<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/>Well, ain't that a turn-up for the feckin' books?<br/><br/>I'll get to the idea of Walter havin' some form of insight or strategic thinkin' that others lacked later. Actually, bugger it, let's deal with that now.Walter had heard some bollocks similar to Mr Baine's little chessboard line before. Something about bushes and hedges. Or flowers and hedges. Or bushes and trees. Walter couldn't really remember. The guy who had told him it hadn't been speakin' too clearly on account of the fact Walter had broken his jaw, knocked half his teeth down his throat and the other half onto the grimy backroom floor the pair had found themselves standin' on. Well, Walter standin', the other bastard lyin' on the floor leakin' blood. Anyway, this poor bastard had thought he didn't have to pay back certain debts he owed and Walter was sent over to remind him that this may not have been the most sensible of ideas. The guy had tried to talk Walter out of it... the stupid ones always did, the smart ones either ran or tried to get Walter first... but the phrase hadn't come then. It had come later, once Walter's reminders had become a bit more forceful. Once the guy realised he wasn't getting out of this, that there was nothing he could say and nothing he could do, that's when the phrase came out, some last act of self-righteous defiance tryin' to point out how Walter was a pawn or he didn't understand or some bollocks like that. The bastard hadn't had much of a chance to explain what he meant due to Walter stampin' on his head till it burst like a rotting tomato but the wordin' had stuck with Walter.<br/><br/>Forest for the trees. That was it.<br/><br/>Walter hadn't really got it. Sure he'd seen trees before. Normally sickly, stumpy little things that got chopped down to make ill-smellin' firewood as soon as they grew to a man's knee but he'd seen some big and proud buggers as well when he wandered into the nicer parts of London. But a forest? When exactly was Walter meant to have seen a forest? Before his enforced flight to Gomorra Walter had never been outside London... hell, he'd never been outside urban London if you want to get picky. How many forests do you think there are in the Millwall Docks? The windin' backalleys of Cheapstreet? The slums of the Isle of Dogs? Walter had never seen a bloody forest before in his life so how was he meant to miss one? Anyway, nothin' in the phrase meant sense. Walter wasn't goin' to pretend he was smart with words or anythin' but wasn't the bloody definition of a forest a place with a load of bastard trees? How the feck was a man meant to tell if it was a forrest without lookin' at the trees? And what was the difference between a forest and a wood? And what in the name of God was a feckin' copse? Where was I?<br/><br/>Ah, yes... chess.<br/><br/>The chess analogy worked a bit better for Walter. Not because he played chess... there's not a sudden twist to this bloody tale where the uneducated and culturally malnourished Walter who spends his days drinkin', debauchin' and daggerin' somehow was a bloody chess master. As far as he was concerned the Sicilian Openin' was something you slipped an adventerous whore an extra bob or two for if you wanted a real excitin' night and the English defence was standin' up and punchin' a bastard in the face. Walter couldn't even really play draughts and that at least only had one type od piece on the board. Of course, not bein' able to play draughts wasn't helped by the fact he'd punched the first guy to try to teach him in the face when he thought he was muggin' him off but that doesn't really change the truth of it... Walter couldn't play draughts and certainly couldn't play, understand or appreciate bloody chess. But he could call on experience you see. One time Walter had been doin' over some rich man's place and found a pretty damn ornate lookin' chess set. The pieces were beautiful and seemingly made of gold and the board itself was heavy stone. Walter had knicked the lot and made for the nearest fence who he at least vaguely trusted. Only to find that the “solid gold” pieces were actually tin covered in the thinnest layer of imitation gold leaf and pretty much worthless. The board on the other hand? That was solid marble and worth a pretty penny. Not enough to retire on but enough to keep Walter in beer and buggerin' for a few nights. If he'd simply gone for the pieces he'd have missed that. Vision you see.<br/><br/>He thought that was what Mr Baine was talkin' about so he nodded sagely and sipped at his whiskey. And if it weren't what Mr Baine was talkin' about then it made no sense for him to look stupid in front of the boss by saying it so he sipped whiskey and nodded sagely anyway.<br/><br/>And as for the whiskey, well, that was almost a revelation. Mr Baine hadn't been lyin'... it was a hell of a lot better than the stuff he'd been drinkin' earlier in the night and remember, that's the poison Walter considered “the good stuff”. Compared to the potato water he was used to drinkin' down at Stiffies this was like sucking nectar from the large tits of a particularly excited fertility goddess. Walter couldn't say why it was better or how it was better, it just was... in pretty much every single way. Although you know what... truth be told, Walter wasn't entirely sure he liked the fact the drink was so smooth. Walter liked the burn as whiskey slid down, he liked the face you gritted your teeth and snarled after a particularly painful gulp, he liked the way it lit a fire in your belly. Walter wasn't sure he could trust a whiskey that didn't burn. The burn was good. The burn showed you were alive.<br/><br/>Ok, perhaps not the best choice of words in the current situation...<br/><br/><strong>“Grand openin'? Didn't look to grand to me Mr Baine, Sir. I was only there for the free whiskey and well...”</strong><br/><br/>Walter raised his glass to Mr Baine.<br/><br/><strong>“... here's the free whiskey. I ain't right personable you see, not one of those socialable types so I was only really sittin' and drinkin' anyway.”</strong><br/><br/>Now, onto the real turn-up for the feckin' books.<br/><br/>Vice-president Sinnett.<br/><br/>You recall that little monologue earlier? About Walter's clarity of purpose and how he knew who and what he was and what his place in this world should be? Bein' a bloody vice-president was not part of it. Walter wouldn't have made a good vice-president of an outhouse let alone a feckin' company like Sweetrock. Can you imagine? Walter in a suit... and nice suit like Mr Baines wore not the ragged mess of a thing Walter currently had one... and sittin' behind a desk readin' papers and signin' memos? Walter gave it about five minutes before he'd do some serious “streamlinin' of personel in key areas” which translated into him knifin' some poor bastards in the office because they'd asked him to look over somethin' that he just didn't bloody understand. What the feck was a vice-president anyway? It sort of meant you were in charge... Mr Baine was a vice-president and he was sort of in charge... but it didn't mean you were properly in charge which is why Mt Baine didn't want to be vice-president anymore and wanted to move up in the world. Was there only one vice-president? Were there lots? And Walter was fairly certain bein' vice-president didn't directly involve any of the vices Walter was interested in. Vice-president... you'd have better luck simply offerin' Walter “vice present”. That would keep him 'appy. That would keep him satisfied.<br/><br/>Walter sipped his whiskey and paused a moment. When he did speak he chose his words carefully... or at least as carefully as Walter ever did choose his words.<br/><br/><strong>“Mr Baine, Sir... I'll start by sayin' I'm in. Simple as that. I'm your man.”</strong><br/><br/>Another pause. Walter finished his whiskey.<br/><br/><strong>“But vice-president? Pardonin' my french Sir, that's bollocks. It don't mean nothin'. Not for me. It's a title and a pay rise. The pay rise I'll happily take but the title? I ain't even completely sure what a vice-president does but the fact I don't bloody know that probably means I wouldn't be a good one. What am I meant to do Sir, sit in an office like this...”</strong><br/><br/>Walter turned his head to nod at the luxurious furnishings around them.<br/><br/><strong>“... and do what you do? That ain't me Sir. I ain't you. I ain't good enough to be you. I'm a doer, not a thinker Sir. You tell me to do somethin' and it gets done. By hook or by bloody crook, by fair means or feckin' foul, it happens. I'm not an office man Sir, I'm the man who gets his hands dirty. Pretty bloody dirty most of the time. What am I going to do in an office Sir? What am I goin' to do if I'm not feckin' doin? Sure, you've got some meetin' with some bastard in a fancy suit who doesn't do what you want, you bring me along and I make 'im see your point of view pretty quickly but I don't need to be a vice-president to do that. I can read Sir but I don't read that well and my writin' looks like a spider fell into a whiskey bottle, drank half of it, clambered the feck out, dipped its feet in some ink and stumbled across some paper. And my spellin' Sir... I'm told my spellin's pretty unique. And not in the bloody good way.”</strong><br/><br/>Another pause. Walter slowly drew his tongue over his jagged teeth.<br/><br/><strong>“I ain't a vice-president Sir. Not in anyway that matters. If you're movin' up in the world then you need a vice-president who actually understands what the bloody 'ell a vice president is. I'll take the money and I'll take the title but the title don't mean nothin'. I'll find the right tools Sir, I'll apply leverage or whatever the buggerin' word you used was, whether I'm doin' it myself or getting some other bastard to do it... that I can do, that I know... but actually bein' a vice-president? That ain't me Sir.”</strong><br/><br/>This time his tongue flicked out and over his lips.<br/><br/><strong>“Here's the thing Mr Baine, Sir. In this country you got bastards talkin' about the American dream. But that don't mean much to me Sir because I ain't bloody American. I'm English. So here's the English version. I arrive in Gomorra with nothin' but the clothes on my back, the knife at my 'ip and a willingness to get things done. No-one offers me work and why bloody would they? Look at the state of me, listen to me. I ain't exactly a feckin' model servant am I? I ain't done no minin', ain't done no farmin', hate bloody horses, hate bloody rocks, hate bloody sand. I ain't educated, I don't sound clever and I don't look pretty. But you come along and offer me a job when no-one else would. And I do that job and I do that job well. And now here you are offerin' me a chance to become vice-president, even if it is a bloody stupid idea. Bein' vice-president, that don't mean nothin' to me... if you gave me the same pay and still had me droppin' bodies into the bloody water I'd be just as 'appy. Probably 'appier because I don't need to do anythin' in an office. But offerin' me the chance to be vice-president? That does mean feckin' somethin'. I know what I am Mr Baine. I know what I'm good at and I know what I'm bloody awful at. I've run gangs, I've terrorised half of London, I've filled obituaries and if they can find the bodies cemeteries. You want those skills used I'll use those skills for you. You promise me money and I'll use them all the bloody better. But makin' me a vice-president in any meaningful bloody way. That ain't the best use for those skills Sir. I'll do what needs to be done and you'll pay me a bloody fortune and I'll do it bloody well. You wanna' make me a vice-president as well? Knock yourself out. But I ain't lookin' for respect Mr Baine, Sir. I ain't lookin' to have the 'igh and mighty view me as one of their own. I'm your man Sir, but you don't need to offer me glass beads to do it.”</strong><br/><br/>Walter was thinkin'. Normally he tried to avoid doin' this wherever possible... keep things<em>simple</em>after all. But Mr Baine had talked about that thing with the chessboard and that required thinkin'. Walter had heard of the railroads, heard of the companies, heard of the bloody great rail wars and heard of the dirty tricks, violence and schemes that all sides employed. It didn't surprise Walter. The side of “win”, the railroad that managed to control transport across the US, would make more money than Walter could imagine. And because that number wasn't very high, they'd also make more money than Mr Baine could imagine... and that number was very high. And the Great Maze, with its ghostrock? That was the key to the whole bloody puzzle. Sure, there was ghostrock in other places and other lucrative lines... but the Maze was where most of the ghostrock was and thus most of the profit. You get your line there, you make it secure... even Walter was smart enough to know you'd be rolling in money. Walter knew the bloody Chinese had Shan Fen under their thumb and if the Chinese had Shan Fen then that meant the bloody warlord fella' and his Iron Dragon had Shan Fen. It meant they had a foothold. But only a foothold. Because the other companies weren't stupid enough to think they could just let that happen. And over in Lost Angels there was a certain bloody messiah who hated the railroad and everythin' to do with it. Which left Gomorra sat in the middle like a peach waitin' to be plucked. Or perhaps more accurately, a virgin waitin' to be fucked. The question was whether she got married to a nice gentleman and got to live in comfort and happiness or if she got bent over in some dark alley and raped.<br/><br/>Walter wasn't thinkin' this because of his deep insights into business or economics. You started talking to him about limited companies, stock options, economies of scale, administration costs, market positioning, employee turnover or any of that bollocks and his eyes would glaze over and he'd likely punch you. No, he was thinkin' this because he was a gangster and what was goin' on wasn't a business transaction. Not really. It was a takeover. It was one gang marching into a smaller gang's territory and stakin' its claim. Walter had been on both sides of that before. He knew how that worked. And it didn't always work out great for the smaller gang. Not if they fought. And not if they didn't offer the bigger gang anything.<br/><br/>What had Baine said? That they were goin' to sell the railroad... whichever bloody railroad... every stake in the area. Great. A businessman would love that, especially when he looked at the expected profits. He wouldn't love it so much when he saw the actual profits. A gangster wouldn't even need to look at that. He'd know all about the con artists who sold things they didn't own. Sure, Sweetrock was the big dog in Gomorra but it weren't the only one. There were the independent miners... the fiercely independent miners with lots of dynamite. Then there was Blackjack, the bloody folk hero who would do anythin' to piss off Sweetrock and seemed pretty god-damn stubborn on his whole “independent” thing. Then there were the bloody Maze Rats and Walter didn't know where to start with them. Story went they were loyal to that Warlord bastard... more than loyal, they bloody worked for 'im. Which meant that if Kang came to Gomorra first they'd simply occupy the mines they'd already scared the bloody miners off from and then hand them over. And if another company did then they'd fight tooth and nail (or more likely pistol and cutlass) to keep it from them. And if they really were allied with Blackjack and Blackjack really did hate Sweetrock enough that he didn't give a toss about anything else but spitin' them then they had a band of outlaws to call on as well. Then there were the bloody Indians and them supposedly bein' on the feckin' warpath as well, ready to sweep down and scalp any bloody non-redskin they could find. Oh... and that feckin' beastie or whatever the feck that<em>thing</em>was.<br/><br/>If a railroad came to town today, what could Sweetrock sell them? Half of the strikes and mines in Gomorra? But with the Maze Rats patrollin' the channels of the Maze the Iron Dragon already held a number of those in everything but name and any other company would have to fight them off. And the chance of a redskin invasion. Or Grimme sending his bloody martyrs up with dynamite and a poor sense of self-preservation. Or the independent miners comin' along with even more dynamite? Or Blackjack raidin' and harryin' like he does. Or a feckin'<em>thing</em>from your bloody nightmares happily rippin' people apart. Weren't really a temptin' deal was it? Those things... those things didn't just lower the askin' price, they meant it would be half-temptin' not to buy at all but simply to take. After all, if you already have to retake half the bloody mines and deal with a bunch of raiders why not just take it all by force to begin with? Sweetrock wouldn't be offerin' anything worth payin' for to the railroad. They'd look weak. Ripe for rapin'.<br/><br/>So Sweetrock had to look strong. They had to keep the miner's under control, sideline the Maze Rats, make sure Grimme and his preachin' never made it to Gomorra, force Blackjack into retreat and work out what the feck that beastie was, where it came from and how to make sure it never came back a-bloody-gain. They had to package everythin' up and make it look real nice an temptin'. They had to put on their best dress, pour out some tea, give a coy smile and convince the bastard railroad to seduce them. Not flail around helplessly in the dark runnin' from crises to crises till the railroad grabbed 'em, forced them against a wall and made them scream.<br/><br/>And Walter's mind turned again. To a redhead with a large barker and the airship she had just launched. An airship that if ever fully developed would turn the railroads into an irrelevance and the rail wars into a footnote in history. What's the point of a railway when you could just fly the bloody stuff? All those profits, all those hopes... gone, leaving nothing but disused tracks, blood and wasted money. The railroads didn't want that airship flyin'. They didn't want anythin' flyin.<br/><br/>And into that mess, into that wonderful, horrible chaos where fortunes could be made and lives lost, where the very fate of a divided nation could be decided, Walter Sinnett, a drunken thug from London in a tattered suit took his first steps.<br/><br/><strong>“So tell me Mr Baine, Sir. What do you need me to do?”</strong>