<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/9/93/Doomtownposter3.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Walter Sinnett<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 3rd, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Afternoon<br/><strong>Location:</strong>A Mesa in the Great Maze<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Open<br/><hr/><br/><br/><em>Clunk<br/><br/>Clunk<br/><br/>Clunk</em><br/><br/><strong>SPLASH</strong><br/><br/>Walter Sinnett liked the Great Maze. There were a number of reasons this was a surprising revelation. The first was that very few liked the Great Maze to begin with. The earthquakes had turned a once pristine sea line into a twisted series of caverns, valleys, ravines and ridges where death lurked behind every corner. It was a harsh and barren place, a place where even if the burning heat of the day and freezing chill of the night didn't take you then any number of creatures... be they human or otherwise... could snatch your life away. Yes, it was a place where a fortune could be made, a place for a man to pull himself up by his bootstraps but it was a place people endured, not that they enjoyed. What sort of fool enjoyed a place like this?<br/><br/>Walter Sinnett liked the Great Maze.<br/><br/>The second surprising thing about Walter's like for the Maze was that he didn't seem to like anything else. Well, anything outside whisky and whores anyway. He was a cantankerous bugger, a ornery bastard and he let people know that. He hated everything else about the place. He hated the heat. He hated the cold. He hated the weather. He hated the wide plains and the long deserts. He hated the people. He hated the houses. He hated the accents. He hated the food. He even hated the whisky, although he drank enough of it. He hated the flies. He hated the reptiles. He hated the horses. He hated the smell. He hated the taste. He couldn't give a toss about any of it. Walter Sinnett hated everything.<br/><br/>Walter Sinnett liked the Great Maze.<br/><br/>The third reason was perhaps the most bizarre. Because it's the reason why Walter liked the Great Maze. It was because it reminded him of home.<br/><br/>Now, that would be a shock to anyone who knew Walter and knew his home. There were few comparisons that could be drawn between the Great Maze and London... especially the parts of London Walter frequented. His London was dark and damp, full of cramped alleys and dark corners, people living and dying on top of each other, crammed in together in a foul pit of poverty and despair. There was no privacy, no quiet, no time when you weren't bound up and bustling with the other filth that walked, crawled and crept through the docks of Millwall. The Great Maze... that was none of those things. It was wide open, airy, bright where London was dark, dark where London was bright.  And it was empty. Despite the danger a man could go for days without seeing a human soul. Weeks... hell, months... if they really wanted to. It was nothing like London. Not Walter's London.<br/><br/>Yet Walter Sinnett liked the Great Maze.<br/><br/>Walter couldn't tell you why he liked the Great Maze. He was no deep thinker. His thoughts rarely went beyond where his next bottle of whisky would come from or how he could afford the next whore to shag. But if you were to delve inside his mind (and I pity anyone who dared to) you'd find it was his hatred that drove his mind.<br/><br/>He hated the bloody wide opened plains. He hated standing on a ridge and seeing for miles and miles. It was so open, so empty, so lacking. He didn't feel a sense of freedom, a sense of destiny. He felt resentment, he felt hatred. Walter didn't like open spaces. Open spaces meant someone could get at you from behind more easily. It meant someone could see you coming. It meant someone could shoot him before he could do down them... the slang for giving someone a beating that had given him his nickname. He hadn't liked open spaces when he lived in London... and his definition of an “open space” there was a quiet tavern or a square. Not these bloody massive fields. He hated them. Yet in the Maze, in this place where the walls of rock twisted and turned back and forth, where their shadows started to drown out the sun, where one could never know where each corner led he felt a slight sense of peace. A slight sense that he was back home. These twisted rocks, broken and misshapen as the earth ripped itself apart formed a maze like the streets of London he so missed,   a series of giant alleys, of natural backstreets. They may be grander, their walls may be made of stone and not rotting wood but they were close to the runs of Cheapstreet and Whitechapel. They were close to home... or as close as he could get in this bloody place.<br/><br/>He hated these blooming American towns. He hated the way someone could throw up some wooden shack on a road and it was soon a city. He hated the way that a town that had been there for 20 years was suddenly a town with real history. That wasn't history. There wasn't enough history there to fart with. He hated London but he loved London and he loved the fact that it had been there for centuries. Since before this place was even a bloody country. When it was still full of buggers wearing feathers and loin clothes bashing each other over the head with rocks. Walter hated it all. Yet here he could see old stone, old earth, once buried deep, once destined to never see the light of day. This stone had purpose. This stone had history. This stone had something to it. Not the flimsy efforts of these damn yanks to stamp their own mark on the world as if their bloody country would ever come to anything. No, this stone was different. It was better.<br/><br/>Not that Walter Sinnett did realise any of that. He wasn't a thinker. He didn't do “introspection” He didn't even know what the toss “introspection” was. He just knew that he liked the Great Maze. He liked being here, away from the small town that was supposedly some major place. He hawked and spat. Major place! It was like some village in England... he'd never been to a village, he'd never really been outside London, but he'd heard of them... suddenly thinking they mattered. He hated this country. He hated this place. He hated being here.<br/><br/>But he liked the Great Maze.<br/><br/>The hot sun was still beating down on him, one last assault before it faded away into the night. Walter had been caught out by the nights here before. He didn't like 'em. Nowhere should go from being that hot to that cold... not that quickly. And as much as he liked the Great Maze he liked whisky and whores more. Get his job done, get back to Gomorra, get some whisky and get a whore if he could afford it and he hadn't drunk enough whisky that his johnson would stay limp. That's what he wanted. Maybe have a fight. He hadn't had a good fight in weeks. Maybe not a fight. Not unless he was paid for it. No need to antagonise anyone. Not yet. Not unless he had to.<br/><br/>He took his top hat off his head, scratching behind his ear. The wound in his shoulder was aching again. Meant it was going to rain. Or he needed a really big piss. One of the two. The damn thing kept aching. He knew he should have gone to a crow rather than just have one of his lads pull the knife out and stitch it up. Always ached. Especially in winter. And especially when it got cold. And when it was about to rain. And when he needed a piss. He didn't want it to rain. He didn't want it to get cold. And seeing as despite years of trying the weather was yet to acquiesce to his likes and dislikes it looked like he needed to get his task done quickly.<br/><br/>Five to go.<br/><br/>Getting the bloody things here had been an effort. Walter was no horseman... he wasn't a bloody Yank who all seemed to be born in the saddle or some country bumpkin who went a-riding though the fields. Not much call for horsemanship in Millwall. You were lucky enough if a horse didn't get eaten as soon as someone saw it. And he was no wagon driver either. Could never get the horses to do a bloody thing, no matter how hard he jerked at the reigns and whipped them. And when they did start moving they'd go in different directions. And even if he got them moving and moving in the same direction the bloody things would start and stop and speed up and slow down and do whatever it was they could to piss him off. Walter's talent was for creating these things, not disposing of them. But a job was a job he guessed. It kept him in whisky and whores and you never know, perhaps he'd be given a task more suited to his skills.<br/><br/><em>Clunk<br/><br/>Clunk</em><br/><br/><strong>SPLASH</strong><br/><br/>Four to go.<br/><br/>Walter had found himself above one of the deep, watery ravines that gave the Great Maze its name. Behind him was the wagon he had used to transport his cargo, the horses whinnying from time to time. Walter was aware he was meant to take care of them, rub them down or something like that, but frankly he didn't know and just didn't care. He was more interested in getting rid of his cargo. The six bloody things that had forced him away from the whisky and whores. It was an awkward cargo, not the sort of cargo one usually hauled around the Deadlands and Walter couldn't say he was going to be sad to see the back of it.<br/><br/>He reached out with his cane and touched one of the objects. Flies were starting to gather now, buzzing around the purplish, bloated lips, landing on the crack in the skull where the bullet had torn this man's life away. The stench wasn't yet overpowering... and in truth Walter didn't mind it. It reminded him of home. Dead, rotting, decomposing flesh. Filth. Taint. The didn't know what the man had done and why he deserved to die. He just knew that he had died and now it was Walter's job to dispose of him. The body had been placed inside a burlap sack along with rocks Walter had scavenged, enough the weigh the body down and sink it to the bottom of the watery ravine below him. Walter knelt down beside the body, continuing the stitching, pausing only when he came to the face. He knew the man was dead but that didn't stop him putting the needle through his nose anyway. Didn't want to anger the fates.<br/><br/><strong>“You on 'he floor bar steward. Who 'ou dandered 'ey? Were you too downey? Somethin' too flummut for you?”</strong><br/><br/>Walter spoke to himself, his words quiet, his accent clear. It's yet another thing he hated about this bloody place. No-one spoke bloody English. Or at least his English. He'd talk about his time with the Fancy and they looked at him like a mandrake. He'd order a reeb and the bartender would look at him funny. He'd ask for nethers and people would shake their head and wonder if he was insane. Bloody Yanks. Bloody place. Bloody country.<br/><br/>But work was still work. The nose was pierced, the sack was sealed and with a few dismissive kicks from his boot Walter sent the body tumbling off the edge of the cliff to sinks to the bottom of the depths below. No-one would ever find it there. Few enough went searching through the these watery pathways and even those brave few who did normally had their eyes looking up for that damn Ghostrock stuff. No-one went diving into the depths of the Maze. Too scared of dragons. Walter had never seen a Maze Dragon. He sort of wanted to. He was English after-all and King Arthur had killed dragons. Was it King Arthur? Or was is Alfred? Or St George? Walter couldn't remember. He'd never really been to school and his mum had never been one for stories, even before the consumption took 'er. But he know there was something about Englishmen killing dragons. If he could do nothing else in the hellhole of the place, he could at least kill a dragon. He didn't know how to kill a dragon. He doubted he could just punch it in the head until it collapsed down so he could stomp on it. But he'd find a way. It was something to aim for. A dream. Walter didn't really have dreams and those he did generally involved him screwin' a whore or punching some bastard. He didn't have great dreams. He didn't have ambitions beyond drinkin', screwin' and occasionally fightin'.<br/><br/>But stood here now, kicking a body off the side of a cliff, Walter wanted to see a dragon. And then he wanted to kill one. It may not be a dream that lasted long, it may not be a dream that even lasted the journey back to Gomorra but it was still a dream he had.<br/><em><br/>Clunk<br/><br/>Clunk</em><br/><br/><strong>SPLASH</strong><br/><br/>Three to go.<br/><br/>But first, work.<br/><br/>Walter didn't really know why these men were dead. Well, he sort of did. When you ran with the crowd he did you soon picked up the reasons people were off'd. Disrespect the wrong man. Don't pay your debts. Have something they want. Be unlucky/ Be too lucky. You didn't have to be guilty, you just needed to be a target. And these miners... he was fairly certain they were minders... were easy marks. They may have been tough and they may have been resourceful but they weren't killers. They weren't monsters. Not like him. He could imagine why Howard Findley wanted them dead. Not the exact details but he knew Findley's type. You didn't crawl to the top of a craphole like this without some of it sticking to you. And you couldn't have an iron fist without some enforcers. You kept control through fear. Sure there were other things, sure you could do more. But when it all came down to it, it was fear. Fear of failure. Fear of success being taken away. But most of all fear for your life. Fear for your family. Fear for your friends. That's where Walter and his type came in. So Findley and his type could have their smart suits and their nice cigars.<br/><br/>Not that Walter knew much about Findley. He'd barely seen the man, let alone speak to him. His type may have needed Walter's type but they didn't want to deal with them. Not directly. It's not like Walter had walked into his posh office and demanded a job when he arrived. No, he's simply let it been known that he was looking for work, won a bar fight or two and someone had come to him. Asked him what he was willing to do. And so Walter had found himself a member of the Sweetrock Mining Company. I guess in some way that made his respectable. Walter didn't feel very respectable. Not pushin' bodies off a cliff.<br/><br/>Town politics did interest him but he hadn't been here long enough to work it all out. Apparently the old sheriff had got himself shot. Sheriff. What a stupid name. He was a rozzer, a crusher, an escop, a miltonian. Not a bloody “sheriff”. But anyway, this rozzer had got himself both barrels in the chest... somethin' that Walter hadn't exactly appreciated bein' he was a stranger in town and he carried a double-barrelled shotgun around with him. He'd have to give people some hard stares about it. You could see the thinkin'. But anyway, this blue bottle had got himself killed and they were blaming this Blackjack guy. Walt knew sweet fuck all about that bugger but from what he heard he was the sort of bastard he really hated. A thug like him but one with delusions of grandeur. One who thought he was special, that he was fightin' for something, that he was a rebel or a freedom fighter. Screw that. Give Walt some education and he could have told anyone who would listen that he was doin' this because of society or some shit like that even though he was really doin' it cause it was easier then doin' a real job, paid well and let him give people a good beatin'.<br/><br/>But yeah, this Blackack guy and him supposedly nobbling the sheriff had got this town into an uproar. They needed to get some new lawman in and there was goin' to be an election and everything. The thought amused Walter.<br/><em><br/>Clunk<br/><br/>Clunk</em><br/><br/><strong>SPLASH</strong><br/><br/>Two to go<br/><br/>Electing your crusher? Walt could just imagine it, one of the stiff-upper lip bastards walking down to the Nag's Head and trying to get those ruffians to vote for you. Votin' for your escop? What did you expect to get? It was a bloody farce. What, should Walter stand? Just for the fun of it. A place like this he could probably smack a few people around to get some votes and he was sure if he had some push to his name.he could buy some votes if he needed. Not that he was ever going to be sheriff. But the thought was a funny one. It had brought a smile to his face. But yeah, so there wasn't a proper sheriff right now, just this interim guy. Now Walt didn't know much about him. Apparently he liked to whore and he liked to drink which meant he was someone with similar interests to Walt at least. But right now his was interim. And Walt guessed that was one of the reasons he was kicking bodies off a cliff. Drinkin', whorin' interim crusher's didn't have too much power and influence. Findley probably had his claws into him anyway. That's what his type did in a place like this.<br/><br/><em>Clunk<br/><br/>Clunk</em><br/><br/><strong>SPLASH</strong><br/><br/>One to go.<br/><br/>He knew what he was going to do when this was done. He was going to have a damn drink. All day working in the sun, sweating his arse off, being biten by the damn bugs here. Even they were worse then back home. Sure, the damn midges could peck a man to death but they were at least small. Walter swore he's seen one bug the size of his hand earlier. Bastard things. Along with the horses and the stink and the wagon and the whole damn shebang. He needed a drink. So he was going to toss this last body down, put it from his mind, light up his pipe and get out of here. And if those damn horses decided to kick up some more fuss you know what... he'd be damn tempted to slit their damn throats. Bloody, stinking things. Bloody, stinking country. Land of opportunity my arse. Land of bloody horses and insects and wide open spaces and damn yapping Indians and damn yanks who don't understand bloody English and damn “”bourbon” not real whisky and damn “sheriffs” not rozzers and damn all of it.<br/><br/><em>Clunk<br/><br/>Clunk</em><br/><strong><br/>SPLASH</strong><br/><br/>He watched as the last body went tumbling down the cliff, the sack bouncing off the side twice before landing with a splash and immediately sinking to the bottom. Thank God that was over. Walter had never particularly enjoyed disposing of bodies. He'd done it of course... the ol' Thames was full of bodies he'd dumped in... but he rather enjoyed the creating more than the disposing. But once again, work was work. He needed the coin and it was good to keep busy. Sitting in a saloon drinking whisky may be fun but it wasn't cheap and for Walter it all too often led to bar fights. And despite it not being in his nature, he knew he had to keep his head down. Not create too many waves. Not without someone of some worth to back him up.<br/><br/>For as much as he hated it, Gomorra was the land of opportunity. A land where a man could kill or be killed.<br/><br/>And Walter “Do Down” Sinnett was very good at the first part.