SweetZombieJesus

It’s true I knew The Ripper when he was just a nipper, but the story don’t end there, boy. Yeah I taught ‘im how to stab up and slash out in a violent frenzy, but in the end the geezer went wrong so I had to silence ‘im. Let me tell you how it went down as I recall it all those years ago: It was 1850 (or thereabouts) and there was a little geezer called Ian. “Little Ian” we used to call him. He was a keen lad who used to like to earn a little bit of extra pocket money hanging out with me and my green boys, running errands an’ that. We used to send ‘im out for Scotch eggs and crab sticks while we were playing cards or raping. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- One day we sent ‘im out and he never came back. We waited and we waited and finally I went out into the alleyway for a slash. And as I was hosing a dog into a coma, fracturing its skull with my powerful wee-wee jet, I saw Ian - the little git – tryin’ ta mug a posh geezer with a knife. The posh bloke weren’t ‘aving any of it so Ian tried to stab ‘im in the belly, but he was feeble and small. All he succeeded in doing really was giving the geezer an extra belt hole. I was totally disgusted with this. If Ian was goin’ to roll with me and my crew he was goin’ to have to learn the basics. So I put myself away, trundled over and showed ‘im how to loosen the man’s genitals in one swipe. “Like this, you rubber Johnny,” I said and I gouged out the geezer’s eyeball and in one balletic motion tucked it into his watch pocket: “Now you try.” Ian seemed to pick it up quite naturally and I decided to let ‘im live for another hour as a reward. Pretty quickly he became my star student and he was out cutting up everyone in sight: vicars, children, lepers, labradors. Finally it was time for Ian to go his own way so I punched him in the face, threw his shoes in the Thames and told ‘im to get away from me or I would widen his head on a rack. He scuttled off into the night like a tiny beetle, but a beetle in a man’s outfit. You gotta be cruel sometimes. Ian had to find his own path. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life suckling from my wrinkled green tittles. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I watched him disappear up the road and finally get knocked down by a horse and cart, and then I went inside and started a fight with a foreign geezer who was – in my opinion – breathing in too much oxygen. “How dare you?” I said. “That’s London air, you daft frog.” “I’m not French,” he replied, so I glued his arms to the ceiling. Anyway, this is where the story takes an interesting turn. Twenty-four years later I was coming back to Bethnal Green after selling the crown jewels to an Arab gentlemen called Cyril when I say a silhouette lurking in the shadows. What caught my single solo polo peeper was the gentlemen seemed to be wearing a top hat just like mine. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- In fact at first I thought it was my own shadow created from the light of that white gay ball some people refer to as the moon. But the figure started to move around and I was pretty static at the time taking a dump in some bushes. The figure approached another silhouette and took out what appeared to be a dagger; or a screwdriver. Nice, I thought, one of my own boys on the firm. But then horror struck me. This geezer was pulling a knife out on a lady, either that or a geezer in a dress. I could not believe it. Now I am pure evil but I’ve got standards. Ladies are out of bounds. You can slap ‘em around a bit or shout at ‘em, but stabbin ‘em? – that is wrong. And this geezer was about to cross the line. I wasted no time at all. I sprinted across the cobbles and blew the character of his feet with a musket I happened to have on my own person. The lady of the night thanked me in her own individual way (still got the warts to prove it) but here’s the shocking part of the tale: after I went through the geezer’s pockets for loose change (he weren’t quite dead so I took of me boot to finish what I’d started), I raised that red Chelsea boot high above my boatrace and I froze in a state of double decker disgust and confusion. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- You see, the geezer, on the floor, writhing about in agony, was Ian, the little tit who used to bring me Scotch eggs while I was raping all those years ago. He was the Ripper! Jack the called ‘im I think, Jack The Ripper. I said, “You know you’ve done wrong in yourself. Now I like to stab up a geezer as much as the next man, but stabbing up a woman? That is not on, son. Anyway I thought your name was Ian.” He looked up at me with his dying breath and said, “Well, I thought ‘Jack The Ripper’ had more of a ring to it.” And I agreed, and I finished ‘im off with my boot. Took ages in the end because he kept wriggling about on the cobbles like some kind of giant maggot man. Anyway, I cut ‘im up into tiny pieces and used ‘im as confetti at some kind of posh geezer’s wedding. And that’s why they never found The Ripper, not because he was clever, or because he out-foxed the police, but because I used ‘im as confetti at a wedding.