<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/><strong>“Well, it's alright for you ain't it? Stop battin' your eyelashes at the damn goats and get over 'ere.”</strong><br/><br/>As Letty went scurryin' away to gather up Walter's meal, the man in question propped himself back up onto his elbows and raised an eyebrow at his excited donkey. The donkey in question looked at Walter with a look of seeming innocence on its face, blinked twice, looked back at the nearest goat, looked at the feeding trough and then padded over to Walter. A grimy hand reached out to scratch it behind the ears with remarkable tenderness.<br/><br/><strong>“She didn't have to look so bloody happy when I said I weren't gonna feck her, did she?”</strong><br/><br/>There was no denying the way Letty's eyes had lit up when Walter had mentioned that they seemingly weren't going to enjoy coitus in the hay or the huge smile that had appeared on her face. Or the way an elated breath slipped from her body and it seemed like new life had been breathed into her. Walter wasn't used to inserting joy into people's lives but he guessed the fact that he said he wouldn't be inserting anything into Letty was probably as close as he'd come. Unremarkably, people tended to get happier the less they had to do with Walter.<br/><strong><br/>“I ain't that bad lookin' a fella am I?”</strong><br/><br/>The donkey tilted its head quizzically as he took in the dirty face, scars barely hidden by rough stubble, pockmarked skin, rotting teeth, badly broken... and even more badly set... nose and chapped lips. The donkey didn't have to say anything.<br/><br/><strong>“And it ain't like I'm badly dressed either innit? I mean, I'm wearin' a suit.”</strong><br/><br/>The donkey seemed to nod, looking at the ripped suit, badly stained by a days travel through the dusr... and many a day's travel before that. If one paid close attention they would notice a few blood stains that hadn't been washed out but the fact the entire ensemble was so filthy actually somewhat minimised quite how badly worn the ragged thing was. Walter didn't get referred to as the “Tattered Man” because of how good he looked...<br/><br/><strong>“Oi... don't you be getting' self-rightous donkey. You were about to feck a bloody feckin' goat... and a scrawny one at that. Who'd want a feck a goat anyway? You ain't got no bloody standards. It's just she does.”</strong><br/><br/>The donkey reached down to grasp a bit of straw, chewin' on it solemnly. For his part Walter lay back down, pillowing his head in his hands and staring up at the barn ceiling.<br/><br/><strong>“What's bloody wrong with me donkey?”</strong><br/><br/>Walter raised his head, but only enough to take another deep slug of rum.<br/><br/><strong>“Weren't so long ago if I rocked up to a quiet little place like this with only an old bint and a young slag 'ere I'd have stabbed the bint, raped the slag bloody and then stabbed her, robbed the joint, burnt it down and then fecked off. Now look at me... I'm lying down in a soddin' barn waitin' for her to bring me a feed and getting' offended cos' she won't take my money to feck her. I'm going bloody soft donkey. Right bloody soft.”</strong><br/><br/>Absent-mindedly Walter scratched at a dust caked eyebrow but his mind was on other things.<br/><br/><strong>“It ain't the rum talkin'. Rum don't do that. Whiskey? Sure. You drink enough whisky and you get all bloody... what was the word that posh bastard used... madlin? Dawdlin'? Maudking? Feck it, you get bloody sad and you start whinin' about your life and how much of a bugger you are, then you start cryin' and wake up the next day with a sore 'ead. But rum? Rum just wants you to go find some burly sailor boy so he can bugger you and you wake up the next day with a sore 'ead and a sorer arse. Nah, this is somethin' bloody else.”</strong><br/><br/>The donkey spat away the straw and wandered back over to the feeding station, clearly bored by Walter's moments of introspection. That didn't stop Walter goin' on. And on. And on.<br/><br/><strong>“It's this bloody place donkey. Not this place... this place is alright. But the whole bloody fast country. I'm feckin' homesick donkey. I miss London. This place... this whole soddin' Great Maze bollocks. It's too hot, it's too dusty, it's too dry, it's too open. There ain't no pubs, they're all “saloons”, the beer's yellow when it should be brown, the whiskey's sweet when it should be bitter, the food's got a load of spices I don't even bloody know the name of in it. Everyone walks round with bloody spurs and arseless chaps with a bloody leather waistcoat. It don't rain enough, it don't get misty enough and it just ain't right. The bluebottles aren't bluebottles cos' they're not called the police, they don't wear a uniform and if they did it wouldn't be bloody blue. They got guns, not truncheons and those feckin' ridiculous Stetson hats or whatever they're called not the round ones our police wear. Even the gangs aren't the bloody same... here it's all feckin' miners and outlaws with a bloody cause and feckin' Indians and feckin' chinamen. Where are the good-old fashined criminals? The proper criminals, not the bloody cunts down at Stiffies. You can walk around London for hours and not get back where you started, half the “cities” in this place you can do a lap of in the time it takes you to take a piss. Everyone rides a bloody horse, they don't even speak English even though they pretend they do and they all shoot each other rather than stab. Feckin' bastards.”</strong><br/><br/>The donkey stayed entranced by the trough, not paying attention to a word Walter was saying.<br/><strong><br/>“And I miss 'er donkey. I bloody miss 'er.”</strong><br/><br/>At this the donkey did finally shake its head. It was clear he'd heard this all before.<br/><br/><strong>“I've seen 'er once. We said one bloody sentence to each other... she shouted at me for robbin' and I told 'er to feck off. But I can't get her and her bloody swan-neck out of my feckin' mind. It may have been different if I'd run into her after the goddamn bridge fell down and that bastard went in the drink. My blood was up then donkey and if I'd have seen her I'd have given her a good fumble and maybe that would have got it out of my feckin' system but no, I didn't see 'er and I ain't seen 'er and yet every other time I close my soddin' eyes I'm lookin' right at her and the bugger of a swan neck. So what's bloody wrong with me donkey? I've seen pretty girls before... hell, I've even shagged a few before if I had the coin. But none of them did this to me.”</strong><br/><br/>Back up to his elbows Walter went.<br/><br/><strong>“Or maybe this is all cos' I ain't killed no-one or even got in a bloody fight these last couple of days. Used to be I'd be sent out to go rough up some bloody miner who got the wrong idea but now? Now I just wander out in the bloody sand for hours and then wander back. But shouldn't that make me angry donkey? Shouldn't that make me want to start killin' again? Not sat here whinin' to you about my feckin' life? I mean, bloody hell donkey, there's something bloody up here and I don't bloody like it.”</strong><br/><br/>As powerful as Walter's introspection was, there were certain things that could cut through it. And one of them was food. Letty's return was proceeded by wafting aroma of stewed rabbit and to Walter's nose... influenced as it was by hunger... it smelt like heaven in a bowl. He propped himself even further up on his elbows.<br/><br/><strong>“That smells bloody good love... and not just because my stomach thinks my throats been slit.”</strong>