<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 11th, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Early evening<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Some posh private office in the Sweetrock complex that Walter would never normally expect to be allowed in.<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Mister Baine, Closed.<br/><hr/>Some habits died hard.<br/><br/>From the moment Scooter's huge form had shuffled across the rather impressive lookin' bridge that connected Sweetrock's mesa to Gomorra propa' and those feck-off huge gatlin' guns that scared the bejesus out of Walter every time he saw them hadn't cranked into life and spat hot leaden death in his general direction, Walter had been eyin' the place up. He couldn't help himself. Walter was a thief. These days it may be his uses as a bloody-minded enforcer that kept him in whiskey and women but he was still a thief and he couldn't stop his mind from workin' that way. Now, no-one had ever said Walter was a good thief... he'd been a competent one at best when it came to actually theivin' with his real art bein' intimidatin' others and even those mediocre skills were faded with lack of use; why pick a lock when you could just kick the door down or grab the owner of the place and punch him till he gave you a bloody key? But part of 'im still thought that way. It had been bad enough walkin' down the roads on the mesa (and yes, these things were bloody roads... actual roads which were feckin' paved, not the bloody dusty "roads" that were pretty much just a bunch of trodden down dirt elsewhere in Gomorra) as the day to day business of Sweetrock went on about him. Anywhere he looked was somethin' he could half-inch and peddle for a fair load of money. And things had only got worse as he was led into the offices themselves. Bloody 'ell. If Walter had nicked just one of the bits and pieces lyin' around he could have lived like a king (or at least, how he hoped a king lived... he doubted they actually simply bought whiskey and whores) for a week or two. But Walter was on his best behavior so he simply scowled and walked along.<br/><br/>It wasn't quite fair to say that the private offices he eventually got led to was the most opulent place he'd ever been in but it was fair to say it was the most opulent place he had ever been in when he was meant to be there. Walter had done over a few posh houses in his time, a couple of posh parties too, but in those cases he'd either had to sneak his way in and out or cause a right bloody ruckus to get in the place and then hightail it out of there with the law on his tail. Outside things had been expensive but they'd been practical. Here... here they were just bloody luxurious. The bloody carpet probably cost more money than Walter had ever seen, let alone, spent in his life. You want to make someone feel out of place, you take a bum from the streets and you put him in a place like this. Walter's scowl deepened. He wasn't angry (well, no more angry than normal), he was just on edge. For all his sins, Walter did have one virtue. Clarity. He knew what he was and he knew what his place was. He was scum, he was filth, he was of and from the gutter. Walter had no pretences and no real ambitions to go beyond that. He knew his place and his place was not inside some posh bloody office with feckin' nice carpets. Walter didn't even like carpet... what the feck was the point of it compared to floorboards? And how did you get the bloody stains out? He was sure if you took half the ponces who worked here and stuck them in Stiffies they'd feel the same but feck it, at least they had the legitimate fear that Walter would decide to box their bloody ears. Walter didn't think he had nuthin' to fear... he'd been invited afterall... but that didn't stop him bein' on edge. Walter's usual employers may have had more money than Walt but they were still gangsters and slumlords so they lived in the bloody slums. Their offices... although callin' their places a bloody office was a big step... may have been bigger and nicer than what Walter was used to but they were still slums. The best of the slums but slums none-the-less. This... this was rather bloody different.<br/><br/>A scrawny little man had greated Walter and Scooter as they came into the offices. “Big” Jake had one of those names that people told Walter was “ironic”. Walter didn't really bloody know what that meant but he did know that Jake wasn't big... Walter had crapped out bigger shits than that fecker... but just because the bastard was small didn't mean he wasn't still a bastard. Just as Walt had 'eard stories about Scooter, he'd heard stories about Jake. If Scooter was the nice but dim muscles of the tandem then Jake was the mean but smart one who kept them on track. Walter didn't like him. Too many of the stories reminded him of himself. Walter didn't like people who reminded him of himself because the chances were if he ever did meet someone like him there'd be a feck off massive fistfight, lots of blood and at least one bugger with a knife stuck in their guts. Jake had stuck a hand out to point to an even more ornate door down the corridor and Walter had wandered along, the dastardly bloody duo wandering in the other direction, doubtless to cause some trouble to some poor, unfortunate, victim.<br/><br/>And so Walter pushed open the door and went to meet Mister Baine.<br/><br/>Walter had seen things in his life. Some bugger on fire in the back-alleys of Shoredtich. Blade's glittering in the dark near the Millwall docks. And when Walter passed (although he hoped that would be a long bloody time from now) those things would be gone, like whiskey in a glass when put in front of Walter. Walter had seen things that would turn most others in gibbering wrecks. He'd seen blood, seen guts, seen blood and guts, seen scars, seen burns, seen wounds. He'd chopped up pigs and chopped up people. Hell, he'd seen the aftermath of whatever the bloody hell that<em>thing</em>had been and he'd gone chasing after it like a bloody hero with a bloody (stolen) sword in hand. Walter wasn't scared, intimidated or shocked by the more nasty parts of life.<br/><br/>But seein' Mister Baine. That got Walt's mind a-rovin'.<br/><br/>Walt had seen burns before. Hell, he'd caused a lot of burns before. You want to really intimidate some bastard, you threaten to set him on fire. You want to put the fear of god into his friends? You set him on fire. But he ain't seen burns like Mister Baine had on anyone who was still livin'. The man was a feckin' mess who looked like he'd melted. Walter had heard tales of the livin' hell surviving a ghostrock fire was and how miner's tended to put their own out of their misery if they were caught in one. But this was the first time he'd ever seen the results. Walter had no doubt the bastard's suit had originally been perfectly bloody tailored to fit, now it hung loose over Mister Baine's shoulders. From the few times he'd seen 'im in the flesh Walter knew Mister Baine wasn't a conventionally handsome man but now his face would give small children nightmares. And from the deliberate slowness with which Mister Baine was pouring out a whiskey Walter could guess that his face wasn't the only part of him to have been mutilated. Walter guessed that if you took off that suit you'd see a broken man held together only by anger and will.<br/><br/>Walter liked that.<br/><br/>No-one could accuse Walter of bein' particularly insightful but he did have his own way of lookin' at the world. Most who saw Mister Baine would focus on the hideous scarrin' and feel their stomach's drop a little, feel their eyes drawn to it however bloody hard they tried to look away. Walter wasn't interested in that part. Sure it was pretty feckin' nasty, but still... so were a lot of things. It's not like he was completely bloody calm about it but he could look past it and focus on the important part. Not that Mister Baine had been burned.<br/><br/>But that Mister Baine had been burned and was still feckin' tickin'.<br/><br/>There was no bloody reason Walter should have liked Baine. Walter didn't like anybody and he especially didn't like people who rose above their bloody station. Just as Walter accepted who he was and what his lot in life would be so he resented those who tried to move above it. And Mister Baine was someone who had clearly moved above it. He was ambitious and Walter didn't like people who were ambitious... they either tended to need killin' or sent Walter out to get killed. But Walter could understand pain and he could respect those who could take it. And there was no bloody doubt Mister Baine was in considerable bloody agony. No-one should have survived the burns he'd got. And once the fire at Casino Morongo had died down and the only ones left were those underneath Mister Baine's skin he should have either died or descended into the livin' death of opium addiction, quietly fadin' away never to be heard of again. Yet here he was, still in Gomorra, still feckin' livin'. And Mister Baine hadn't got a servant to pour the whiskey for him. He could have but he hadn't. He'd walked over and was pourin' the whiskey himself despite the pain it caused. On one hand it was bloody stupid... why the feck not get one of the many bastard's you're payin' to pour some whiskey for you rather than do it yourself when doin' it felt like what was left of your skin was about to be torn off? But it took guts and Walter could respect guts. Even if an ambitious man with guts (and Walter imagined rather a lot of vengence on his mind) would likely get Walter killed.<br/><br/>But Walter was a dog and a dog did what its master ordered.<br/><br/><strong>“I er, I wouldn't say an appreciation Mister Baine, Sir. I got a bloody... sorry Sir... I got a likin' for it but um, appreciate it? I just drink it Mister Baine, Sir. I drink the good stuff and I drink the bad stuff and while I can tell the difference between them it ain't as if I can tell the difference between two good 'uns. I'll 'appily take a glass though Mister Bain, Sir.”</strong><br/><br/>Walter hadn't been invited over but he went anway. Although he was somewhat careful about where he stepped. His boots and coat still had the dust of Gomorra on them and while he'd beaten the worst of it out before steppin' into the office it weren't as if he was sparkly clean. And when you considered how nice the bloody office was Walter didn't want to immediately ruin the place by trakin' dirt everywhere. So instead he sort of lurked by Mister Baine, waitin' to be given a treat.<br/><br/>Before bein' told who's throat to rip out.