Doomtown Reloaded:  Sweetrock Mining Company (IC Thread)
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		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Bondage, D/s, S&amp;M =&gt; Bondage: Human Small Groups =&gt; Topic started by: Ciosa on 18-04-2014, 23:11:02</h2>
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				Title: <strong>Doomtown Reloaded:  Sweetrock Mining Company (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>18-04-2014, 23:11:02</strong>
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				<hr><div align="center">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/e/e6/Reloadedbanner.png)</div><hr><br><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size: 18pt;" class="bbc_size">Sweetrock Mining Company</span></strong></div><br><div align="center">This thread is reserved for roleplaying that takes place on the Sweetrock's mesa.&nbsp; Note that Sweetrock Mining Company is on a separate Mesa from the main town of Gomorra, and connected by a durable, wide metal bridge.&nbsp; Please use the Tagging Header listed below.</div><br><div class="spoiler_container"><div onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button" class="spoiler_header">Doomtown Tagging Header</div><div class="spoiler_body"><div class="codeheader">Code: <a href="javascript:void(0);" onclick="return smfSelectText(this);" class="codeoperation">[Select]</a></div><pre style="margin: 0; padding: 0;"><code class="bbc_code">[hr]<br>[floatleft][IMG height=200 padding=8]&lt;Link to your character's picture&gt;[/IMG][/floatleft] <br>[b]Name:[/b] <br>[b]Faction:[/b] (Unknown, or the associated faction rank.&nbsp; If faction rank is less than three, it is not required to note.)<br>[b]Date:[/b]<br>[b]Time of Day:[/b] (morning, noon, afternoon.&nbsp; Please avoid precise timing.)<br>[b]Location:[/b] <br>[b]Tagged:[/b] <br>[hr] </code></pre></div></div><br><div class="spoiler_container"><div onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button" class="spoiler_header">Sweetrock Locations</div><div class="spoiler_body">Lumberyard<br>Scooter's Lift Winch<br>Sweetrock Commercial Port<br>Sweetrock Ghostrock Warehouses<br>Sweetrock Mining Company Executive Offices<br><br>Please note that locations in italics are not yet in game.&nbsp; Location that are struck through are not openly accessible.<br></div></div>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded:  Sweetrock Mining Company (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>18-04-2014, 23:11:28</strong>
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				<div align="center">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/e/e6/Reloadedbanner.png)</div><br>All posts after this juncture are part of Doomtown Reloaded.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded:  Sweetrock Mining Company (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>18-04-2014, 23:45:05</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/8b/Maxbaine_2.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Max Baine<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Sweetrock (Vice President)<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 11th, 1876.<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Early evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> Private offices<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Closed, Walter<br><hr><div class="floatright"><div class="spoiler_container"><div onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button" class="spoiler_header">Farmer in the Dell</div><div class="spoiler_body"><em>The farmer in the dell<br>The farmer in the dell<br>Heigh-ho, the derry-o<br>The farmer in the dell<br>The farmer takes a wife <br>The farmer takes a wife <br>Heigh-ho, the derry-o<br>The farmer in the dell<br>The wife takes the child<br>The wife takes the child<br>Heigh-ho, the derry-o<br>The farmer in the dell<br>The child takes the nurse<br>The child takes the nurse<br>Heigh-ho, the derry-o<br>The farmer in the dell<br>The nurse takes the cow<br>The nurse takes the cow<br>Heigh-ho, the derry-o . . .<br>The farmer in the dell<br>The cow takes the dog <br>The cow takes the dog <br>Heigh-ho, the derry-o . . .<br>The farmer in the dell<br>The dog takes the cat<br>The dog takes the cat<br>Heigh-ho, the derry-o . . .<br>The farmer in the dell<br>The cat takes the mouse <br>The cat takes the mouse<br>Heigh-ho, the derry-o . . .<br>The farmer in the dell<br>The mouse takes the cheese<br>The mouse takes the cheese<br>Heigh-ho, the derry-o . . .<br>The farmer in the dell<br>The cheese stands alone<br>The cheese stands alone<br>Heigh-ho, the derry-o . . .<br>The farmer in the dell</em></div></div></div>Max Baine picked idly at the scabs which still covered much of his face.&nbsp; The Sweetrock offices of the Vice President were lavishly appointed, covered with imported velvet and polished hard woods, but no amount of padded cushions or Arabian carpets could take away the heat that still festered beneath the surface of his skin.&nbsp; His teeth ground, the lyrics still haunting his mind.<br><br>In his mind’s eye, he saw the blond man stalking back towards the newly reopened casino, bucket in hand.&nbsp; The way he’d departed had been eerie, whistling and singing that damn children’s nursery rhyme.&nbsp; He’d stepped through the doors of the casino, hefted the bucket - and dust filled the air.&nbsp; It hung, catching light, and for a moment Max’s brow had knitted in confusion.&nbsp; <br><br><em>”The cheese stands alone.”</em><br><br>The giant blond man’s words had been intoned gravely, and then he’d drawn, and fired.&nbsp; Max had thrown himself to the side, but the bullet wasn’t meant for him.&nbsp; It had whizzed through open air - and the spark from the hammer had lit the ghost rock which filled the Casino floor.&nbsp; Fire had flared through the Casino, burning green and ghostly, howling faces roaring towards Max before searing across his skin.&nbsp; He’d heard himself screaming, distantly, his face and arm ablaze, and from the floor of the casino he’d seen those black boots turn on their heels.&nbsp; A handkerchief had been casually dropped in the entryway, and the devil had moseyed along while the town burst into panic.&nbsp; It had been minutes later that he’d been dragged from the smoking wreck of a building, powerful arms lifting him from the floor.&nbsp; He’d spent days in bandages, praying for his heart to stop, for the opium to once again work its magic through his body and give him a few seconds reprieve from pain.<br><br>The scars were livid and hideous.&nbsp; Max Baine had never been a vain man, but women had never turned their heads at the sight of him.&nbsp; The expensive suit hung around his thinning frame.&nbsp; It was hard to eat.&nbsp; Not painful.&nbsp; But between a diet of whiskey and laudanum he had no appetite.&nbsp; He forced himself to eat, forced himself to drink, but took no pleasure in either.&nbsp; He would take no pleasure in the company of a woman again, either.<br><br>But the pain and the scarring and the time to reflect had given him… clarity.&nbsp; He looked up to the stunted, weasely man ironically titled ‘Big Jake.’&nbsp; Big Jake was like the new hire - Walter.&nbsp; A man who enjoyed violence for its own sake, a man who liked to see people bleed and die.&nbsp; But while he enjoyed it, he had a … timidity that didn’t suit Max Baine.&nbsp; <br><br>It grated at Max, actually.&nbsp; Timidity had brought about his ruin.&nbsp; Willingness to toe the line when his own interests were not being served.&nbsp; He was the vice-president of Sweetrock’s operations.&nbsp; Playing bartender - no matter how valuable the information he might acquire - was far beneath him.&nbsp; His time to think, his newfound clarity had made it perfectly clear that Findley had begun to see Max as the heir apparent.&nbsp; It was Max’s cunning that had arranged the death of J.P. Coleman, Max’s cunning that had secured the arrangement with the Greater Rockies, ensuring that Sweetrock saw coins from every ounce of ghostrock that passed through Gomorra.&nbsp; It was Max’s cunning that had delivered their mines and their stake in Gomorra to Sweetrock in the first place - but it had been Findley’s pocketbook that had financed it all.&nbsp; Max had made certain Walters was declared insane - and Max had been at the silent auction while Findley corresponded from the safety of his office in Pittsburgh. <br><br>There were rumors.&nbsp; Telegrams.&nbsp; The possibility that Findley might be recalled to Philadelphia.&nbsp; Findley would never go - but that meant Sweetrock’s faith in him was waning.&nbsp; Waning, even as Max’s ability to act had been curtailed by his burns, by his injuries.&nbsp; Now he would be stuck, at best, behind a desk.&nbsp; Findley had no need of a paper pusher.&nbsp; An accountant.&nbsp; It was the time to act.<br><br>He realized he was still staring at Big Jake, the man squirming under his gaze.<br><br>“Go see Walter in.&nbsp; Then take Scooter and go enjoy a night at the Perch,” offered Max.&nbsp; He reached over to his desk, drawing out double eagles from a drawer and tossing them across the table to Big Jake.&nbsp; Big Jake gave a wide grin, eager to be gone from his master’s disturbing presence and off for a night of revelry.&nbsp; <br><br>He rose - the simple action was painful, making the burns hidden by the expensive suit grind against the softest fabrics money could buy.&nbsp; His jaw clenched at the effort to simply lift his hand, and clasp it around a bottle of bourbon.&nbsp; &nbsp;His unmarred hand retrieved the lighter glasses, bringing a pair of gold rimmed glasses down to set next to the bottle.&nbsp; His hand - nearly skeletal, with the loss of flesh and skin - carefully uncapped the bottle.&nbsp; Every tiny motion was an exquisite kind of agony, and he tipped the bottle slowly, pouring out the superlatively expensive contents until the bourbon had risen to the golden rim that ornamented the glasses.<br><br>He heard footsteps at the door.<br><br>“Mr. Sinnett,” he offered, without glancing up.&nbsp; “I understand you have an appreciation for bourbon.” <br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded:  Sweetrock Mining Company (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>21-04-2014, 13:29:33</strong>
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				<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>Some habits died hard.<br><br>From the moment Scooter's huge form had shuffled across the rather impressive lookin' bridge that connected Sweetrock's mesa to Gomorra propa' and those feck-off huge gatlin' guns that scared the bejesus out of Walter every time he saw them hadn't cranked into life and spat hot leaden death in his general direction, Walter had been eyin' the place up. He couldn't help himself. Walter was a thief. These days it may be his uses as a bloody-minded enforcer that kept him in whiskey and women but he was still a thief and he couldn't stop his mind from workin' that way. Now, no-one had ever said Walter was a good thief... he'd been a competent one at best when it came to actually theivin' with his real art bein' intimidatin' others and even those mediocre skills were faded with lack of use; why pick a lock when you could just kick the door down or grab the owner of the place and punch him till he gave you a bloody key? But part of 'im still thought that way. It had been bad enough walkin' down the roads on the mesa (and yes, these things were bloody roads... actual roads which were feckin' paved, not the bloody dusty "roads" that were pretty much just a bunch of trodden down dirt elsewhere in Gomorra) as the day to day business of Sweetrock went on about him. Anywhere he looked was somethin' he could half-inch and peddle for a fair load of money. And things had only got worse as he was led into the offices themselves. Bloody 'ell. If Walter had nicked just one of the bits and pieces lyin' around he could have lived like a king (or at least, how he hoped a king lived... he doubted they actually simply bought whiskey and whores) for a week or two. But Walter was on his best behavior so he simply scowled and walked along.<br><br>It wasn't quite fair to say that the private offices he eventually got led to was the most opulent place he'd ever been in but it was fair to say it was the most opulent place he had ever been in when he was meant to be there. Walter had done over a few posh houses in his time, a couple of posh parties too, but in those cases he'd either had to sneak his way in and out or cause a right bloody ruckus to get in the place and then hightail it out of there with the law on his tail. Outside things had been expensive but they'd been practical. Here... here they were just bloody luxurious. The bloody carpet probably cost more money than Walter had ever seen, let alone, spent in his life. You want to make someone feel out of place, you take a bum from the streets and you put him in a place like this. Walter's scowl deepened. He wasn't angry (well, no more angry than normal), he was just on edge. For all his sins, Walter did have one virtue. Clarity. He knew what he was and he knew what his place was. He was scum, he was filth, he was of and from the gutter. Walter had no pretences and no real ambitions to go beyond that. He knew his place and his place was not inside some posh bloody office with feckin' nice carpets. Walter didn't even like carpet... what the feck was the point of it compared to floorboards? And how did you get the bloody stains out? He was sure if you took half the ponces who worked here and stuck them in Stiffies they'd feel the same but feck it, at least they had the legitimate fear that Walter would decide to box their bloody ears. Walter didn't think he had nuthin' to fear... he'd been invited afterall... but that didn't stop him bein' on edge. Walter's usual employers may have had more money than Walt but they were still gangsters and slumlords so they lived in the bloody slums. Their offices... although callin' their places a bloody office was a big step... may have been bigger and nicer than what Walter was used to but they were still slums. The best of the slums but slums none-the-less. This... this was rather bloody different.<br><br>A scrawny little man had greated Walter and Scooter as they came into the offices. “Big” Jake had one of those names that people told Walter was “ironic”. Walter didn't really bloody know what that meant but he did know that Jake wasn't big... Walter had crapped out bigger shits than that fecker... but just because the bastard was small didn't mean he wasn't still a bastard. Just as Walt had 'eard stories about Scooter, he'd heard stories about Jake. If Scooter was the nice but dim muscles of the tandem then Jake was the mean but smart one who kept them on track. Walter didn't like him. Too many of the stories reminded him of himself. Walter didn't like people who reminded him of himself because the chances were if he ever did meet someone like him there'd be a feck off massive fistfight, lots of blood and at least one bugger with a knife stuck in their guts. Jake had stuck a hand out to point to an even more ornate door down the corridor and Walter had wandered along, the dastardly bloody duo wandering in the other direction, doubtless to cause some trouble to some poor, unfortunate, victim.<br><br>And so Walter pushed open the door and went to meet Mister Baine.<br><br>Walter had seen things in his life. Some bugger on fire in the back-alleys of Shoredtich. Blade's glittering in the dark near the Millwall docks. And when Walter passed (although he hoped that would be a long bloody time from now) those things would be gone, like whiskey in a glass when put in front of Walter. Walter had seen things that would turn most others in gibbering wrecks. He'd seen blood, seen guts, seen blood and guts, seen scars, seen burns, seen wounds. He'd chopped up pigs and chopped up people. Hell, he'd seen the aftermath of whatever the bloody hell that <em>thing</em> had been and he'd gone chasing after it like a bloody hero with a bloody (stolen) sword in hand. Walter wasn't scared, intimidated or shocked by the more nasty parts of life.<br><br>But seein' Mister Baine. That got Walt's mind a-rovin'.<br><br>Walt had seen burns before. Hell, he'd caused a lot of burns before. You want to really intimidate some bastard, you threaten to set him on fire. You want to put the fear of god into his friends? You set him on fire. But he ain't seen burns like Mister Baine had on anyone who was still livin'. The man was a feckin' mess who looked like he'd melted. Walter had heard tales of the livin' hell surviving a ghostrock fire was and how miner's tended to put their own out of their misery if they were caught in one. But this was the first time he'd ever seen the results. Walter had no doubt the bastard's suit had originally been perfectly bloody tailored to fit, now it hung loose over Mister Baine's shoulders. From the few times he'd seen 'im in the flesh Walter knew Mister Baine wasn't a conventionally handsome man but now his face would give small children nightmares. And from the deliberate slowness with which Mister Baine was pouring out a whiskey Walter could guess that his face wasn't the only part of him to have been mutilated. Walter guessed that if you took off that suit you'd see a broken man held together only by anger and will.<br><br>Walter liked that.<br><br>No-one could accuse Walter of bein' particularly insightful but he did have his own way of lookin' at the world. Most who saw Mister Baine would focus on the hideous scarrin' and feel their stomach's drop a little, feel their eyes drawn to it however bloody hard they tried to look away. Walter wasn't interested in that part. Sure it was pretty feckin' nasty, but still... so were a lot of things. It's not like he was completely bloody calm about it but he could look past it and focus on the important part. Not that Mister Baine had been burned.<br><br>But that Mister Baine had been burned and was still feckin' tickin'.<br><br>There was no bloody reason Walter should have liked Baine. Walter didn't like anybody and he especially didn't like people who rose above their bloody station. Just as Walter accepted who he was and what his lot in life would be so he resented those who tried to move above it. And Mister Baine was someone who had clearly moved above it. He was ambitious and Walter didn't like people who were ambitious... they either tended to need killin' or sent Walter out to get killed. But Walter could understand pain and he could respect those who could take it. And there was no bloody doubt Mister Baine was in considerable bloody agony. No-one should have survived the burns he'd got. And once the fire at Casino Morongo had died down and the only ones left were those underneath Mister Baine's skin he should have either died or descended into the livin' death of opium addiction, quietly fadin' away never to be heard of again. Yet here he was, still in Gomorra, still feckin' livin'. And Mister Baine hadn't got a servant to pour the whiskey for him. He could have but he hadn't. He'd walked over and was pourin' the whiskey himself despite the pain it caused. On one hand it was bloody stupid... why the feck not get one of the many bastard's you're payin' to pour some whiskey for you rather than do it yourself when doin' it felt like what was left of your skin was about to be torn off? But it took guts and Walter could respect guts. Even if an ambitious man with guts (and Walter imagined rather a lot of vengence on his mind) would likely get Walter killed.<br><br>But Walter was a dog and a dog did what its master ordered.<br><br><strong>“I er, I wouldn't say an appreciation Mister Baine, Sir. I got a bloody... sorry Sir... I got a likin' for it but um, appreciate it? I just drink it Mister Baine, Sir. I drink the good stuff and I drink the bad stuff and while I can tell the difference between them it ain't as if I can tell the difference between two good 'uns. I'll 'appily take a glass though Mister Bain, Sir.”</strong><br><br>Walter hadn't been invited over but he went anway. Although he was somewhat careful about where he stepped. His boots and coat still had the dust of Gomorra on them and while he'd beaten the worst of it out before steppin' into the office it weren't as if he was sparkly clean. And when you considered how nice the bloody office was Walter didn't want to immediately ruin the place by trakin' dirt everywhere. So instead he sort of lurked by Mister Baine, waitin' to be given a treat.<br><br>Before bein' told who's throat to rip out.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded:  Sweetrock Mining Company (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>22-04-2014, 06:43:22</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/8b/Maxbaine_2.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Max Baine<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Sweetrock (Vice President)<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 11th, 1876.<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Early evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> Private offices<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Closed, Walter<br><hr>There was a time when Max Baine might have waxed eloquent for hours about profit and loss, about the prospect of future employment and long term benefit.&nbsp; He had a way about him, when he got to speaking, and it had once convinced an entire little town of the wisdom of a silent auction for the ghost rock mines scattered about its mesas.&nbsp; He used to take pride in his ability to talk men into just about anything, and where greed was concerned, it was so much easier.&nbsp; But while greed might have motivated Walter in so many ways, he didn’t think it was at the core of what truly drove him.&nbsp; There was a distinction between wealth and power - a fine one, some people believed, but there were those with all the wealth in the world who still couldn’t earn respect no matter how many double eagles they flashed, and men who commanded respect and power when they were little more than paupers.&nbsp; <br><br>He pushed the drink forward, across the table, and then leaned back.&nbsp; “Well… this is a little better than the coffin varnish they serve down at Tourist’s Folly.&nbsp; I’m sorry to pull you away from the grand opening, but what I have shouldn’t take long.”<br><br>He tilted his head, then winced, straightening again.&nbsp; He’d quickly learned that attempting to rub the skin when it gave him a jolt of agony was like trying to scratch an itch with lightning bolts.&nbsp; It might get the job done, but the cure was worse than the disease.&nbsp; <br><br><em>“Have you ever been down to the Perch, Walter?&nbsp; I used to fancy the place myself.&nbsp; Dive off the edge of a cliff and into the Garden of Eden.&nbsp; Good booze, good food, and more pussy than any man can sink his cock into in one night.&nbsp; Stay an hour… stay all night.&nbsp; Price is the same.&nbsp; That - that is a divine kind of entertainment.”</em>&nbsp; The words crossed his mind, but he didn’t say them aloud.&nbsp; Bribery, yes, and likely to be appreciated by a man like Walter.&nbsp; Also, seen through in a heartbeat.&nbsp; Buying a man’s loyalty was easy, but it never lingered in the thick of things.&nbsp; Findley had far greater resources to bring to bear than did Max, in that regard.&nbsp; He wasn’t penniless - he’d been Vice President of Sweetrock for long enough that he could retire tomorrow and live out his days in wealth and comfort.<br><br>But what would have been the point? No amount of wealth could truly buy him comfort any longer.&nbsp; <br><br><em>”Do as I say or you’ll be dead in the night, tossed over the side of the mesa and eaten by sharks.”</em><br><br>The thought was barely formed before he was dismissing it.&nbsp; You didn’t slap a loyal dog - it only confused it.&nbsp; Turned it bitter, and hostile.&nbsp; No, Walter wasn’t a man he cared to threaten - not because he feared him.&nbsp; He didn’t doubt that Walter could kill him - just as he didn’t doubt that Walter probably wouldn’t live long after he’d completed his task.&nbsp; In some ways, death would be a welcome release.<br><br>But then, what would the point have been?&nbsp; A bank account lying flush and untapped, a dead body in a graveyard?&nbsp; For all the blood and sweat and burning, he wanted his life - whatever he accomplished with it here - to have born some kind of fruit.<br><br>No.&nbsp; Not threats, not bribery - flattery was almost laughably transparent, so he instead tried a tactic he rarely used.<br><br>”One way or the other, I intend to become Sweetrock’s man here in Gomorra.&nbsp; I used to be the legman.&nbsp; Not the man with the gun, but the man who made things happen.&nbsp; A deal to close -&nbsp; I closed it.&nbsp; A strike to break - I broke it.&nbsp; Found the right tools for the job, applied the right leverage.&nbsp; Whatever it took.&nbsp; I got my hands dirty when I had to - but I didn’t always have to.”<br><br>He gestured to himself, assuming Walter would realize the obvious but saying it anyway.&nbsp; “I can’t be that man anymore.&nbsp; But I intend to move up.&nbsp; To do that - I need someone who can find the right tools, the right leverage, and will do whatever it takes.&nbsp; Big Jake, Scooter - they aren’t the men for that job.&nbsp; Useful tools, but they don’t see the chessboard for the pieces.”&nbsp; He licked his lips, then wet them with another sip of the brandy, holding the glass in his hand by force of will.&nbsp; It shook, barely.<br><br>“Do what I need done, and I’ll make you my Vice President when I sit in the big chair.&nbsp; Within a few months you’ll have enough money to buy a distillery and a ‘bloody’ whorehouse.”&nbsp; He gave a ghost of a smile as he used the British pejorative.&nbsp; “Or enough money to sail back to Britain and buy yourself land and title.”&nbsp; He waved his good hand.&nbsp; “Whatever you want.&nbsp; When the rail finish construction - things here will change.&nbsp; This area has had the richest strikes since the discovery of ghost rock.&nbsp; The rails will bleed more money than you or I or Howard Findley have ever seen in their whole lives, and we’ll sell them every strike in the area, tapped and untapped, and be rich enough to buy an entire country.”<br><br>Findley was under the illusion they might somehow be able to keep control of the town and the mines when the rails reached them - under the impression the rails would negotiate like honest businessmen, instead of storming the town with enough guns to kill everyone that moved.&nbsp; Baine was no fool - he’d seen the labor camps of the Iron Dragon; he’d been to Deadwood and seen the crates and crates of guns the warlord was selling to the Indians.&nbsp; He’d seen Shan Fan.&nbsp; The warlord would not be stopped - but he would jump at the chance to make a reasonable deal.&nbsp; He would need the credibility when he finally reached the East Coast, and sought to connect his rail to the cities along the Atlantic.&nbsp; So he would pay through the nose, confident his investment would be returned a thousandfold - and he would be right.&nbsp; But Findley would hold out, thinking of all the profit to be lost, unwilling to admit the game was over.<br><br>The last of his speech had been more labored, and sweat wound down his forehead.&nbsp; He waved his good hand.&nbsp; “A bit long winded, I know.&nbsp; So now, brevity. In?&nbsp; Or out?”
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded:  Sweetrock Mining Company (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>23-04-2014, 12:45:47</strong>
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				<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>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded:  Sweetrock Mining Company (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>26-04-2014, 22:54:19</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/8b/Maxbaine_2.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Max Baine<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Sweetrock (Vice President)<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 11th, 1876.<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Early evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> Private offices<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Closed, Walter<br><hr>Max Baine gave a gruesome echo of a smile - tiny holes in his burned cheek exposed white teeth sat back in his mouth, and he raised his glass himself.&nbsp; “I haven’t been feeling terribly sociable myself.&nbsp; I don’t suspect the Business Council will look forward to my attendance at any of their social events any time soon.”&nbsp; But he gave a salute with the glass, and watched as Walter struggled for a moment with the absurd idea that had been presented to him.<br><br>The gruesome smile spread a little when Sinnett said that he was in, and as Walter finished the whiskey, he reached for the bottle and began to tip the contents within, filling til it once again sloshed at the rim.&nbsp; His own drinking was more measured - he lacked the tolerance Walter had, and even a small amount in combination with the laudanum could make him… loopy.<br><br>His smile spread a bit wider as protests mounted, as the reasons Walter didn’t think he was the man for the title being offered continued.&nbsp; His eyebrows shot up as the arguments continued to mount, and he leaned back in his chair, sipping at his own whiskey, his mind forming natural bullet points of counterargument.&nbsp; It wasn’t a debate he was interested in, though, and so he set those arguments aside, listening as Walter made his points and laid out his concerns.&nbsp; His smile curled a little wider, and a small laugh finally slipped out at the end.<br><br>“Well as to the first point, Mr. Sinnett.&nbsp; I was a citizen of the Union my entire life, and I couldn’t honestly tell you what the Vice President did.&nbsp; Largely it seemed his job was to stand around and look officious.”&nbsp; His lip curled with ghastly bemusement.&nbsp; “But that isn’t your job.&nbsp; That’s what we’ve got the mayor in our pocket for.&nbsp; As for an office like this…”<br><br>He spread his hands.&nbsp; “I would say that ninety five percent of what I did in this office was fuck Mabel rotten.&nbsp; Occasionally I’d meet with Sweetrock employees, but my job?&nbsp; My real job?&nbsp; That was to make things happen that needed to happen.&nbsp; Your not going to count beans or read legal documents.&nbsp; We’ve got bean-counters and lawyers for that.&nbsp; The only signature I’m worried about it is the one you leave in someone’s cheek.”&nbsp; <br><br>He opened a drawer with his good hand, and pulled out a simple iron signet ring - one embossed with ‘SMC.’&nbsp; “That should leave an impression, if you’re concerned about legibility.”&nbsp; The curl of a smile became absolutely wicked.<br><br>“But these aren’t glass beads, Walter.&nbsp; I don’t need you to become a clean-cut businessman who can talk about profits and loss.&nbsp; You talked about gangs before - and while Sweetrock would never admit it, and Findley would be horrified at the idea, we’re a gang.&nbsp; We’re just a gang.&nbsp; Kang and the entire Union government?&nbsp; Just a gang.&nbsp; I’m looking to have you be my second.&nbsp; I’m looking to have you recruit, I’m looking to have you scare the wits out of the other gangs, and I’m looking to make sure that any gang that screws with us, knows that they’d better pull down their breeches and be ready to get a hard one up their ass for doing it.”<br><br>His voice was cold, but sober.&nbsp; “And to me, you look like <em>exactly</em> the man for that job.&nbsp; You leave the papers and the veil of goodwill to me.&nbsp; When the time comes to make our deal with whichever rail makes it first, we’ll put so much dynamite down every mine in Gomorra that if they don’t take our offer we’ll blow the entire thing to the next life.&nbsp; And all the money and time and blood they’ve poured into getting here will be worthless.&nbsp; Buy it, or we burn it down.”&nbsp; His lip twitched at the irony of that - an idea that had seized him while ghost-rock had burned him half to death.&nbsp; “You know, the South had a research facility down in… Fort 51, I think they were calling it.&nbsp; Union troops hit it with some fresh off the line jetpacks, and in the fighting the ghostrock reserves they’d stored down there caught a spark.&nbsp; Whole thing blew - most of the scientists and researchers died, most of the troops did too.&nbsp; But the damnable thing - the damnable thing is, its fifteen years later and Fort 51 is <em>still on fire.</em>.”<br><br>He leaned back in his chair, draining his glass.&nbsp; “So they can buy our mines, or they can buy the largest barbecue in North America.&nbsp; But between now and then?&nbsp; We knock over every other gang.&nbsp; We take over the town.&nbsp; Unquestionable authority.&nbsp; Your job will be to tell me what you need to make it happen.&nbsp; I expect it’ll be a damn sight more than a donkey and a knife and a mean disposition.”<br><br>His eyes glittered.&nbsp; “But you’ve gotten pretty damn far with a donkey and a knife and a mean disposition, then, haven’t you?”&nbsp; He extended his burned hand, an offer to clasp Walter’s in his own.&nbsp; “Welcome to management, Mr. Sinnett.”<br><br>He rose, painfully.&nbsp; There was a small grunt of pain, but he accomplished it anyway, heading around his desk.&nbsp; There was a table in the middle of the room, a table with a picture of Gomorra and the surrounding canals and waterways.&nbsp; <br><br>“We designate mines by the amount of ghostrock they bring in.&nbsp; Class one, class two, class three.&nbsp; Bigger the number, the bigger the operation.”&nbsp; He swept a hand over the map - there were pins of myriad colors scattered across it.&nbsp; Black pins, white pins, a few red and green and blue pins.&nbsp; “White is Sweetrock.&nbsp; Half the mines you see - they belong to us.”&nbsp; The pins were segregated by different sizes as well - the little colored tips were quickly distinguishable at a glance.&nbsp; “Black is our good friends in the Jacks.&nbsp; They take a cut from the mines under their protection.&nbsp; It keeps the Jacks in bullets and guns, and keeps their little boat afloat.&nbsp; That thing - from what one of our spotters heard, they’ve fitted it gatling guns and depth charges.&nbsp; It’s going to take an army to take it down.&nbsp; The Sioux don’t have any mines - but the Maze Rats are rabid about killing anyone who takes an interest in a mine they’ve emptied.&nbsp; We’re assuming Kang’s just getting discount ghost rock through them.&nbsp; Taking mines and holding them by force of reputation, largely.”&nbsp; He tapped on the tops of the red pins, most of which lined the periphery of the map.<br><br>“The yellow pins belong to the Collegium.&nbsp; They’ve been buying up dead mines.&nbsp; Tapped out mines.&nbsp; And a few mines that collapsed or filled with water.&nbsp; Mines that shouldn’t be producing - and they’re making them produce.&nbsp; Findley fucked that relationship right up the tail.&nbsp; He only saw the bottom line - getting a bunch of scientists to hand him a new toy now and then, and costing him five thousand in ghost rock a day.&nbsp; He cut off the supply, and now it looks like the Collegium is more industrious than we ever gave them credit for.&nbsp; Necessity truly is the mother of invention, it seems.”&nbsp; <br><br>The third largest group of color, the yellow pins, made his eyes narrow.&nbsp; “These mines belong to the Whateleys.”&nbsp; They were the farthest from Gomorra, squeezed between the ring of Maze Rat red and the black pins of Black Jack’s protected mines.&nbsp; “Operating unimpeded since the buyout from Walters years ago.&nbsp; God only knows how they get their ghostrock down river to Lost Angels under our nose, but they do.&nbsp; They’ve made their fortune the same way we have.&nbsp; Blood and brutality.”<br><br>His jaw worked, popping a he considered the board.&nbsp; There were dozens of pins with no coloring at all.&nbsp; The simple mines of independent miners, with little influence on the board.&nbsp; Banes noted them - they would affect the balance of power, but without serious organization they would never amount to power to change the scope of the board.<br><br>“To terrorize half of London means you were a strategist, Mr. Sinnett.&nbsp; Whether you believed it or not.&nbsp; Look at the map.&nbsp; Think of these as… shops, or fronts for whorehouses or moneymaking operations of some kind.&nbsp; Look at it and tell me what you see.”&nbsp; He looked up from the pins, the board of potential conquests.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded:  Sweetrock Mining Company (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>30-04-2014, 02:24:30</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<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><strong>”Show up anyway boss. Make the bastards look at 'ya. Feck it, use it. So 'em what feckin' willpower is. Those ponces will shit themselves if you start forcin' things on them. They ain't goin' to want to bloody argue with you are they? Bastard's will give you what you bloody want just so they don't have to talk to you.”</strong><br><br>Walter may not have put it as diplomatically as others could but he was makin' what seemed to him to be a good point. The Tattered Man had lived a hard life, a tough life, a bloody life. He'd seen things that would turn the stomach and done things that would blacken the soul. And even he was feelin' a little uncomfortable lookin' at Mr Baine. Burns. Everyone hated bloody burns. You stick the feckin' business council in front of Mr Baine and those soft as warm shite suits would piss down their expensive trousers. Good ol' fashioned intimidation. Walter understood that. You could use that. And with what Mr Baines had in mind, it may be that they had to.<br><br>You know, Walter wasn't as dumb as he (and I) sometimes made out. He understood Mr Baines' point. He understood it well. He appreciated the fact that any time people organised together they became just another gang, whatever the bloody hell the buggers tried to call it, and that a lot of the principles were the same. And he understood the fact that he hadn't been brought to this office and given this expensive whiskey because of his ability with hostile takeovers but because he could take over hostilely. But the major feckin' point remained; why the bloody hell bother to call him a vice-president? Why the palaver? Walter didn't need the respect a title brought. He didn't need respect. He needed fear and when he needed that he found someone who needed punchin' and punched 'em until the fear came. Give him the money and give him the tasks but you could keep your bloody fancy title. It didn't mean anything. And if it did mean something then it wasn't appropriate for Walter feckin' Sinnett.<br><br>Walter didn't say that though. No need to pick an argument with the boss. Not about technical details. If Mr Baines wanted Walter to be called “vice-president” then so be it. Didn't really make any sodding difference to Walter. Call him vice president, call him president of vice, call him head of security, call him a consultant in the special operations department, call him an enforcer, call him Sweetrock's bloody left hand, call him Dorothy, Walter didn't give a toss. Well, he may give a toss if you called him Dorothy but the others? The others were fine. Just show him the money and point him in the direction of what you want crushed.<br><br>He took a sip at his refilled whiskey, noting Mr Baine's point about burning mines. Walter understood that concept as well. Some posh bastard had called it “scorched world” or some bollocks like that. He'd heard some drunken fool who fell in love with a whore say somethin' similar as well... that if he couldn't have her no-one could. He'd been right, although it would have been more accurate the phrase it the other way. If no-one could have her than he couldn't have anything. You couldn't have people gettin' away with damaging property could you? He had stabbed the whore and then Walter had been sent to stab him. This was sort of the same right? You can pay us many a pretty penny so you get even more pretty pennies or we'll burn down the world.<br><br>The last part wasn't hyperbole. Walter didn't know what hyperbole was, but this wasn't it.<br><br>Walter didn't claim to know a lot about world events, the shifting power of varying economies or the strict workings of supply and demand. But he knew a few things. He knew that the world was being run on ghost rock. He knew the civil war that still bubbled along was driven by it, he knew empires feasted on it, he knew that the whole world needed it. That's why it was so bloody expensive afterall. And he knew that most of the ghostrock in the world was in the Great Maze, only revealed when the land twisted and shattered after that bloody quake that these bastard yanks couldn't shut up about. And he knew that a pretty vast amount of the ghostrock in the Great Maze came from Gomorra. It's why the bloody town existed in the form it did... to exploit that ghostrock. So if Sweetrock did decide to burn their claims then they weren't just costing some railway tycoon some bloody money, they were breaking the world. For what happens to a world addicted to ghostrock when the supply of ghostrock suddenly disappears? Or at least is reduced dramatically? What happens if the Great Maze suddenly stops being the water of life for the new world? What happens when the world goes cold turkey on ghostrock? What happens if it starves? Walter understood that part of supply and demand and he understood it didn't have a nice ending. He thought he could see the light of madness in Mr Baine's eyes. He liked it. It had bollocks. Big, brass bollocks. Another sip of the whiskey.<br><br><strong>“Aint' nothin' wrong with my donkey. Does what he's told... most of the time... and does it well... most of the time... and don't complain unless he don't get a carrot and a good rub behind the ears from time to time. If everyone was like my donkey things would be feckin' mint.”</strong><br><br>Walter wasn't entirely sure he needed to defend his donkey. Frankly he hadn't entirely followed that part of the conversation but he'd heard his donkey mentioned and his donkey was a good beast, even if Walter did get the feelin' it was hidin' something and laughin' behind his back. Smart creatures donkeys. Too smart. No-one ever suspected the donkeys.<br><br>The seemingly new member of Sweetrock's management and the man easily the least likely to win “employee of the month” took Mr Baines' handshake, although he was careful not to exert his usual grip. No use crushing the hand the feeds you. Especially not the burnt one. Truth be told there wasn't really a “usual” handshake that Walter fell back on. Walter didn't usually shake hands. Shaking hands put you in knifing range, distracted you and opened up the armpit so a man... or woman... could drive a dagger right in. Walter only shook hands with people he trusted and if he trusted them he didn't need to shake hands. Scratch that. Walter didn't trust anyone. But Mr Baine had stuck out his hand and Walter rather suspected that if Mr Baine wanted him dead he wouldn't have bothered to have brought him all the way over here, given him the good whiskey and then made him listen to the speech. He'd have just killed him. So he took Mr Baines' hand and tried not to make Mr Baine scream in agony by clutching it too hard.<br><br>Walter followed Mr Baine to the table, starin' with a certain blank incomprehension at the map and the pins but listening intently as they were explained. This weren't exactly what Walter would consider his comfort zone. His comfort zone was someone else lookin' at the feckin' pins and decidin' that one of the bastards needed doin' down before sendin' Walter to do it. Decidin' which pin to give a beatin' to was somethin' for other people, not Walter. Terrorisin' half of London made Walter a stratergist? No, Mr Baine, it made him someone who killed people, often in brutal, public ways. Ways that kept children up at night. Ways that meant people thanked God every day they didn't have to interact with him. It didn't make Walter a stratergist, it made him a monster. He was the bogeyman, the werewolf, the evil spirit. He lingered on the edge of nightmare, a dark legend, the patron saint of bastards, killers and torturers, a ghost story for villains and chancers. He was God's one mistake and his everlasting regret. He was the thing that stalked the shadows, that haunted your footsteps, that struck you down with malevolence and no regret, that slaughtered dreams and defiled innocence. He was a weapon, pointed and fired. He was anger made flesh, pain given form, fear trapped within a ragged suit. Triumph if you could but survive only if he let you. For you shall know him by the trail of the dead.<br><br>Again, Walter didn't say any of that. No point in pissin' in his bosses porridge... or grits or whatever the feck it was they bloody called it over here. Instead Walter took a large gulp of whiskey, scrunched up his face in concentration as he tried to answer Mr Baines' conversation. The man was convinced Walter was a strategist after all. What did Walter see...?<br><br><strong>“An opportunity.”</strong><br><br>A finger that was only slightly dirty rose up to scratch his nose.<br><br><strong>“We can't fight 'em. Not all of 'em at not at once. There's too many of the bastards and they got too many feckin' guns and people. And they'd see us comin'. Once we step on one the other bastards are goin' to get antsy and start lookin' to each other. If we could have just fecked 'em right up you'd have bloody done it by now. No, we need to do somethin' else. We need to make sure they never see us comin'. We need them to think everythin' is feckin' pretty when it comes to us and then they wake up one bloody day and realise we own this whole feckin' place.”</strong><br><br>The finger dropped to point at the yellow pins.<br><br><strong>“The Collegium, they're simple. They don't give a toss about minin'. They only care about ghostrock and they only care about bloody ghostrock because it means they can build their bloody toys. They don't care where it comes from or who gives it to 'em, just that they have it. No point in fightin' em. If they're doin' some of that bloody weird science thing to get 'em goin' then we couldn't keep the bloody mines workin' even if we did take 'em. And their bloody mesa ain't far from here... I don't want them firin' off some feckin' explosive rocket bollocks across the feckin' pond if we piss em' off. Nah, we buy those bastards off. We pay 'em in ghost rock, we give 'em the best deal they've ever seen, we apologise and we bend over and we take it. We feed them ghostrock and let them sit in their bloody workshops and make more and more feckin' toys but we buy the mines and we buy the stuff that makes 'em bloody work. We keep it nice, we keep it honest. We send some of those fancy dan bloody suits you talked about and we get 'em to apologise for us. We talk about how we always appreciated their stuff, how there's been a change in attitude, how we realise we made a mistake. We guaren-bloody-tee it won't happen again, how we'll give 'em more ghostrock than they'll know what to bloody do with. Sure, it will hit profits in the short term but if we're sellin' the bloody lot then that don't matter does it? We buy the Collegium off. No point in pickin' a fight there. Might even get some stuff off them if we keep 'em sweet.”</strong><br><br>Over the finger came to the Whateley mines.<br><br><strong>“Whateley's are even easier. Those mines ain't all they got is it? They got other earners keepin' their bloody creepy house goin don't they? And hell, aren't there feckin' Whateley's all over the bloody country? It ain't like Gomorroa is all they have. So losin' a few mines ain't the end of the world to them. And we got somethin' they want.”</strong><br><br>Walter grinned. Like a shark.<br><strong><br>“That mad, feckin' Whateley is in jail right and they're talkin' about hangin' her. I imagine they want her crazy arse back although God knows bloody why. And we've got a bloody relationship with the pigs right... sorry, the law. We want Bilton to do somethin' and we can convince him pretty easy. So let's bloody use it. We tell 'em straight. You want crazy, screamin' Whateley back, you give us the mines and she'll come back just fine. You don't give us the mines and she'll hang. But before she hangs we'll show her off to the world. We'll make a bloody scandal out of it. We'll call down every reporter we can find from across the country and put her on display for 'em. We let her babble and get her every word put down on bloody paper and read on every street corner in the whole bastard country. We humiliate her and we humiliate them. If they don't give us the mines then we'll make the Whateley family a bloody laughin' stock across the world. We'll take all their respect and all their history and piss on it. We'll make 'em look like a bunch of imbred, crazy, cunts and then we'll hang her. Or they can give us the mines. Feck it, we can buy 'em off em to sweeten the pot, make the deal a little less shit. Do that first actually. Offer to buy the mines and if they refuse then we hit 'em with the fact we can make sure one of their bloody own gets her neck stretched. And if that still don't work then there's always that Ginny bird. She walks around Gomorra on her bloody own and she lives in her own place. Wouldn't take much to stick a burlap sack over her head and drag her to a dark corner. Sure, it would piss 'em off but what are they goin' to do? Talk about how bloody rude we are at a creepy tea party? What are a few mines compared to two of their own? Although we'd need to gag Ginny. Woman's got a voice like a pig with its dick cut off.”</strong><br><br>Now the mines controlled by Black Jack fell under Walter's gaze.<br><strong><br>“Now here's the bastard. Those mines are givin' the cunt ghostrock in exchange for protection? Then we show he can't protect 'em. When miners start turnin' up dead... and not just dead but bloody tortured before dyin'... then those miner's are goin to start wonderin' why the feck they're payin that bastard to keep em safe when he's failin'. We bleed 'em. We cut and we slash and we hurt the bastard. Cos' we're not only takin' the mines for ourself, we're also makin' sure he ain't getting' no more guns and bullets. We scare the miners and scare 'im. Bring the Law Dogs in on that as well... if Black Jack is in the dock for shootin' Coleman than they're goin' to want the bastard caught and raidin' their mines is a good bloody start. Or..."</strong><br><br>The grin grew. It still didn't touch his eyes.<br><br><strong>“... there's that bloody alliance with the chinks. I don't know what the feck that is all about but people are sayin' it and if he's got a bloody boat that doesn't have chinks attackin' it then it must be a bloody alliance. So we put pressure on it. We take the mines but we leave a few cutlasses around. Maybe I kill a few bloody Rats and we leave the bodies at the mines. We make it look like the Rats are goin' after him, are betrayin' him. Maybe he falls for it and we can watch those bastards shoot each other while we sweep in later. Maybe he don't and he works out its us. So what? He may know that but what about the miners? They hear rumours that the Maze Rats are slaughterin' miners how long are they goin' to listen to Jack tell 'em they ain't? How long before the feck off to the group who can make sure those attacks don't happen? How long till they come to bloody us?”</strong><br><br>Over the finger came, now to the red pins.<br><br><strong>“The Rats themselves are the bloody issue. Kang ain't goin' to give a toss about buyin' from us if he already controls most of the bloody mines. And if one of the other bloody railways gets there first then he ain't goin' to tuck tail. It'll be open bloody warfare before he gives up. And we don't want to piss him off too much... not too openly. Don't want to run the risk that he thinks it's worth losin' money just to feck us. People tell me he's got a bloody alliance with the Indians. Let's test that. Sure, they hate the white man, but they hate us because we got there first. How are they goin' to react if a feckin' chink railroad gets sickened on 'em? Somehow I think their great nature spirit or whatever the feck it is that they worship is goin' to be too happy if Kang bends it over and rapes it just because his cocks yellow and not white. Can't imagine too many of the Indians are happy at bein' his personal feckin' slaves either, whatever their feckin' chiefs say. So we do the same there that we did to Blackjack. We kill a few redskins and leave a few chink bodies nearby. The Indians are already getting' close to bein' on the warpath against us ain't they? Wouldn't be too hard to direct that anger against anyone who ain't a bloody redskin. Get them to fight our battle.”</strong><br><br>The finger moved to the edge of the map and the route to Lost Angels.<br><br><strong>“That Grimme fella don't like railroads does he? He hates all that bollocks and he's got a horde of feckin' fanatics with full bellies but empty heads. How about we get word to him of what's goin' on, about how Kang's usin' the Maze Rats to take over mines so he can bring his railroad right next to his bloody holy city? That'll give him some itchy bollocks... and he'd want them washed with blood. We get him and the Indians to fight our battle... maybe even the Jack bastard if he's dumb enough to fall for it. Feck it, perhaps even get the bloody independent union bastards in on the act. Sure, they hate us because we make 'em pay through the bloody nose and kill em if they don't, but at least we give 'em the chance to pay. The Rats don't. They just kill 'em. Better the devil you know right? And while those miners are off tryin' to avenge their fallen brother's against the Rats that leaves their own claims open don't it? Or we simply buy 'em. If the miner's know that the Rats are comin' and that we'll give 'em some money for it, then they'll sell. Maybe not for what they want to, but when the choice is death, they'll bloody sell.”</strong><br><br>Now the grin touched the eyes.<br><br><strong>“So while they're all shootin' the shit out of each other we move in quick and quiet. They're all at war, we're nice and safe... and strong. We take the mines, we hold the mines, we pump out ghostrock and spend it all on makin' sure we keep 'em and we wait for the first bloody railroad to show up so we can sell 'em Gomorroa on a plate. If Kang gets here first and he's stuck at war with Grimme and the bloody redskins then he'll bite our hand off to get the rest of the mines without a fight. If it's someone else then the Chinese, Indians and bloody crazy preachers will all have shot their load all over each other and will be easy pickin's if you get all the mines. The Collegium are bought off and that only leaves Jack. One band of raiders ain't so bad. We can cut those feckers to pieces. None of them will see us comin'. They all know Mr Findley ain't here right? They know you were runnin' a bar and have just been injured right? They're goin' to think we're weak, that we've given up, that we're happy with what we have. That we're just lookin' to keep what we already have, not lookin' to get any more. They won't think we're a threat. And before they know it we'll have fucked 'em good and proper.”</strong><br><br>The finger moved again, running over the pins.<br><br>Collegium.<br><strong><br>“Buy.”</strong><br><br>Whateley.<br><strong><br>“Blackmail.”</strong><br><br>Black Jack.<br><strong><br>“Scare.”</strong><br><br>Chinese.<br><br><strong>“Trick.”</strong><br><br>The finger rose from the map and eyes turned to Mr Baine.<br><br><strong>“That's what I see Mr Baine. What do you see?”</strong>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded:  Sweetrock Mining Company (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>01-05-2014, 23:51:18</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/8b/Maxbaine_2.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Max Baine<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Sweetrock (Vice President)<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 11th, 1876.<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Early evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> Private offices<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Closed, Walter<br><hr>Baine gave a mirthless smile at the suggestion.&nbsp; “I will.&nbsp; Eventually.&nbsp; Once there is something we need.&nbsp; For the most part, the Council acts in our interests by acting in the interests of Gomorra.&nbsp; It will get trickier with the Law Dogs.&nbsp; Coleman and Sweetrock saw eye to eye on plenty of things - but him having his own free reign - it attracted settlers that would never have made the journey of Gomorra was simply a company town.&nbsp; Now Bilton knows where his biscuit is buttered - but we’ve yet to see if he is actually the man for the job that we need him to be.”&nbsp; Vicious and cunning, yes, and smart enough not to bite the hand that fed him - but power had a way of changing men.<br><br>But he took no exception to Walter’s blunt speech - what was the point of having a second if he didn’t consider his advice?&nbsp; It would have been easy enough to surround himself with mindless yes-men.&nbsp; Men who would no doubt tell him the scars weren’t as bad as he thought, even as they struggled to look at his suit, his tie, the good side of his face, anywhere but the livid injuries.&nbsp; He also knew well the value of intimidation - when he’d made the buyout of mines and mesa in Gomorra, the people of Gomorra had been pleasantly amused.&nbsp; They’d toyed with their revolvers, joked about accidents and Gomorra’s as yet unwritted laws about mine reclamation.&nbsp; Baine had tipped his hat, hadn’t hired on a single miner - he’d stalled and managed to parley their threats into laws - a mine unclaimed and unworked for two months became city property.&nbsp; They hadn’t seen the long game - they’d only seen a businessman in a fancy New York suit and a bowler, one who smiled too easily and cowed quickly, utterly unaware the uses he would put their new laws to.&nbsp; He bought drinks and dinners and made shows of charity until he was more useful on his feet than in the ground, and then the wagon trains of hard men and rifles had arrived.&nbsp; Gomorra had changed over night, and the plastered smile and the warm handshakes had faded.<br><br>So he considered all the reasons to make Walter a Vice-President - all of the ones he wasn’t sharing.&nbsp; Walter was the sort of man to break someone’s face over an imagined slight - and Sweetrock’s name was mud, to much of the working populace.&nbsp; Findley saw them as cogs in a machine, sprockets that bled and sweat instead of leaking oil and metal shavings.&nbsp; But what Findley didn’t see was that there was a point past fear - a point when terror gave way to desperation, to rage, to fatalism.&nbsp; The point where a man would carry a bundle of lit dynamite into the middle of town, where he’d burn the world down before he lost what he had.&nbsp; <br><br>Much as he intended to do with Gomorra.&nbsp; Enough pain, enough terror, enough agony - and there was no more fear.&nbsp; Walter could, he had no doubt, induce just enough fear - or he could push too hard, and turn terror in desperate fury.&nbsp; Bend, but don’t break.&nbsp; <br><br>That, and if Walter did the job Baines expected he was capable of doing, it would paint the target on Walter’s back instead of his own.&nbsp; It wasn’t an active intention to murder his second - he had enormous confidence in Walter’s ability to survive, but he had considerably more regard for his own mortality than he had a week ago.&nbsp; No - someone who could turn the assassin’s bullets and the thrown dynamite some direction away from him?&nbsp; Away from the man at the top?&nbsp; That was most certainly a plus.&nbsp; <br><br>He gave a chuckle at the mention of the donkey.&nbsp; “If everyone was like your donkey, Mr. Sinnett, I imagine the entire world would be … as you say - feckin’ mint.”&nbsp; His ghastly smile made another appearance, and then he rose and shook Walter’s hand.&nbsp; He noted the … he hesitated to call it ‘gentleness,’ but there was at least a reserve to it, even if it made his burnt tissue still scream in agony.&nbsp; But agony was a matter of degree for him - there were waves and ebbs, peaks and valleys.&nbsp; It was a constant companion.&nbsp; <br><br>Then he moved to the board, laying out the players and the strategy.&nbsp; He smiled at the first two words - it was a good start.&nbsp; The blank look had troubled him at first, but then he saw what he’d expected all along.&nbsp; A strategist.&nbsp; Perhaps not a man aware of his own strategy - but one who’d relied upon it.&nbsp; One didn’t make their mark in a world of pistols and piss and peril without a certain naked cunning - and feral cunning might not made Walter a master chess-player or an arm-chair general, but it had its own value.&nbsp; The man brought knives to gunfights, after all - some part of how he survived spoke to that.&nbsp; Fear and cruelty only got a man so far.<br><br>So he fell quiet, and he listened.&nbsp; He nodded at the agreement they couldn’t take them all on - the Maze Rats alone could summon an army larger than every man, woman and child in Gomorra.&nbsp; They’d learned the limits of force already, and while force had its uses, it made him smile to see Walter already pointing out an array of different tools Findley likely wouldn’t have considered.<br><br>The right tool - the right leverage.&nbsp; His smile stayed on his face, as he listened.<br><br>He pursed his lips at the mention of the Collegium.&nbsp; He liked it - but Findley wouldn’t.&nbsp; Findley would hate the loss in profits - but the Collegium’s new fangled airship was going to hurt their bottom line more than any payoff to the Collegium might.&nbsp; With the independent miners taking their ghostrock directly to the Collegium, they would see the three dimes on every dollar they had been before.&nbsp; Sure, a few miners were stubborn enough to drag their ghostrock down to Lost Angels - but it was a long trip, and as many of those miners that made it down to Lost Angels perished as survived.&nbsp; With the cost of renting a boat, it didn’t actually save them money - it just salvaged their pride.&nbsp; Selling to the Collegium - local, not in cahoots with the ‘damn Sweetrock’ anymore - was faster, and cheaper.&nbsp; In a month, every independent miner in Gomorra would be doing it, and they wouldn’t have the <em>resources</em> to buy the Collegium back.&nbsp; <br><br>Findley had well and truly buggered that one.<br><br>“Our only real option,” he admitted.&nbsp; Taking the fight to the Collegium would be costly - and dangerous.&nbsp; He didn’t know what sort of toys Hardinger had hidden away, but the man had once designed weapons on behalf of the Confederacy - so while he might be averse to violence, he doubted very much that Hardinger was incapable of it.&nbsp; Likely on a grand and explosive scale.<br><br>He turned his attention to the Whateleys.&nbsp; Blackmailing them hadn’t really occurred to him - perhaps because he hadn’t been born to means himself.&nbsp; The notion of vanity being the key to their control hadn’t crossed his mind - he wasn’t a particularly vain man himself, and he hadn’t been even before the burning.<br><br>“The Tombstone Epitaph.&nbsp; Their reporters thrive on the weird, hogwash and impossible tales.&nbsp; But they’re read on every train from here to New York.&nbsp; Even being in the Epitaph will be a mark of disgrace.&nbsp; We’ll send for a reporter.&nbsp; They’ll be here fast, a lot faster than more respectable papers from the East Coast - but the more respectable papers give us leverage for the future.&nbsp; I doubt the very <em>private</em> Whateleys would care for an army of reporters on their mesa.”<br><br>He nodded, still listening.<br><br>He frowned a bit at Black Jack.&nbsp; The policy Walter was suggesting was the same one Sweetrock had been trying for the last few years.&nbsp; He didn’t doubt that Walter might be able to step up its efficacy.&nbsp; But then Walter changed tack, and he looked up, curious.&nbsp; <br><br>“Better.&nbsp; Exposing some proof of the alliance will do more to tarnish their little Robin Hood than any pressure.&nbsp; The more we hit that nail with a hammer, the deeper the miners dig in.&nbsp; We need to erode their faith in him.&nbsp; Sully him.&nbsp; Not just the crass outlaw business Findley and Cochran have been pushing.&nbsp; Something that will speak to the miners.&nbsp; Make him… make him just as much a greedy, selfish bugger as Findley himself.&nbsp; Exposing the alliance… with real, tangible proof of some kind… and then stepping up the attacks on miners under the pretense of Maze Rat attacks may be just the thing.”<br><br>He grew quiet, thoughtful, as Walter suggested pitting the redskins against the Maze Rats and the zealots of Lost Angels.&nbsp; It would also almost certainly draw the attention of Kang down upon Gomorra, for better or worse.&nbsp; The recent attack on Kang’s railroad camp might provide exactly the right kind of impetus as well - by all accounts, the laborers hadn’t even seen their attacker.&nbsp; Only counted bodies and burned up stores of ghostrock in the wake.&nbsp; It wouldn’t be a hard sell.<br><br>It might only take an attack by the Chinese on the natives - enough to send both groups after one another.&nbsp; There was always the chance the storm could blow out of control, but he wasn’t Findley.&nbsp; He wasn’t going to wait, and wait.&nbsp; Fortune favored the bold, as they said.<br><br>He gave a small frown.&nbsp; “No plan survives first contact with the enemy,” he said, with a rueful smile.&nbsp; “There will setbacks, and I am certain every player on this table has more cards in their hand than they’re showing.”&nbsp; He tapped his chin.&nbsp; “But it’s a start.&nbsp; And it puts every other player on the table on the defensive.&nbsp; I like it.”&nbsp; He smiled, bemused.&nbsp; "I think you underestimate your own talents, Mr. Sinnett.&nbsp; Foreman Sinnett," he said with a small nod.&nbsp; "I'll grease the wheels with the Collegium and get Bankum and Bankum giving them their carrots.&nbsp; Start to line things up for the Maze Rats attacking the redskins."<br><br>"One other matter.&nbsp; A personal one.&nbsp; If you bring me the Twitch, alive or dead, I will make certain you join the community of business owners here in the city.&nbsp; Have you ever been to the Perch?"&nbsp; He raised an eyebrow.&nbsp; "All the doxies you can pound, all the whiskey you can drink, and all the food you can eat.&nbsp; Step off a cliff, and don't stagger out til morning.&nbsp; Bring me the Twitch - and the place is yours."<br><br>He reached to his suit, and drew out five double eagles.&nbsp; "Go.&nbsp; I suggest you try it out.&nbsp; Every man should, once in his life.&nbsp; My treat."
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded:  Sweetrock Mining Company (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>04-05-2014, 22:55:11</strong>
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				<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.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded:  Sweetrock Mining Company (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>06-05-2014, 00:53:46</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/8b/Maxbaine_2.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Max Baine<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Sweetrock (Vice President)<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 11th, 1876.<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Early evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> Private offices<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Closed, Walter<br><hr>Max Baine gave another ghastly smile at the surfeit of bravado in Walter’s words.&nbsp; Or perhaps it was the simplicity of his confidence.&nbsp; He gave a small nod, more to acknowledge that he’d heard it than any particular agreement.&nbsp; He knew he was loosing the leash on a man capable of bringing a new whirlwind of violence upon Gomorra, if not carefully handled.&nbsp; But then, Walter’s ability to survive and steer that whirlwind was going to be the test of his abilities and his usefulness.&nbsp; Findley had achieved enough wealth and security to become complacent; he’d achieved tyranny with enough success, along with a well defended fortification to rule his kingdom from.&nbsp; Perhaps he believed himself immortal, or perhaps he imply lacked the steel to rule any longer.&nbsp; Whatever the case - they might have an advantage, but they weren’t winning the war.<br><br>He watched the savage smile on Walter’s face.&nbsp; If he was honest with himself, it might have unnerved him once.&nbsp; But the constancy of his agony meant that pain and death didn’t frighten him.&nbsp; Even the prospect of Walter turning upon him and unleashing his full wrath was only met with a strange combination of resignation and relief.&nbsp; Death could be a release, an end to agony, after a catharsis of agony he doubted his heart would hold up to.&nbsp; So the savage smile was met with his own.&nbsp; <br><br>“Good.”<br><br>He handed off the money, and then considered Walter for a moment.&nbsp; He gave a small nod, dismissing him, and watching as the Tattered Man made his way for the door.&nbsp; He’d expected him to leave, and when Walter turned, he drew his gaze up and away from the board, away from the alluring draw of pins and strategy.<br><br>His eyes didn’t narrow at the mention of people feeling sorry for him.&nbsp; He’d long resolved himself to be beyond what people thought of him.&nbsp; The history of the world was not forged by those who were slaves to opinion.&nbsp; Men who forged the world left a wake of opinion, and on occasion they were drowned by it, but their mark stood for itself.&nbsp; Even the matter of Trick was more a matter of … honor than it was an undue concern.&nbsp; Part of him wanted to look the man who’d burned him in the eyes, to thank him for the brutal clarity the fire had given him when it burned away flesh.&nbsp; His fingers tightened on the whiskey glass in his hand, and he drew a draught of it as Walter promised him revenge.&nbsp; Revenge was a petty matter, a distraction.&nbsp; &nbsp;He intended to have his - but he didn’t intend to allow it to cloud his vision.&nbsp; <br><br>“Thank you, Walter.”&nbsp; He gave a small nod, watched him leave, and turned back to his game of pins and affluence.<br><br>A shadow cast itself across the board, and he looked up to the bearded mountain of a man who looked down at him.&nbsp; He met the dark eyes in the cloak of hair and beard, and then turned his attention back to the board.<br><br>“Playin’ with dynamite, with that one.”&nbsp; The voice was a grate of stone on steel, and Max acknowledged it with a nod.&nbsp; <br><br>“Yes.”&nbsp; Max Baine was well aware of the potential conflicts such a man could create, the chain reaction one explosion could cause to bring an entire mine down in a flurry of fire and falling rock.&nbsp; <br><br>“Want him followed?”<br><br>Max shook his head.&nbsp; “No.&nbsp; I don’t want you seen around Gomorra.&nbsp; I have other uses for you.”&nbsp; He reached and touched the southern edge of the map.&nbsp; “Lost Angels.”&nbsp; He tapped it with a single burned finger.&nbsp; “I think it’s time Kang’s forces were distracted by growing problems with religion.”<br><br>The bearded man scowled.&nbsp; “I hate that place.”<br><br>Baine glanced up briefly.&nbsp; The half-mask of burned flesh made it more difficult to read his expressions, but his eyes made it perfectly clear.<br><br><em>Ask me if I care.</em><br><br><hr><br>Outside, an eagle regarded Walter as he made his way out into the Gomorran night.&nbsp; It shifted its gaze back to the room where Max Baine still spoke to the bearded man, and then back to Walter, drawing his duster around him and heading for the bridge.&nbsp; With a flap of wings, it made itself airborne, soaring up and circling once overhead before sliding off into the night.<br><br><div align="center"><em>End Scene</em></div>
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