<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 12th, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Afternoon<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Sheriff's Office/Jail<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Any Law Dogs in the bloody place and any poor unfortunate sods locked up there, Open<br/><hr/><hr/>Bloody guns.<br/><br/>If one was keeping track of Walter's dislikes then the list was of course be exceedingly long... Walter was not what one would call one of life's “positive people” after all. But guns were certainly up there. Barkers, irons... Walter hated them bloody all. Part of that was simply because he wasn't any good with them. He had no feeling for the bloody things, no sense of them and it's not so much as he couldn't hit a soddin' barn door as he'd likely blow his foot enough while trying to draw the bloody thing. In reality that wasn't quite true... Walter was at least competant at handling a gun, if not in actually aiming it... but it represented his mindset pretty well. There's a reason that when he did use a gun he reached for his trusty shotty... not that he really trusted it, but at least it was simple. Put two cartridges in, pull the trigger and a hail of shot hit everything stood in front of you. It wasn't quite fire and forget but for a London ragamuffin transplanted to the bloody Great Maze it was about as soddin' close as one could come.<br/><br/>Not that Walter would ever use the term, but the second was almost artistic. Walter enjoyed fightin' and he enjoyed killin' because there was something personal about it. The desperate struggle, the resistance as a knife drove in soft flesh, the warm rush of blood that followed, the feel of two hands futily gripping at a jacket in a pointless last act of defiance, eyes meeting and watching life fade from them. It all came together. There was a form of art to it, a form of joy. It spoke to something primal about us, something pure, something untempered by thousands of years of civilisation or moralising. It was, in its most raw and most unfiltered form, the most simple answer to the question of who was the better man. Guns... Walter didn't see anything like that about them. You pulled the trigger, something went bang and hopefully the other bastard fell over. It was bloody boring and spoke to bloody nothin'.<br/><br/>The third was simple self-preservation. Walter's line of work frequently involved 'im havin' to fight people who wanted to kill or at least inca-feckin'-tacitate him. Unless they wanted to shoot a bloody bow and arrow at him, that meant they had to go toe-to-toe with Walter and, arrogant or not, Walter fully believed there was no man born of mother who could feck with 'im. He was too strong, too quick, too experienced and too bloody nasty. If you wanted to fight Walter and live you'd better hope you brought about a dozen of your mates with you... and even then you'd better hide at the back 'cos otherwise Walter would go for you first. Walter would punch, kick, bite, stab, slash, cut and generally abuse you and there weren't that much a bastard could do about it. Win if you could, survive if Walter let you.<br/><br/>Guns. Guns were bloody different.<br/><br/>You put a loaded revolver in some snotty nose kid's hands and if he could pull the trigger there was a decent chance he could kill Walter. Walter didn't even have to bloody see 'im and the kid didn't need to be within a fuckin' dozen yards of Walter. Click, click, bang, you're dead. And Walter didn't like the idea of bein' dead. No whiskey when you were dead. Or whores. Or fightin'. Walter enjoyed fightin'. Just not shootin'. No, feck guns and the feckers who used them (Walter conveniently left out the fact he did use a gun, however much he disliked it). Walter didn't like a world where he could mosey into some pub to chase some bastard down and get met with a shot in the gut before he'd even got within punchin' range.<br/><br/>Good job he came to the Great Maze then. It's not like every fecker had a gun here, was it?<br/><br/>So, yeah. Walter didn't like guns. And that's why when the sleepin' Law Dog had woken up enough to start speaking and been rudely interrupted by the sound of someone firing one hell of a barker Walter had grimaced and instinctively reached a hand inside his billowing (well, it would be billowing if there was any wind) coat to surreptitiously touch the handle of his knife for comfort. Not that there was any real indication to anyone else that Walter was wrapping his hand around 12 inches of steel. There's a reason Walter wore that coat even when it was bloody sunny and that's because it was damn near impossible for anyone to see what was going on inside the voluminous confines. Walter could have walked laps around the town square in Gomorra wankin' himself off and no-one would have been any the wiser (although they may have wondered why he was walkin' laps in the soddin' first place. If they don't see it, they don't see it coming. That's in reference to the knife by the way. Not the wankin' off.<br/><br/>Walter did wonder how it came to be that Townsend had managed to get some sleep... however briefly... with that bloody racket coming from downstairs, but he put the thought from his mind. You slept where and when you could in this world and it didn't take much for people to adapt. Walter only knew Townsend by reputation but, in a somewhat surprising twist, actually sort of liked the reputation. It was like his. Violent, unpredictable, sadistic, eratic, a man who enjoyed a good fight and never backed down from one. But that was only the reputation. There was a difference between the reputation and the man... Walter could like the reputation and hate the man. 'Cos Walter was fairly sure if he ever met himself he'd bloody hate the bastard... and if Townsend was really like Walter then that meant he'd hate him too. Better not to get to know him then. Just know him by reputation and let him adapt to sleepin' with what sounded like 150 redcoats givin' 4,000 Zulu bastards a short chamber Boxer-Henry point-four-five calibre miracle with a bayonet and some guts behind it (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s-lDY02DThk) (ignore the fact this happened three years into the future... literary licence!).<br/><br/><strong>“Cheers mate.”</strong><br/><br/>A nod followed to indicate Walter's thanks as he followed Townsend's directions towards the basement. On his way he craned his neck round to see if he could catch a glimpse of the infamous mad Whateley but alas for Walter and his curiosity, he couldn't see her. He'd have to ask about her. Later. Now he had another, equally bloody mad person to find out about.<br/><br/>The basement was... well, it weren't a bloody basement, let's put it that way. Walter's only real use for basements was as a quiet place to torture people but, even so, he knew what you kept in basements. And it wasn't enough bloody guns and ammo to equip a bloody regiment. This wasn't a basement, this was an armoury and even for someone with a dislike of irons, Walter was at least somewhat impressed by it. As he was the barker in Bilton's hand. Because he'd seen one like it before. And he remembered a dream he had about what he could use such a gun for. But yet again, that was a tale for a different time.<br/><br/><strong>“Yeah, it's Walter.”</strong><br/><br/>Walter nodded towards the gun in the sherrif's hand.<br/><br/><strong>“Nice lookin' barker you got there. I seen one like it not too long ago. Agatha, that redhead inventor bint who flew that bloody airship... she 'ad one. Said she made it 'erself. Did a damn nasty job on a treestump I'll tell you that... bout as nasty as you've done to them posters.”</strong><br/><br/>Walter paused for a moment but not long enough to let Bilton speak himself before startin' again.<br/><br/><strong>“Listen, I ain't one for bloody small talk, so I'll get right to the point. Someone over at Sweetrock is payin' me a pretty penny to find the bastard who blew up Casino Morongo. Call 'im the Twitch they do and I'm to find 'im, do some bloody 'orrible things to 'im then bring 'im back 'ere so me, you or Sweetrock can do some even more bloody 'orrible things. So I'm lookin' to find out what you know about the bombin', what you know about the Twitch and where you think I might be able to bloody find 'im.<br/><br/>Thing is, I think we can help each other out here. I'm takin' on the risk, you can get the soddin' credit. I find the Twitch, I beat him bloody then I drag him back here and you can say you've taken out one of Blackjack's bastards. I don't find 'im or I die, I ain't got nothin' to do with you so you don't get any blame. And I figure if I do get the Twitch and I do drag his screamin' arse back to Gomorra, that Blackjack bastard ain't gonna be too 'appy. He'd probably consider some sort of rescue or something. And that means he comes 'ere. Where you can prepare for 'im. And where you can point that feckin' barker at 'im and pull the trigger till it goes click and he gets full of holes. And I'm guessin' you don't like that cunt none.”</strong>