Just For Jolly (oneshot)

[JACK THE RIPPER]

Annie "Dark Annie" Chapman
Deceased the 8th of September, 1888;
Jack the Ripper's second victim;
Part of the uterus removed;

“Victor! You’re late, boy!”



He kicked aside a trash can with one sharp movement, sending it flying into the snow.



“I was at school…working on a proje—“

“I don’t give two shits, just get in here! It’s fucking freezing out!”



It had been fucking freezing out. That much couldn’t be denied.



“Don’t scream, the neighbors can hear you!”

“Let the fucking neighbors hear, then! Hear my son disobey me—god dammit, get inside, boy!”



Victor shook his head violently, trying to get the memory out. It was always like this before a kill—when the last thing he wanted to think about was his mother. It was supposed to be just him and the whores, him and the kill, him and the pleasure. She had no place with him now! So why wouldn’t she leave?!




“Mum, I need you to help me get—“

“What? More things? How the fuck does your teachers expect me to pay the bills and then buy all this shit for your stupid school stuff?”

“Mum, I don’t have any choice, I’m going to get an F on—"

“Jesus Christ, go get it yourself!”




“I’ll get it,” he hissed under his breath, fingering the knife in his pocket. “I’ll get it. I’ll get it…you whore…”

Whore.

His woman would be on the next corner, her usual spot; her name was Annie Chapman, mother of three young children who now lived in the custody of her ex-husband. She’d been trying to support herself for awhile now, but had always been a failure; not even the ghetto McDonald's would have her. But the streets would—Jack would. As he approached her corner, his eye caught on the glint of a cheap, sequined piece of clothing under the lamplight. Immediately, he was drawn that way, smacking a business-like expression onto his face.




“Get out of my fucking house!”

“Mum—“

“Get out of my fucking house right now until you learn some goddamn respect!”




As he walked down the street toward Annie, he pretended as if he did not notice her. The little whore stood, shivering, there under the lamp, her little sequined dress peeking out from under the puffy jacket she wore. She finally noticed him through the swirling snowfall and approached cautiously.

“Hey,” she said, her voice loud so he could hear her over the wind.

“Hello,” he replied, slowing to a stop next to her.

“You look kinda tense.” With a tired smile, she chewed her gum like it was cud.

“It’s this damn weather.” Victor looked ahead of him, at the snow, and pulled his fedora lower over his eyes.

She grunted in agreement. “I hate winter too.” Her terrible New York accent grated on him. Annie turned her head to look up at him. “Heat’s ‘spensive. Maybe I could help warm you?”

He snorted. What a tired pick-up line. The whore was out of practice, clearly. “Maybe,” he said thoughtfully, looking out into the street. “It depends on how much it is…”

“I could get by a night on eighty bucks,” Annie said, sounding rather desperate. She paused and then went into a coughing fit, spitting out her gum.

“Eighty bucks it is, then,” he agreed, looking down at her. “Are you alright?”

“Sick,” she mumbled, then stopped. “But…”

Victor chuckled. “I’ve fucked women with colds before. No problem.” He took something out of his pocket--a bottle of pills. "Aspirin?" She nodded an affirmative and he opened the bottle, handing her three of the tablets.

Annie seemed relieved as she dry-swallowed all three at once. “I don’t have anywhere to…”

“I’d suggest an alleyway, but that wouldn’t be pleasant for either of us. My apartment is in walking distance. Just around the corner.” He was lying. His apartment wasn’t just around the corner; in fact, it was in Manhattan. But he had planned it out so precisely...he was going to kill her in the tiny back yard of a shabby, lower-class apartment. If he did his work right, she wouldn't have time to scream, which would mean no one would hear them--and with the high fence that surrounded the back yard, he would have plenty of time to kill her.

“Okay,” Annie said, a little nervously. “Apartment's good.”

Victor smiled, a little creepily, admittedly; she seemed to shy away a moment, but quickly corrected herself. Now there was nothing she could do...Annie Chapman had sealed her fate, and she was in possession of the Monster. A little whore, a little possession; it was his.

"Come on," he said, offering his arm, which the whore took. Inwardly, he chuckled at how gentlemanly it must have thought him; and it wasn't wrong. He, as a gentleman, was obligated to clear the streets of women like it.

Whore.



"I've been killing them..."

"Very funny."

"No...I'm tell the truth. I'm the whore killer."

"...You can't be fucking serious."



No! He would tolerate his mother entering into this, but not...not that. Annie looked up at him, her brow furrowed in concern. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he snapped, his grip on her tightening a little. He reached to rub the scar on his arm as it began to twinge. It would take all of his willpower to drive the past out of his head...get lost in the blood and the lust. She went quiet, not asking any more questions about it.

The back yard of the tenement was small, maybe big enough for a few people to lie down in, and about fifteen people to fit standing up. The high wooden fence surrounding the yard stood next to another fence around a neighboring yard, equally as quiet and as dark as the one they were entering now.

"Back way," Victor explained, leading the whore through an opening in a fence. It really was skittish about the whole thing, but he led it further still, very tense. Sexually, he found it as enticing as a molding piece of bread...but thought of killing it was already sending sparks of excitement through him.

The sky was beginning to lighten, and a thought struck him; what time was it?! He checked his watch and cursed under his breath, almost forgetting the whore was there. It was nearing 5:30 a.m., which meant that he would only have a few minutes to get the job one before the an officer made his rounds back over here. His fury boiled to a dangerous level at this thought...he'd spent all his time fooling around and now he didn't have the time to enjoy himself!

So be it. He would get this job done.

The Monster turned to the whore and asked quietly, "Do you know what the English equivalent to John Doe is?"

It looked at him like he was crazy a moment, then said, "No..."

He adopted a wide, charming grin. "They call an unidentified man Jack." With that, he pulled out his weapon, delivering a ragged cut to the throat. With glee, he watched the blood bead on the pale skin, watched the blue eyes widen and the mouth open in a silent scream. He twisted one gloved hand in its dark hair, tilting its head up so that he could see the life slip from its eyes. He knew he didn't have much time, but he stayed still to watch the viscous ribbons of blood pool in her cleavage. Slowly, the body became limp, and he let it fall against the fence with a soft thump. As the body slid into a slumping position, the red substance trickled onto the fence, leaving a mark. He smiled at the thought of there forever being a blood stain on that fence.

The body slid slowly to the side, heaped on the ground there, leaving a dark streak of blood on the wood. Jack knelt, turning her head to look at him, glad to find that the eyes were closed. The tendrils of blood that trickled from her neck wound suddenly made way for a gush of the same thick, slow liquid. The sight made him shudder in excitement, taking off his coat and throwing it to one side. With an emotionless movement, he pushed the flashy dress up so that it bunched around the bra line.

"Where to cut," he whispered to himself, disregarding the noise of a shutting door on the other side of the fence. "I think..." He knew that her liver would be useless to him; it was shot to shit on a good day. He paused a moment before a cruel smile crept up on his face. With a precise rather than violent movement, he slit open the whore's panties to get to the source of the problem. Examining it closely, he poised his knife and began to carve out the space between her legs.

He licked his lips, shoveling out the gore of the pelvis, tearing away at the flesh and muscle to get to the uterus. Finally, the organ came in sight and he smiled, laughing raggedly. But he didn't have much time to enjoy it--he could hear people stirring in the apartment. Quickly, he sliced off the topmost part of the uterus and reached for his pocket, drawing out a plastic bag, which he used to hold the bloody mess.

"I must have a few more minutes," he muttered, looking saddened by his lack of time. Going back, he examined the torn flesh and decided he could do more work. Replacing his smile, Jack opened the abdomen a bit more and began to hollow her out, placing whatever got in his way (most notably the intestines) over the body's shoulders.

When he was finished, Jack was very tempted to wipe away the grime from his face. That would prove disastrous, though, if he were to encounter someone on the street, which wasn't entirely unlikely; instead, he took out a handkerchief and wiped away the sweat and blood. Looking down a moment, something caught his eye: two rings on the body's fingers. Usually, he would have just left them there--he didn't need them--but now he felt like he deserved to take a trophy with him. Just a little gift. With a flick of his wrist, he had slipped the two rings off the fingers and into his pocket.

He then raised his head and looked around a moment, spotting a leather apron on the back porch of the apartment. With a sly smile, he picked it up and spread it over the body...let them have a little surprise when they went to get their leather apron.

Jack turned away then, looking down at the plastic bag near his foot. With a content sigh, he bent to pick it up, taking a moment to examine his gloves, which were caked with the slow, sanguine substance. He smiled while he pulled them off, stuffing them in his pocket and putting on his coat...tonight had been a great night, even if he hadn't had much time to enjoy it. Now, though, he had to scoot out of there, as he could hear someone coming down the front stairs. Jack slipped through the gate and out into a back alley, trotting away from his crime scene. How he would enjoy gloating about this...if only he could.

A idea struck him.

He could.

He could share it with all of New York. Yes, Jack would do something he hadn't tried before; contact the police. Show them that he could outwit them, that he had the upper hand, even when he made himself known. A letter...

A letter from another time, another place--his place.

But what would he sign it with? Certainly not his name...but something. He needed a name if he was going to be killing in New York permanently.

Signed yours truly...what?

Jack?--Jack, yes, but that would be so obvious, not to mention bland. Jack the Killer? No. Stupid. Jack the Slayer? Better, but still not there. Jack the Shredder? ...Sounded like a machine.

Yours truly, Jack the.... "Jack the..." he muttered under his breath as a cool smirk made its way onto his face. "Jack the Ripper."



"Victor, your lips are blue. Come inside, boy. ....Victor?"