<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 13th, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Afternoon<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Walkin' into the Gates Ranch<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Letty, Open.<br/><hr/><hr/><strong>“You lay a bloody hand on that pitchfork with the wrong intention love and I'll take the blunt end and shove it so far up your fat arse you'll be choking on it.”</strong><br/><br/>The mood had changed.<br/><br/>Walter had changed.<br/><br/>Up to this point he may have been crude, he may have been crass, he may have picked his words poorly but he had been mostly amiable. He had joshed with his donkey, followed where Letty led and generally been ill-tempered but harmless... like a sort of strange immigrant pet bear.<br/><br/>He wasn't harmless any more.<br/><br/>Walter was propped up on both elbows and his eyes were fixed on Letty. And what a stare it was, for his right eye seemed to glow red and carry with it the promise of imminent violence. Not just violent. Pain and death. Suffering and rage. Agony and torture. This was not the stare of Walter Sinnett, Englishman abroad who struggled with the language and the food and the weather and the horses. This was not the stare of a man out of place and trying to finding his place in the world.<br/><br/>This was the stare of Walter Sinnett, the Butcher of Bayswater, this was the stare of Walter Sinnett, the Scourge of Spitalfields, this was the stare of Walter Sinnett, the Monster of Millwall. This was the stare of the Tattered Man. A man who had killed, who enjoyed killing, who savoured killing. A man who done acts that would blacken the tongue to speak of and corrupt the soul to consider. It was not just a stare, it was a promise. A promise of what was to come and the price one who felt the stare fall upon them would have to pay. It was a stare that looked deep into the person and asked the simplest of questions; did they want to live? Make no mistake ladies and gentlemen, when you cut to the heart of the matter (and Walter was rather good at cutting) that was the basic nature of Walter Sinnett. Forget the whiskey, forget the whores, forget the donkey, forget the knives, forget the hat, forget the coat. Forget the accent, forget the slang. Forget it all. Focus on the simplest and most true point of all. When Walter Sinnet launched this stare at someone, this weapon of his, this tightening of the jaw and narrowing of the eyes, this clenching of knuckles and gritting of teeth, he was asking if they wanted to die this day, for if they did Walter would happily oblige them in the most brutal, demeaning and painful of manners. Few did. People had pissed themselves, yellow uring runnin' all down their britches, when Walter turned his eyes on them... and now Walter's eyes burned into Letty, sparkling not with delight but with despair and his voice carrying the chill promise of death.<br/><br/>A pet bear ladies and gentlemen is not truly a pet. For while it may bumble along in an almost comedic manner, eating whatever you throw it and simply content to laze around doing very little of anything it can also snap and rip your head off at the slightest provocation. And Walter had seemingly been provoked.<br/><br/>It had all been so much better just a few short moments before.<br/><br/>Walter had chuckled lightly at Letty's assertion that they did speak English, eyes (distinctly lacking a threatening red glow) staring up to the ceiling of the barn.<br/><br/><strong>“Nah, you don't speak English love. You speak some bloody yankee-doodle version... hell, you speak some yankee-doodle crossed with bloody Spanish version. It's like we're speakin' a bloody different language despite some of the words bein' the same.”</strong><br/><br/>Walter's donkey perked up considerably at the sound of first water and then feed being poured into the trough and immediately trotted over, burrowing his head into the sustinance. Walter chuckled again and spoke without rancour, still adjusting himself to get more comfortable on the straw.<br/><br/><strong>“Traitor.”</strong><br/><br/>Thoughts of donkey's with questionable morals quickly passed from Walter's mind as Letty went off to get him his drink. Not just because there was alcohol involved... although that certainly helped... but because it involved Letty gathering up her skirt and climbing up a ladder. Which in turn gave Walter a chance to appreciate her rear end. From what Walter could tell, Letty had a rather nice rear end, even still somewhat hidden under her clothes. Thick and meaty, something you could really grab hold of and would cushion you if you pounded it a bit too hard. When people went around choosin' a whore, if the choice came down to a fat or thin one they went with the thin cos' people tend to think a thing girl is better lookin' than a fat one. But that's because most people were bloody stupid. You didn't pick a whore on looks... it weren't like you were goin' to be bringin' 'em back to your parents or showin' 'em off to your mates... so as long as she was attractive enough for Little Walter to stand to attention then that would do. What mattered with the whore was how she felt and a fat whore was nice and comfortable. A thin one? You'd end up with bruised thighs from slammin' against bone over and over again. No, Walter was smart enough to know you picked a girl with a bit of meat on her every time... and Letty certainly had some meat to her.<br/><br/>And then she brought rum, which meant she was just about Walter's favourite person in the world right then.<br/><br/><strong>“Rum? Didn't expect that... thought everyone just shot down whiskey or bourbon or whatever they call it over 'ere. And most of you Mexi-whatever's drank Tequila or whatever that bloody stuff that looks like piss and has a worm in it is called. Feck it, rum will do though. Keeps the British navy goin' doesn't it? Rum, sodomy and the lash. I never met many sailor boys myself... half the ships may be built in bloody Millwall but they all sail from the bloody south coast, but you 'ear the stories. When ashore it's all wine, women and song but stick 'em on a ship for three months and it's rum, bum and bacca. Never fancied a man's rear end myself but two out of three ain't bad.”</strong><br/><br/>Walter tapped at his pipe before pulling the stopper off the bottle of rum with his teeth and taking an almighty swig, followed by a massive and long lasting “ahhhhhhhhhhhh” as the fire rolled down his neck. That was better, that was much better, that was much, much, much, much, much better. Somewhere cool to lie down, alcohol to be drunk, food to be brought and maybe, just maybe, a bird to give a right old seein' to. The Letty decided to ruin everything by gettin' bloody angry. It didn't take long for Walter to decide he quite liked her when she was angry, especially the way her quicker breaths caused her chest to rise and fall and push her tits out. But then her eyes narrowed and he saw her start to work her way towards a pitchfork and now, here we are.<br/><br/>With Walter staring pure murder at Letty. Even the donkey had stopped its feedin' and raised its head, just as the chickens and goats fell quiet too. They knew something was about to happen.<br/><br/>It did.<br/><br/>What did happen was that Walter briefly closed his eyes and when he opened them again there was no sign of anger, no sign of rancour, not hint of violence to come. Instead he simply lay back again, head once more pillowed in his hands, tone friendly... or at least as close to friendly as Walter got.<br/><strong><br/>“It was only a bloody question love. No need to get bent out of soddin' shape. You're bloody right though. You'd cost a pretty penny you would. You got all your teeth, all your limbs, both ears and as far as I can tell two workin' eyes, neither of which is lazy. I had a whore with a lazy eye once... bloody wierd it was 'cos I kept thinkin' there was some bastard stood behind me. Yeah, you could charge a bloody fortune for a quickie with you and people would pay it. Hell, you're half set-up here already and it's got to be better than lookin' after bloody horses. Got a buildin' not that far from Gomorra, got somethin' comfortable to lie on. All you really need are some curtains...”</strong><br/><br/>Walter looked up to the ceiling, mapping out in his head how the barn could be turned into a brothel.<br/><br/><strong>“Some people would prefer beds but honestly, straw's just as comfortable and you can throw it out when it gets messy rather than just turnin' it over and hopin' the next punter don't notice. Hell, what's the word... ru... r...r... rus... rustic, that's bloody it. You call it “rustic” and you charge an extra coin for that and people will still pay.”</strong><br/><br/>A glance around the barn again, followed by another slug of rum.<br/><br/><strong>“You'd need an abbess of course. Can't have a brothel without a madam who runs the place. They gotta be tough and scary for those outside but nice and carin' to the whores inside. That Agatha bint seems like she'd do the job. And you'd need a bastard. Someone to keep the punters in line and keep them honest. I could do that. I done it before. Gotta watch out for some punters.”</strong><br/><br/>Another slug of rum filled Walter's mouth and nostalgia filled his voice.<br/><br/><strong>“I was lookin' after some dollyhouse down in Shoreditch one time. Decent place actually, not that much need for me. Perhaps that's why I only got a small discount rather than pussy for free. Anyone, there was one guy who went there, a cunt cnamed Richard but everyone just called him dick. And Richard liked everyone to know that he'd done a whore. He wanted marks on 'em, to treat 'em rough. Now I ain't got no problem with that, I like me some rough stuff too but you gotta remember, we're talkin' about whores here. You rent 'em for a while, you don't own 'em. They're whores, no slaves. And if nothin' else, no man likes to be reminded the whore he's about to tumble has already been feckin' around that day. Sure, we all know it... we ain't stupid... but as long as it's not obvious we put it out of our mind. But if the whore comes up to you with her pussy gaped right open, her hair a mess, her arse bright red, marks all over her and a bloody black eye then you can't really avoid the fact that she's just been given a right good seein' to... and that's bad for business. You can do it if you want, but the whore's got to agree and you got to pay more. But Dick didn't pay  more and he didn't ask the whores if they agreed to takin' a beatin'.”<br/></strong><br/>Walther lifted up his hat and gently used the brim to fan his face,<br/><br/><strong>“So me and him had a little conversation. He asked me why it was difficult to breath and I said it was 'cos I'd broken three of his ribs. And then I had a chat about how he should show a bit more respect to the whores. Thought that would be the end of it didn't I? Stupid of me.”</strong><br/><br/>Down went the hat.<br/><strong><br/>“For two months he was a good little boy. He could have gone to another knockin' shop... I half expected 'im too. But he was right sweet on one of the lasses wasn't he? Pretty little thing called Sally. Small, petite, looked like she was made out of china. Half expected her to crack whenever someone touched her. She had happy eyes though. That was the big thing. Aint many whores with happy eyes and hers were right full of joy. Dick liked her... he liked her a lot. Treated her right too. Spent his speed, went on his way and never marked her. Even tipped a couple of times. Everything seemed good.”</strong><br/><br/>A slight grimace appeared on Walter's face, his eyes narrowing.<br/><br/><strong>“I'm sat in the taproom one night with my feet up. Quiet night really; I'd had to throw out a group of rowdy dockers but they were too full of beer to really do much of anything. So I'm sittin' there sippin' on a cup of tea and wonderin' if I've got enough change in my pocket to get one of judy's to sip on somethin' of mine when there's a great crash and a scream. I'm up like a stabbed rat and go chasin' up there to find out what the feck was goin' on. It was Sally's room. Should have known. And the window was open and Dick had bolted.”</strong><br/><br/>The grimace deepened.<br/><br/><strong>“He'd taken a whip to her. Not just to her back or her arse or even her tits... that would be bad enough but it can be dealt with. Nah, he'd taken it to her bloody face. And not just once. After they cleared the blood away there were at least three deep lines across her face. Lines that scarred and stayed forever. And with the tears wiped away you could see her eyes weren't full of joy no more. So I went to find Dick.”</strong><br/><br/>A hand clenched.<br/><strong><br/>“I didn't kill 'im. That weren't the point of it. Sure, he needed to be bloody punished but there needed to be more than that as well. It weren't just about punishin' Dick, it was about sendin' a message. People die in London everyday and many of 'em die badly. If I'd just knifed Dick and dropped his body in the Thames then what message had been sent? Would the next lad who wandered into a whorehouse with a bit of anger to take out realised what would happen if he went too far? No chance. No, I made an example out of Dick. I took away everythin' he could use to hurt anyone... his hands, his feet, his tongue, his eyes, his em... sensitive parts. Then I nailed what was left of 'im to London Bridge with a sign around his neck sayin' he'd beaten a whore and this is what he got. When I came back and showed Sally a part of him I'd removed, I saw some joy in her eyes again. Only time though. Ain't much call for a scarred up whore and she weren't no good as a thief. I tried to tell her to go visit some nuns where she'd at least get a meal a day even if she did have to wear a habit and pretend like she knew the lord but she wouldn't listen. Ended up tryin' to be a pickpocket but I guess she was too used to makin' sure people knew her hands were there to do the opposite. Hell, when she stuck a hand in a pocket she probably squeezed a cock by reflex. They hung her. Only six months after that bastard took her face. But we didn't have trouble. Not for a long time. Word got out and no punter do nothin' to a whore that she hadn't agreed and he hadn't paid for. And not just in our whorehouse, in most of 'em right across London. I reckon I saved a few whores lives that day. Couldn't save Sally though. She had to suffer so others didn't. Pretty shit for her really."</strong><br/><br/>Another deep drink of rum, swishing it around his mouth.<br/><strong><br/>"That's why you need a bastard love. You need some fecker to scare the shit out of the punters so no-one gets treated like Sally. 'Cos she didn't feckin' deserve that."</strong><br/><br/>Walter swallowed.<br/><br/><strong>“Bloody hell, what was I talkin' about?”</strong><br/><br/>Walter pushed himself back up to his elbows, eyes glancing at Letty. There was no indication of either the anger or nostalgia that had flowed through him previously in either his tone or expression; it was as if the last few minutes had not happened.<br/><br/><strong>“Oh yeah... whorin'. It was only a bloody question love, no need to get so self-bloody-rightous. I mean, Jesus, what's the world comin' too when a man can't ask a lady if he could pay to feck 'er? That's just good communication love; basis of all great relationships. Anyway...”</strong><br/><br/>He rolled her neck slowly, feeling a few pops and cracks as he loosened it up. His irration at the hot dust of the Great Maze had meant he had forgotten the knife blade still buried in his shoulder but as the cool barn did its work he could feel the dull ache start up again. Someday he'd have to have it seen to. Preferably by a doctor who looked more skilled than the butcher Walter had apprenticed under.<br/><br/><strong>“... if you're not in the game then I take it that Aggy bint ain't either? I mean, she ain't exactly my type  but, feck it, needs must if ya know what I mean. Like seriously, what's the longest you've ever gone without feckin? After about a week it just gets bloody awkward you know? Makes me right soddin' irritable. And shaggin' your hand just aint the same no matter what you try to do. I've tried all the bloody tricks; usin' my left hand, sleepin' on my hand till it goes dead and then usin' that, both hands, cuppin' my balls, twistin' rather than strokin', bloody all of 'em but it just ain't the same. Probably the same for you lasses right? A couple of fingers, a bit or wood or even a carrot... it just ain't the same as a hard dick slammin' ya. Hell, carrots... you got any? My donkey is mighty partial to a few bloody carrots and I don't mind 'em myself. Where was I?”</strong><br/><br/>Walter took another big swig of the rum. Frankly, he was getting through it at what would be an alarming rate for most people. For Walter it was a quiet afternoon.<br/><br/><strong>“A feed. That was it. Yeah, I got my drink, I'm guessin' I ain't gettin' a whore so yeah, a nice bit of grub would really hit the spot. What do you people eat out 'ere? It ain't horse is it?”</strong><br/>