<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/><hr/><strong>”No bastard survives if I contact 'em first with my bloody fist.”</strong><br/><br/>The way the words rolled off Mr Baine's lips meant Walter assumed it was a well known phrase or somethin'. Walter didn't know the phrase... he wasn't one for wordplay, but he put his own homespun version into his own words. He thought his worked too. Sure, no plan survives contact with the enemy but when your plan was to punch them in the face (or stab them if you were feeling particularly bloody nasty... and Walter frequently felt particularly nasty) until they told you who and where the next bugger you needed to punch was then there wasn't much to go wrong. Punch, ask, stab, repeat. Simple. Walter liked simple. People over complicated things. You kept it simple. You wanted to kill a bastard, you killed him. If someone was stronger than you then you got stronger or you made them weaker. If you had to take on lots of people then you made sure they didn't gang up on you. Simple. No need for clever bollocks.<br/><br/>Walter nodded at Mr Baine's instructions. Time to start a war between some bloody chinamen and redskins. That weren't no trouble. Not for a man like Walter. Walter was good at making people angry. He was good at getting people to wish murder on others. Admittedly that normally meant getting them angry at him and wanting to murder him but it couldn't be that hard to get them to murder someone else instead. He just had to make sure they thought he was someone else. Disguise some people called it. Walter called it killin' a few bastards, killin' some more buggers and then draggin' the bastard's bloody bodies to where the bloody buggers were and leavin' them for people to discover. Weren't like Walter could exactly dress up like a yellow or redskin could he? His skin weren't the right colour and feck it, how many chinamen or Indians had you 'eard with a strong cockney accent? What was Walter meant to do... stick a crow on his 'ead, talk weird and pretend he was a redskin? What idiot thought that would work?<br/><br/>Thoughts of ridiculous disguises quickly fell from Walter's mind at the mention of the Perch... and the Twitch. A grin slowly grew on the Tattered Man's face... the sort of sadistic grin that came with the promise of savage joy, of chains being removed, of blood and pain and agony and death. It touched his eyes, but it touched them with a fury. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, perhaps it was a trick of the mind but for a moment, just a mere moment, his right eye appeared to turn red.<br/><strong><br/>“I'll cut his bastard heart out on bring it to you on a platter. Or I'll make him wish I bloody 'ad when I drag what's left of him in 'ere.”</strong><br/><br/>You see ladies and gentleman, that's what Walter did. All this strategic bollocks, that vice president malarky, pittin' the various bastards who thought Gomorra was theres for the takin' against each other, that was all new to Walter. This... this was how he had made his name. Someone more important and richer than him wanted someone else dead. And he was goin' to pay Walter to make that person suffer. Sure, the twistin' streets of London and the Great Maze weren't exactly identical and this Twitch bastard weren't exactly some bugger owing gamblin' debts but on the basic level the two things were the bloody same. He was a dog and his master had passed his prey's scent to him and let him slip his leash. And there was no feckin' doggie in the Fast County to match Walter.<br/><br/>Walter took the money that had been offered to him without question. Bloody double golden eagles... feckin' five of them. It was a small bloody fortune. Walter weren't goin' to do anythin' that might mean they got taken from his hands. He nodded his thanks and swiftly pocketed the coins, a hand disappearing within the cavernous expanse of his duster. The other hand came to his lips, swiftly downing what was left of his whiskey before placing the glass down.<br/><br/><strong>“Well Mr Baine... looks like I've got me some work to be gettin' bloody on with. As nice as the whiskey is, I'm about as much use as tits on a pig 'ere. If I need anythin' or find anythin' I'll let you know.”</strong><br/><br/>Walter sort of decided he was dismissed. He said what he thought... while he certainly wouldn't have bloody minded just standin' ere and getting rat-arsed on good whiskey, he doubted Mr Baine thought that was a productive use of his bloody time. He hadn't been hired for his wholesome personality. He'd been hired because he could strike fear into the heart of every bleeder this side of Greenwich. Walter Sinnett ruled the night. He just had to remind bastards that he did. That said... just as he opened the door and went to leave he paused and turned back to Mr Baine.<br/><br/><strong>“You know Mr Baine, Sir... when that bastard did that to you...”</strong><br/><br/>A hand raised to gesture at Mr Baine, the intent clear.<br/><br/><strong>“... I heard some people talkin' about feelin' sorry for you. That they may not have liked you but that you'd still been given a shit hand. Me, I didn't. Not that I wanted that to bloody happen of course or that I don't feel bad it did. But it weren't you I was feelin' sorry for Mr Baine. It was that bastard, 'cos I knew we'd get out hands on 'im. They 'ad their shot... at you and at Sweetrock and they couldn't finish the job. I'll finish the feckin' job Mr Baine. I'll make him a feckin' cautionary tale that mums tell their kiddies to get 'em to be good. I'll string what's left of his body right over the feckin' bridge out of town so every bastard who comes in will look up and know here lies the man who thought he could feck with Mr Baine. I'll hurt 'im good Sir. I'll hurt 'im feckin' good.”</strong><br/><br/>And with those final few words Walter headed out.<br/><br/>But not to the Perch.<br/><br/>Sure the place sounded good... a whole night of women, whiskey, food and whatever the feck else a man could want. But it cost a bloody pretty penny too. And Walter was savin'. Savin' till he could fund a dream. A dream that started with a red'ead with a large barker and ended with a bloody creature from myth. A dream that cost money. But even feckin' then the Perch had some bloody issues. Rent the place for a night? Walter couldn't think of a good reason to spend more than twenty minutes with a whore, however pretty. Ok... maybe an hour if she was real pretty like, but that was pushin' it. What were you meant to do when you'd finished feckin' her? Have a conversation? Why the bloody 'ell would you want to talk to a whore? You didn't buy a whore for conversation and if a ladybird did open her mouth it was for somethin' to go in, not for words to come out?<br/><br/>But, ah, I hear you say... that's why you got all the whores, not just one. But feck that. Sure, it was pretty background scenery but despite frequent wishes when a child, Walter only had one cock. You could throw the 300 prettiest whores in the world at 'im and he could still on feck them one at a time. What was he meant to do while he was arsedeep in one of them... fondle the others? That would just be bloody distractin'. And when he'd finished with one he couldn't just roll over to the next... Little Walter still needed some time to recover didn't he? So instead he'd have to sit there waitin' for his balls to fill-up some more and by Walter's count that meant wastin' time that he'd paid for. It would have made him a bloody mug.<br/><br/>But again, I hear you protest. I hear you say that it is during those recovery periods that Walter could gorge himself on drink and food. But feck that too. Walter weren't gonna' pay that much money just to bloody eat. And drink? Well, that was more temptin' but drink too much and there weren't gonna' be a round two however much Walter tried to warm up his brave companion. Frankly, Walter already had a belly full of whiskey anyway. Too much more and there's as much chance that he'd pass out on top of a whore as he would feck her. And let's apply some self-preservation 'ere. Walter didn't like wanderin' around the edge of the mesa at the best of times. Rough trip, bad landin'. Not since he'd seen that bloody bridge go down. Not because he was scared of heights... feck that... but because he weren't that stupid. No reason to go to the edge unless you needed to. You get Walter that drunk, you get him that well fecked and there was a good chance he'd turn right instead of left and go tumblin' off the edge. Feck that for a game of soldier. Feck the Perch and feck the feckin' doves that roosted there. Just not literally in this case.<br/><br/>So Walter 'eaded into the early evening of Gomorra. For the night was still young.