<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>Afternoon<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Casino Mor... wait, wait, the bastard place is called<strong>Babel's Tower</strong>now right? Feck it, he's sat in a corner away from the bar.<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Corky, noticing all the other buggers, open<br/><hr/>Let me ask you a quick question...<br/><br/>What the feck is a “grit”? And why would you want to make it cheesy?<br/><br/>Walter had seen grit before. He'd seen it when he broke someone's jaw with a punch and they still came back for more. He'd seen it when he'd cut someone's guts out with a knife and they'd desperately tried to keep on livin'. That was bloody grit. Not this weird feckin' porridge thing the yanks tried to pass off as their damn national cuisine. “Grits”. Why the feck was it called “grits”? And what was bloody wrong with calling porridge bloody porridge? And what was wrong with simply having porridge anyway? Proper porridge, thick and stiff enough that if you left your spoon in it for more than a few seconds it got stuck. Why the feck would you add cheese to it? Or have it for dinner? It was for breakfast. Not for bloody dinner or lunch. You had potatoes with dinner or lunch. Not bloody porridge or grits or whatever the feck these buggers had.<br/><br/>Crazy bloody yanks.<br/><br/>And this “cornbread” crap. That weren't bread. Walter was no baker but he'd robbed a few in his time and he knew bread was made with grains. Not corn. It didn't even feckin' look like bread. The first time Dirk had offered some around Stiffies Walter had thought someone was tryin' to pull a damn joke on him and had been ready to punch the wagon driver's teeth back down his throat until he saw the rest of the buggers in there happily scoffin' away. “Cornbread”. Seriously, bloody hell. Just have some actual bread, hard enough that you could take a bite and feel a damn tooth crack. That was proper bread, bread that at a pinch could be used as a damn hammer. “Cornbread”. Feck off. Like Walter would eat that damn foreign muck.<br/><br/>Crazy bloody yanks.<br/><br/>Oh, and don't get Walter started on the feckin' “barbeque”. Walter liked meat. Hell, Walter loved meat. If he could afford it it's pretty much all his diet would have ever consisted of. And Walter liked meat despite havin' spent some time workin' in a damn butchers back in the East End and if there was anythin' that was going to put a man off eatin' meat it was working in a bloody butchers. But Walter loved meat enough that he kept eating it, even if he did now view sausages with a certain amount of suspicion ("bags o'mystery as they were affectionately known... and for obvious reasons). Meat was great, meat was bloody brilliant, Walter would stuff himself with meat until the juices ran down his chin and his gut was so heavy he could barely stand.<br/><br/>But why the need to ponce about with it?<br/><br/>“Southern feckin' barbeque”. Took 12 hours to cook the bloody thing and half that time spent rubbing some feckin' weird spices into it or pouring some even stranger bloody sauce over it. And half the feckin' time that sauce was stuffed full of sugar. Bloody sugar! In a sauce! Sugar was for one thing only... puttin' in tea. Not for putting on a bloody piece of pork. What was this feckin' obsession the yanks had with combining sweet and savoury on the same bloody plate? And takin' four times as long to cook a dish as it bloody should take?<br/><br/>If you think Walter is being unfair, bitter and angry here you'd be right. But if you think he's doing it simply because he doesn't understand cooking, you'd be damn wrong. Below, please find some of Walter's favourite recipes and do feel free to try them at home, although I can't accept any liability for what happens afterwards.<br/><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Recipe Title: Dinner</div><div class="spoiler_body"><em><span class="bbc_u">Ingredients</span><br/>1) Meat (doesn't matter what and doesn't matter how much, although bigger is always better)<br/>2) Mustard (as much as you can steal... and proper English mustard, not that wank French stuff or the piss weak American version)<br/><br/><span class="bbc_u">Recipe:</span><br/><br/>1) Take meat, put on stick.<br/>2) Put stick over open flame.<br/>3) Rotate stick whenever you bloody remember.<br/>4) When the outside has turned black because you weren't payin' attention take off the open flame.<br/>5) Dollop mustard on top<br/>6) Eat it (removing from stick unnecessary).</em></div></div><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Recipe Title: Supper Surprise</div><div class="spoiler_body"><em><span class="bbc_u">Ingredients</span><br/><br/>1) One person eating supper.<br/><br/><span class="bbc_u">Recipe</span><br/><br/>1) Find someone eating supper.<br/>2) Shout “Surprise”.<br/>3) Punch them in the face.<br/>4) Repeat Step 3 as many times as necessary until their face is a smooth consistency.<br/>5) Take supper off the unconscious, bleeding, disfigured person.<br/>6) Eat.</em></div></div><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Recipe Title: Whiskey Bitter</div><div class="spoiler_body"><em><span class="bbc_u">Ingredients</span><br/><br/>1) Whiskey<br/><br/><span class="bbc_u">Recipe</span><br/><br/>1) Drink Whiskey<br/>2) Be bitter.</em></div></div><br/>Ok, fair's fair, Walter was no culinary genius. His skill lay in the eatin', not the preparing and with a palette corrupted by years of harsh tobacco, whiskey strong enough to bring the dead back to life and beer which resembled (and tasted like) ditchwater with some mud floating in it, he wasn't exactly able to pick out the subtle flavours or the intriguing combination of ingredients. And perhaps, much like a child who says they don't like something without having ever tried it, if Walter were to simply put aside his prejudices and actually try the stuff he'd find that good barbeque pulled pork is one of life's little pleasure and that good ribs are one of its big ones. Although you could still feck right off with grits and cornbread. Bloody grits.<br/><br/>With all that noted, I doubt it's exactly surprising to hear that Abraham's offer of a free meal didn't exactly set Walter's heart aflame with joy or remove the scowl from his face. Worse, it caused as close to an existential dilemma as a man like Walter ever came; he didn't want the bloody food but he didn't want to turn down a free meal either. Once a scavenger, always a scavenger. So Walter began his desperate attempt at rationalisation. He didn't want the food... but it was free. He did want the whiskey... and it was free. If he had to eat food he wouldn't be able to drink whiskey at the same time. And while everyone else was eating food they wouldn't be drinking whiskey. And the free whiskey only lasted for a certain amount of time. So Walter wouldn't actually be having a free meal, he'd be turning down free whiskey if he took the food. And Walter never turned down free whiskey.<br/><br/>Dilemma solved.<br/><br/>Settling that internal dilemma had meant Walter missed some of the rest of Solomon's announcement, although it must be said he didn't really care. He had no bloody idea who the feck Bella Capri was or why the hell he should pay to go into the backroom to watch the bugger do whatever the feck it was she did and while he had heard of Annabel Montgomery that was only from Handsome Taw talkin' about the nice lookin' barmaid who did a bit of singin'. So what? There were lots of nice lookin' birds around Gomorra and if she was as pretty as Taw said then there were a lot better things she could do with her mouth than sing. As for Tommy Flanagan, well, Walter had never heard of him and the name sounded bloody Irish. Bloody Irish. Walter hated them. Bastards. But hey, if people were busy starin' at some mick bashing at a piano and some pretty bird blastin' her lungs out or if they wandered into the backroom to see whats-her-bloody-name do whatever it was she bloody did more power to 'em. It meant Walter could get more whiskey and getting' more whiskey was rarely a bad thing.<br/><br/>Distractions put aside for the moment, Walter went back to how he had spent the earlier part of the evening, sitting in a corner drinkin' while people watching and scowling at anyone with the misfortune to catch his eye. The early birds were a couple of drinks deep now and yet more bastards were still arriving so the entire place was livening up a bit as the crowd was crammed together. Maybe there'd be a fight eventually. Walter liked fights. He'd quite like a fight now actually. Fights were<em>simple</em>. You punch, you kick, you stamp, you headbut, you win or you lose. No bloody Maze Rats, no stinkin' raiders, no bloomin' Indians, no feckin' beasties and no woman with a bloody swan neck. No thinkin' just doin'. Doin' was<em>simple</em>, thinkin' weren't. Feck thinkin'.<br/><br/>He caught a glimpse of some Chinese lookin' bint dressed up like a damn cowboy sitting next to the big farmer. Were they shaggin'? Strange lookin' couple either way, not that Walter could really comment on people lookin' strange. He tapped he side of his hat for no reason at all and took another slug of whiskey. The Mexi-slag by the bar was seemingly havin' a drinkin' contest against herself and she was startin' to lose, sufferin' with each gulp of the liquid fire she poured down her neck but coming back for more. Chances were she spent the night face down in a ditch with no idea where she was while a bunch of miner's took turns stretchin' out her damn holes. Probably send the word out too till a feckin' line of the bastards formed up behind her, each waiting for their turn to plug her up and get their jollies off. The whores here may be sellin' on the cheap but there was nothin' cheaper than free, passed out pussy.<br/><br/>Through the crowd Walter caught a glimpse of someone lookin' fairly dapper but thought little of it. People liked to dress up for shite like this, liked to think they looked the business, got their gladrags on and thought it feckin' mattered. Didn't bother Walter. He normally liked it. If someone was wearin' their best clothes then they were likely also wearin' their best jewellry and the best jewellry was normally the expensive sort. Not that Walter was plannin' to go a-thieving tonight but, you never know, an opportunity could present itself. Someone takes a punch to the jaw, gets do down, ends up layin' on their back with stars spinnin' over their head, you wander over to “help” and in the process of helpin' accidentally remove everything of value on their person.<br/><br/>And then his attempts to quietly people watch were rudely interrupted.<br/><br/>You can't say he didn't warn her. He'd latched his eyes on her and when it became apparent she was heading his way he'd given her the stare. For a moment it looked like it had worked, it looked like she was going to realise that talking to Walter Sinnett was a bad idea and suddenly realise that she had somewhere better to be and something better to do. Most people would. Most people were smart enough to do that. She wasn't. Her step may have faltered but then she came on and intruded on Walter's world. People intruding in his world rarely made things<em>simple</em>. Walter wanted<em>simple</em>.<br/><br/>Corky Hendricks. The puppy of the Law Dogs. Walter had never spoken to her and had only seen her a few times in passing but he knew of her. Gomorra wasn't a big town, it didn't have many law Dogs and when one was a villain like Walter and spent time with the rascal's at Stiffies one heard about the various do-gooders desperately tryin' to keep a lid on this powder keg. None of them seemed to take Corky too seriously, Apache Matt in particular givin' quite lurid and graphic descriptions about his fantasies of bein' arrested by the plucky young thing. Walter was never quite that dismissive but still. She was a kid. Walter didn't like kids. He didn't like Law Dogs either. And she looked Irish too, what with the bloody red pigtails and the freckles. Walter didn't like the Irish.<br/><br/>But he did like whiskey and Corky had come over with a pair of them. And he did like breasts and she had a pair of those too, seemingly strugglin' for freedom against her top.<br/><br/>Idly Walter wondered if Townsend or Bilton had turned her out yet. She was young but she was pretty and those two weren't a pair exactly known for their manners and delicacy around women. Townsend in particular had a reputation for not takin' no for an answer and likin' to get physical with the object of his affections even if they objected to his affections. Puttin' a pair of fine titties like those in front of him was like a red rag to a bull and with Hunter gone and that other bastard sheriff shot who exactly was going to reign them back? No, Walter guessed life wasn't goin' to be very pleasant for the young Law Dog in the weeks to come. Not with Gomorra the way it was. Not with the way things were startin' to come to a head. Not with the way the vultures were circlin'.<br/><br/>Hell, frankly deciding to talk to Walter Sinnett was a way to make sure life was unlikely to be pleasant. And the Tattered Man had no earthly idea why Corky wanted to talk to him.<br/><br/>For a mere moment his attention was dragged away from the young Law Dog and her considerable “personality” by the arrival of Ginny. The young Whatley rarely allowed herself to enter somewhere quietly or without being noticed, walking around with something between a strut and a flounce, her chin high, expecting every eye to be staring at her. Walter didn't stare. He sneered. He'd seen pretty little rich bitches before. Hell, he'd seen this pretty rich bitch before. They were all the same. Strip away the fancy clothes, stick your cock in them and they squealed just like anyone else. Hapless miners and lovestruck cowboys may swoon at the sight of her but Walter had been around the feckin' block (figuratively and literally). It took more than a nice face in an expensive dress to get him going.<br/><br/>Bloody swan neck.<br/><br/>Anyway, any deeper thoughts Walter might have had... and that's a rare occurrence at the best of times... were immediately pushed to the side when a whiskey was slid over to him. Whiskey did rather have that effect on Walter. That said, the sneer remained, transferring from the young Whateley to the younger Law Dog. Walter made no effort to hide the fact his eyes were roaming over her body before eventually meeting her gaze, nor that there was a distinct contemptuous note to his look. Developed body or not, the girl was a child and yet here she was sat at a man's table, putting her elbows up and tryin' to hold his stare.<br/><br/>Broodin'. Marcus actually understood that word. And you know what, truth be told it probably applied to him. Not in the way those bloody poets liked to use it, all macabre romance and sittin' in a feckin' corner reminiscin' about lost love while pining after some girl and cryin' as they tugged away at their cock. No, Walter was broodin' in the dark sense, in the violent sense. Maybe not broodin' at all, maybe seethin'. Perhaps even “coiled”. He was quiet and he was alone... but he wasn't alone because no-one wanted to be with 'im but because he didn't want anyone to be with him (although seein' as there was this bird who just came over to talk to him, well, yeah, well... you get what I mean). Walter could pull off that type of broodin'. He was an angry, malicious man, a real nasty piece of work and he looked the part. Corky tryin' to be broodin'? Marcus couldn't stop a dismissive snort rising from his throat. Corky... broodin'? Firstly, no 16 year old had the bloody right to be broodin' about nothin'. Angry and pissed off, sure... but broodin'? Feck off. Secondly, no-one with pigtails could ever pull off bein' broodin'. It just didn't feckin' work, like Walter tryin' to pull off bein' welcomin'... it was just wrong. Thirdly, the girl was too damn cheerful. The whole thing about bein' broody was bein' a sour cuss, about bein' pissed off at the world. It wasn't about bein' a positive person, it was about bein' the opposite and Corky was just too damn positive.<br/><br/>Anyway, whatever she was tryin' to do, she failed as soon as the whiskey touched her lips. Walter had watched more than one young 'un try their first sip of gold (gold watch = scotch... even though it wasn't scotch whiskey...) and embarrass themselves but they were rarely as entertainin' with it. Or at least, they didn't have a giant pair of breasts threatenin' to burst out and bouncin' all over the place as they went through a coughin' fit. That did bring a slight smile to Walter's face, the corners of his mouth turning up, although it didn't reach his eyes. Let's also remember one thing... this was the whiskey Walter thought of as “the good stuff, the stuff that wasn't harsh, that went down smoothly. God knows how Corky would handle a cheap whiskey if she fell apart when drinkin' this one. His eyes followed the half-drunk glass as it was pushed towards him. Now, let's be clear, Walter may be a proud man about some things, but free alcohol was not normally one of them. Not even alcohol filled with some teens backwash. But this weren't exactly a normal night either. Walter already had the other whiskey Corky had brought over lined up and he still had what, a couple of hours of free drinks left? No, for once Walter could afford to turn down a gift of alcohol. A single dirty finger rose up and slowly pushed the glass back across the table.<br/><br/><strong>“You just need to get the taste for it love. Go on... drink some more.”</strong><br/><br/>The finger drummed on the table a few times as he waited, eyes firmly fixed on her own.<br/><br/><strong>“Now, tell me this darlin'. What the bloody 'ell are you doin' comin' over and chattin' to me?”</strong>