<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/>It was rather strange this.<br/><br/>In his roughly 30 years of life Walter had made rather a habit of making sure he was nowhere near a police station, jail, detective's offices or any other bloody place full of the bloody rozzers. It wasn't exactly a surprise or a shock why that would be the case. Walter was a criminal, a career criminal and dependin' on your view of law and order either a bloody good or bloody bad one. He stole, he robbed, he killed and he'd made a habit of making sure there wasn't a bloody bluebottle near to clap some irons on 'im. He may have 'ad to spend a few nights in one of those filthy bloody cells as a child after bein' knicked a time or two but once he hit his late teens somethin' was abundently clear... if he ever saw the inside of a police station, let alone a bloody jail the only time he'd ever see the outside was when he was takin' the short walk to the noose.<br/><br/>But that was England, that was London and now Walter was in the US, in Gomorra and he was walkin' into the bloody jail out of his own free will.<br/><br/>“Find the Twitch” he'd been told. Find the strange bastard who had walked into Casino Morongo and burned the place down. Find the sod who had turned Maz Baine in a walkin' ghoul and Walter Sinnett would become the new owner of the Perch, the finest whorehouse in town. Frankly, Walter didn't think he'd be a great owner of a whorehouse... he's spend most of the time feckin' the prostitutes and the other half drunk till he went bankrupt... but you know what, he'd have a hell of a time going bust. But first he had to find the Twitch.<br/><br/>On paper this was right up Walter's street. He'd lost count of the people he'd hunted down narrow alleys and into dark taverns, the number of people he'd located and disposed of in rainy London. But as was abundantly clear he wasn't in London anymore. He was in Gomorra and things worked a bit differently here. In London he found someone who knew someone who knew someone who knew the bastard in question and then hurt them till they told him where someone who knew someone who knew the bastard in question and then the process started again. But the Twitch? He hung round with a bunch of outlaws in the bloody desert... or on a feckin' boat. Walter didn't know anyone who knew 'im, didn't know where he lived, didn't know where he worked, didn't know any whores he visited, didn't know any pubs he frequented, didn't know any restaurants he ate at. Hell, he didn't even know the bastards name. As things stood his only option was to walk around the bloody Great Maze hopin' he bumped into the bastard. And that weren't no plan at all.<br/><br/>So here he was, walkin' into the bloody jail.<br/><br/>Now, Walter didn't know a lot about Bilton or any of the other bastard Law Dogs. He'd gone out of his way not to meet the bastards, to keep his head down and walk on by. Sure, he'd run into Corky and she weren't exactly hard to get on with (or on the eyes) and he'd seen that Hunter cunt before he decided to take a trip in the drink but the rest? The rest he knew only by reputation and frankly, their reputations weren't exactly anything bloody special. What few positive words were said about them was that they were brutal and could take the law into their own hands if they wanted to. But here's the thing. As the stories went they hated Black Jack and his bloody raiders, as the story went Black Jack had shot down the old sheriff and as the story went they were spoilin' for revenge. The Twitch was pretty clearly one of Black Jack's bastards and I'm sure you can put two and two together as to why it might be worth Walter's time to have a chat. Maybe they knew something. They couldn't know less than Walter.<br/><br/>Considering where he was going, Walter was on his best behaviour. Truth be told, that best behaviour amounted to him taking his hat off as he pushed the door to the building and at least pretendin' to brush some of the dirt off his boots as he stepped in, eyes glancin' around the building.<br/><br/><strong>“Sherrif Bilton? Can I 'av a word?”</strong>