<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Walter Sinnett<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Unknown<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 22, 1870<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Evening<br/><strong>Location:</strong>London<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Closed<br/><hr/><br/><br/>Sometimes you just know not to catch a man's eye.<br/><br/>Walter Sinnet was one of those men. He was young, dirty and ragged but even so people knew to cross the street when he came their way. It wasn't anything they could put their finger on... Walter looked like any other rag-a-muffin who scrambled his way through the back streets of London, all tattered clothes, dirty faces and filthy, grime-encrusted, cracked nails. No, it was something that they couldn't quite verbalise, couldn't quite explain. A sense... yes, that was a good term... a sense perhaps, a sense that this was a young man who would not be trifled with, would not take a perceived insult lightly, one who could snap at the slightest provocation. A sense of imminent danger, imminent risk, that there would be no mercy from this man, no pity and no real thought of the consequences. Even those who considered themselves tough, even those who considered themselves dangerous, even they took care when Walter walked down the street.<br/><br/>For his part Walter didn't pay any mind to this or even really notice it. He was as happy as a man like him could be. His face ached, dull pain throbbing through him whenever he tried to move his jaw. Beyond that were the sharp shooting pains from the cuts that adorned his face, the large one on his right eyebrow still dripping blood, the rough stitches having already split. Walter had been sloppy, not lowering his head at the right time, leaving himself open to a butt from his opponent that had caused him to see stars and have to desperately hold on for a few moments as he cleared his head. Any sour memories however were quelled by the jingle of coin in Walter's purse. The London Prize Ring may have been no place for soft men but it was one that offered good rewards to those who succeeded. Walter had already feasted on roast beef, drank his bodyweight in beer and tumbled a whore who had all her teeth and he still had more coin than he could ever recall.<br/><br/>Walter hadn't been meant to win this bout. John “Fisticuffs” Banner was a known man in the Fancy, the loose fraternity of boxers. He was not a champion and never appeared likely to become one but he was a solid boxer who knew every trick in the book, had heavy hands and experience of stepping in with the best. For the last few months he had been putting on a weekly exhibition in the back room of the White Hart. A man could pay a small fee and venture a few coppers and see if they could last a turn of the glass with Banner. None had been able to so far. And the thought of trying to beat Banner? He wasn't just a fighter, he was a boxer; he understood the art behind the brutality. He knew how to form a fist, how to tuck his chin, how to roll with a punch, how to hammer the body till the opponent dropped his hands and then loop a shot up to his jaw. And yes, how to butt, how to gouge, how to wrestle, how to grind. A man could be undefeated in dozens of bar brawls and still be like a child when in the ring with a man like Banner.<br/><br/>Walter hadn't given a toss.<br/><br/>The London Prize Ring was not a place with no knowledge of corruption or deceit but there was no hidden motive behind Walter's decision to box that night. He'd been in a few boxing bouts before, small affairs in even less well appointed locations than the White Hart, against people with more alcohol in their system then sense. He knew what he was doing but it hadn't been a plan. He'd simply had a few bevies and fancied a bit of a brawl. And unlike most nights when he figured on throwing some fists if he stepped into the back room with Banner there would be no landlord chasing him with a heavy club, no blue bottles coming after him in the streets. So he'd paid his coins, intimidated his drinking companions into paying some more on him and then stuck a few more on the fact he'd not only last a turn of the glass but he'd knock Banner out. The bookie, a small, crooked man, teeth stained yellow with tobacco had looked at the young man before him and smiled, happy to take the pup's money. Walter had seen the doubt in his eyes but paid it no heed. He just wanted to fight and as far as he was concerned once two men raised their fists there was no man who could match him. Perhaps it was just a young man's bravado but he truly believed it.<br/><br/>The first few seconds of the bout did nothing to change Walter's opinion. Banner had come cannoning in, doubtless confident that this lean young man before him would simply crumble before the assault. Walt had grinned and slipped to the side, countering with a sharp jab to the face which snapped Banner's head back. Walter's grin only grew as he saw the anger in Banner's face. And then the two got down to business.<br/><br/>In some parts of London the sport of boxing had moved beyond bareknuckle fighting. In those bouts the participants wore gloves, thick leather encasing their hands. This wasn't to protect their opponent. It was to protect their own fists. In the bareknuckle prize ring any boxer worth their salt knew to duck their head as an opponent punched at their chin, trying to make the opponent end up punching his skull. Now, that may give the boxer a headache... but if the opponent's broken his knuckles then he's got it a damn sight worse. The end result of this was that bareknuckle and gloved bouts had vastly different tactics and played out in completely different ways. Not able to rely on flurrying punches to a opponents chin bareknuckle bouts were a drawn out, brutal affair with boxers aiming sickening body shots into each others ribs and gut, trying to suck the wind out of them, trying to break their will, to make them quit. That's not to say that they didn't punch to the head but a man had to be careful and pick his shots. And well, just because you couldn't punch didn't mean you couldn't give someone a nice Glasgow Kiss to the face.<br/><br/>Banner was the bigger man and he used his size and weight well, grappling with Walter, trying to weaken him,wear him down, his bulk behind every one of his shots. Walter could feel the air sucked from him every time one of those hurtful blows landed, could feel himself wince and gasp. He was getting his own licks in though, using his speed to box around Banner, slipping away and ripping his own counter shots in, relying on his footwork and agility to hurt Banner without getting pinned down.<br/><br/>And he knew he was going to win.<br/><br/>It wasn't easy. Despite his best efforts Banner had managed to stalk him down a few times, trapping him against the edge of the room and hammering his body. Walt could feel each breath coming with more difficulty, could feel a fire in his lungs. He faced was a mess from the times he'd been butted, his legs were weak from the constant movement and having to carry Banner's weight and his arms were like lead. But he could feel Banner's own punches lose some of their snap, see his pursuit lose its steam, watch a slight doubt and confusion appear in his eyes.<br/><br/>And it was that doubt and confusion that Walter honed in on.<br/><br/>Banner was a bully. Walter recognised this because he was a bully himself. But Walt was a bully who had crawled up from the gutter, who had been forced to fight and scrap for the right to even call himself a bully. Banner had been born a bully, always bigger than the rest, always stronger. He'd never had to truly fight to be a bully, never had to rely on anything but his physical gifts. He'd spent the last few weeks boxing day labourers and sailors, men with an idea on how to fight but not idea how to box. Men who would collapse at the first body shot, who would leave their chin hanging out just waiting for a huge hook to spear into it. Walter was not one of them. He knew how to fight and he knew how to box and he knew how to keep going. You could break his body but you couldn't break his mind and each shot Banner landed just angered him more. Banner had hit him with his best shots but Walter was still there and still grinning, his heart filled with a fierce, singing bloodlust. Walter Sinnet had very few moments of happiness in his life, even the transient joys of whisky and whores being more about slaking his anger and hatred then about real happiness. But when he was happy... or at least closest to happy... he could normally be found in a fight, in a brawl.<br/><br/>The end when it came was chilling, quick and brutal.<br/><br/>Banner lumbered forward, his right hand sweeping round with a lunging, wide hook to the body. Walter danced to the side, the punch missing by a mere inch or so and immediately countered with his own chopping left hook, driving it deep into Banner's guts as the larger man was still extended out (http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2012/11/25/article-0-1632D87B000005DC-236_634x408.jpg), open, vulnerable. Walt felt his punch sink in, felt the shudder run through his arm that told him it was a good shot and best of all felt the sudden snap of a rib. Banner cursed and crouched even lower, his hands instinctively dropping. Walter immediately followed up with a right uppercut, deliberately pulling the punch short so his fist whistled past Banner's face... but the elbow that followed connected squarely with Banner's nose (http://phukettopteam.com/admin/resources/9429534517087749065471696480836n-w1024h768.jpg), shattering it, blood spraying out. Banner reeled back, his vision, hazy, his composure gone. Walter immediately followed up, chaining lefts and rights, his earlier caution gone. This was the moment, this was the end. Banner was caught, desperately trying to cover up to protect himself but also trying to fire back to stem the flow of offence. When he covered his head Walter hammered shots into his broken body, when he covered his bod Walter smashed punches into his shattered face and when he punched back Walter dodged the crude, desperate blows and returned fire himself. Banner made one last hopeful effort, throwing a right hook and trying to walk Walter into a straight left. Walter ducked to the outside of the right hand, his own right winding up, his shoulder rotating, his arm following it, his right hand detonating  on Banner's jaw as the bigger man stepped forward (http://i0.wp.com/www.eastsideboxing.com/wp-content/uploads/jmm_ko_pac1.jpg?fit=400%2C400). The effect was instantaneous, Banner dropping like a puppet with his strings cut, collapsing face first onto the filthy taproom floor as a great cheer went up.<br/><br/>And that's how Walter, bloodied, hurt but victorious... and by his standards rich... came to be walking down a street without a care in the world.<br/><br/>Until he turned down a back alley and saw the sights.<br/><br/>Walter had spent some time working as a butcher's boy in his youth. He hadn't lasted long... the butcher had soon started to notice sausages disappearing and off cuts mysteriously going missing... but he'd been around long enough to watch animals slaughtered, to do some slicing and dicing, to pull out a chopper and cut a living thing to bits, to be covered in blood and gore, entrails slipping through his grasp, the metallic, iron stink filling his nostrils. He'd spent his life seeing sights no-one was meant to see and doing things no-one was meant to do. He beat and he stabbed and he slashed and he cut and he killed. He was a nasty piece of work, a nasty, viscous man and he'd seen a lot that would chill a normal person's soul without blinking.<br/><br/>But his soul was chilled.<br/><br/>There was blood everywhere. His bout with Banner had been bloody but this... this was like someone had gathered together a dozen buckets of blood and splashed them everywhere. The street, the walls, everywhere. Barely an inch didn't have at least a splatter of claret on it. And not just blood. The street was a charnel house, body parts littering the ground, ripped, torn, shredded. A limb here, a head there.<br/><br/>And Walter Sinnett was chilled.<br/><br/>Walter was not a conventionally brave man but little made him flinch. Neither was he learned but he knew a little. He knew of the creatures that went bump in the night, in the monsters that haunted the shadows, in the fiends from nightmare that could descend upon a man. He knew of the werewolves which could rend a man in half, of the vamprye who came from Eastern Europe to drain a man of blood, of Spring-heeled jack and Herne the Hunter, of the Wild Hunt and the ghostly Black Dog. Let it be known that Walter Sinnet was afraid of no man... but there was no man who could do this. Walter knew he was a dangerous man, a frightful man, a powerful man. But he also knew he was outmatched. That whatever could do this was beyond him. Beyond his power.<br/><br/>And so Walter Sinnet turned on his heel and walked briskly away, eyes flicking left and right, fear in his mind and in his heart.<br/><br/><em>Something wicked this way comes.</em>