with some straw and yet more dust. And if there was one thing Walter didn't need in his life it was more dust. That said, the barn was cool(er) and one of the piles of straw looked particularly comfortable, at least by Walter's lax standards. With all the grace of a drunk hippo, Walter basically collapsed down onto it, startling a chicken nearby which squarked offendedly and waddled off. Walter didn't care. His donkey looked at him disapprovingly before wandering off to have an impromptu staring match with one of the goats.<br/><strong><br/>“Hungry? You're too right woman. I could eat a bloody horse. Best thing for the buggers. Hell, if I wasn't bloody bone tired I'd go chase down one of those soddin' chickens and eat it raw.”</strong><br/><br/>Walter was fairly certain that chickens couldn't understand the human tongue (unlike horses, which he was convinced were spying on him as part of their grand conspiracy) and even if they could, he suspected from the way Letty threw strange bloody words in that the chickens spoke Spanish rather than English. But anyway, the chickens seemed to have sensed the intent behind Walter's words and clucked aggressively at him before swarming towards Letty for protection... or it could be that they were simply used to her feedin' them. Regardless, off they clucked. Walter didn't really have the energy to argue with them. Or the inclination to argue with a bunch of chickens.<br/><br/>In fact, at this moment Walter had the inclination to do very little. One hand reached to his hat and pulled it from his head, placing it next to him before his fingers ran through his short hair. He half-groaned/half-yawned and stretched... before the yawn turned to somewhat of a yelp as his stretching caused him to rest uncomfortably on one of his many implements (for once that's not a euphamism). His hand reached inside his voluminous duster and began to withdraw his tools of the trade, placing them next to the hat beside him. First came he sawn-off shotgun. Then the cavalry sabre he had taken from that unfortunate bastard cavalry officer the beastie had ripped apart. Then his walking stick/club. Then the large and notoriously sharp bowie knife. Then a pair of other knives. And a cosh.And his pipe, now stubbed out so as not to risk a fire. And a harmonica. And a pair of handcuffs... never knew when they might come in handy. Let no-one say that Walter travelled light. Without anything hard and normally pointy or sharp to make him uncomfortable Walter settled back onto the straw with his hands behind his head. The donkey had given up his staring contest with the goat and instead wandered back over to Walter and looked at him quizzically. Walter patted him on the head before looking back up to Letty.<br/><br/><strong>“Yeah, a good feed would set me right up love. A good feed and a good drink would make me right as bloody rain. You know what thought love?”</strong><br/><br/>Walter propped himself up on one elbow, his donkey likewise turning to look at Letty.<br/><br/><strong>“Considerin' we were just talkin' about it, I could really do with a shag. Been at least a day since I got my cock wet and that whore was pretty underwhelmin'. That old bird... Aggie did you say her name was... she looks like the sort who needs a good shaggin'. But well, you look like the sort I'd want to give a good shaggin' to. How much does it cost for a roll in the hay with you?”</strong>