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London, 2019
9:07
Shawls Bar



Wallace stepped into the bar, behind him Death followed. He quietly sat down on a stool at the counter, his eyes studied the area around him, trying not to look at the figure behind him. The other's in the bar didn't seem the notice the figure, all the eyes were on him and his bloodied coat. He ignored them and ordered a drink from the man working the bar. He had short cropped hair and fled quickly into the back to get the booze. Wallace waited with his head down, still trying not to notice Death behind him. It took a seat next to him, resting it's arms similarly to his, mocking him it seemed. He pulled his cap over his head, shadowing his furious red eyes. He'd have to take the contacts out soon, the eyes were starting to grab attention. He didn't want to mistaken for a Jazz addict. Finally, the drink arrived and he took a huge swig before setting it down and looking next to him. He decided it would be best if he just faced it now and asked the creature in the black cloak why is was following him.
"Death follows where you go, Jack."
Jack. A name he hadn't heard in a long time, a name he no longer went by. Centuries ago, he was known to London as the mysterious "Jack The Ripper," now he was Wallace Tolimortuus, local barber and occasional alcoholic. He pushed himself away from the counter of the bar, the drink sat unfinished and the man behind the bar merely took it, emptied it, washed it without asking for money or any sort of payment. Wallace decided to leave the bar after a man tapped his shoulder, he had a billy-club in his hand and wore the traditional police uniform of Londons finest. Funny, to think he'd outrun these men and their petty guns and clubs for so long with his funny little games.
He arrived at the barber shop in a fifteen minutes, taking a stroll around the park before arriving at the door. He fished in his pocket for the key and found it was missing. It must have been at the bar. Sighing, he returned and grabbed his keys and left with little argument with the newly drunk officer who shouted at him and waved his club drunkenly.
He put the key in the key hole and pushed the door open. The barber shop was dark, no customers since last month and it was falling apart. The mirrors were dirty with grime and dust, the seats were just as dusty. He flipped the lightswitch on and walked to the counter, taking up an old book entitled, Dance of the Assassins, an interesting novel written beautifully. The plot thickened as the witch and young detective ambushed the poisoner during the Black Mass.
The bell rang, interupting Wallace's reading, he looked up and saw a bald man in a brown suit enter, a briefcase was in his hand. He spoke with an Irish accent.
"Mr. Tolimortuus," he said, "it's come to our attention you haven't had a customer in a month and we're interested in buying your shop."
Wallace looked down and turned the page of his book and rested his feet on the table.
"Depends on who 'we' is, sir."
"'We' as in the Brewer's Art gallery." He sia,d sticking his head in the air proudly. We were hoping to be able to place a painting of the sipposed Jack the Ripper in this building, since it's so close to the murder site of Anne Champma-"
"Chapman," Wallace corrected, "and no, you cannot have this building." He turned the page again.
"Well why not," the bald man said, temper rising. "I'll be sure to pay you a heft sum!"
"Noope." He turned the page.
"Oh, put that book down!" The bald man slapped the book away from Wallace's hand, who silently pushed himself up and struck his hand out, wrapping it around the man's throat.
"'No' means no!" The bald man stared into his red eyes and lip quivvered in fear. A tear slid down his fat cheek.
"Please don't hurt me," Fear was rising now, defeating anger. "I got a family!"
Wallace stared for a moment, then threw him to the floor. Death appeared behind him once again, muttering the same thing.
Kill, kill, kill...
But Wallace ignored these thoughts and kicked the man out. He returned to the book, bloodlust being fought off.
He closed shop at Ten o' clock, locking the door behind him. He had taken his knife with him, the old steel blade that had killed the woman of the 1800's. He placed his deep in his pocket and walked to his home, about a mile away from his shop. The night was warm, a brreze fluttered past him, blowing his coat with the wind. Leaves floated past him, surfing on the wind. The moon overhead was a crecent, the light emitted failed to brighten his dark features. As he walked, a low fog wandered into the streets, blocking his view and forcing him to squint. Low steps were heard behind him and Wallace quickened his pace, stepping ever faster. But the steps behind him quickened pace as well, someone was following him closely. He turned down a dark alley, using an old trick and melting into the shadows. The figure stepped into the alley, a silver six shooter glinted and Wallace moved deeper into the darkness, hands fingering the knife in his pocket, getting ready to kill this man. A cat scurried past the mans feet, startling him. He fired a shot into the darkness around Wallace, the bullet hitting the brick wall behind him. Wallace's heart was thudding in his chest, the flash from the gun's barrel may have given him away. He sucked in a breath and stepped back another step.
He heard the man muttering something about showing him a thing or two, and immediatly Wallace's ears picked up the Irish accent. The man came after him for revenge. Wallace attempted to hold his anger in, he managed to, but only for the moment. He silently prayed the irishman would give up and go, but he seemed intent on finding Wallace. He heard Death's voice again, urging him to kill. Finally, his resolute mind gave up and let itself go.
Wallace launched himself from the shadows and was upon the irishman in seconds, the knife was raised above his hand and he struck the mans temple several times in quick, fluid, succession. There was no sound that escaped the chapped lips of the irishman, no squeel. He didn't stop there though, he slid the knife across the corpses throat, cutting deep to the spine. Then, with the precision of a well trained surgeon, he split the body open, cutting down to the man's genitals. He reached inside and pulled the liver out, he stared at it before pulling his mind back to sanity. He stared at the liver some more, and puked into the the hole he created.
He stuffed the liver into the puke filled corpse and hauled it into a trashcan. He dumped the body and wiped his hands on his coat. He placed the bloody knife back in his poakcets and walked silently to his home.

Home


Wallace arrived home about thirty minutes from the murder scene. He was sweating feverishly and feared that he'd be caught, times weren't like they were back then, they had finger-print scanners and would no doubt find the body. But the reaper still sang in his ears.
They won't catch your Jaack...
He turned around, anger obvious in his pale face. "How do you know," he asked, "are you some kinda magical spirit who knows all and sees all? Huh!?" He took his hat off and wiped his brow.
"Oh god, what've I done?"
He'd gone years without murdering another being, if he'd gone another two he would have been allowed to die. The contract he'd filled with Satan himself would have finally been broken, but now, now he didn't know. Wallace sat down in his favorite chair, a leather arm chair, and stared at the wall in front of him.
Times have change, times have changed, times have changed!! The thought constantly rang in his ears. After a few moments he began to reassure himself, they never caught him before so why would they now? Besideds, they'd brush it off as a mistake since Jack The Ripper was dead for years now right? Right? Wallace stood up and paced the room in thought.
Check the contract Jack.
That Reaper was beginning to annoy him, but it had a grand idea. He started up the stairs and into the attic, then pulled the old piece of parchment out of its dusty keeping place. He blew some of the dust off and read the fine print.


There was more to the contract, about seven pages, but Jack only needed the front page to know what this meant, he was free of the police and death, that did not mean he didn't feel pain however. He wiped his brow again and swore under his breath. The contract had been extended another six centuries. Despite what people thought, eternal life is a miserable thing, all your loved ones die around you and when you are being tortured by a spirit, or Death himself, it's much worse. Wallace folded the parchment and put in his pocket next to the knife which was still bloodied. His memory flashed to Annie Chapman, his first kill. His mind fluttered with the thoughts with brief ecstacy. Returning to the real world, he contained his murderous past.
A knock came on the door.
Horror was visable in his eyes for a moment before retuning to their common bored state. I can do this, he thought, I've lied to cops before and got away with it. He buttoned his coat and steped to the door nimbly. A detective stood there, fullin what you would expect. He had a cigarette in between two fingers, he was clean shaven with dark brown hair.
"Mr. Tolimortuus?"
"Something you need, officer?"
"Yes," the detective said, "I'm Detective Capere, I've come in regards of the murder about half an hour away from here."
Wallace mocked a shocked face. "A murder?" He asked. "I didn't hear a thing, is there any way I could help?"
"Yes well," the detective puffed his cigarette. "I've been assigned to ask around and see if anyone heard anything. The murders were very gruesome, split right in halves."
Wallace almost grinned. "Well, I best be off, it's late and I just got back from work over at the barber shop-"
"Barber shop, huh?" Inquired Capere. "The murder was just in your alley, are you sure you didn't see anything?"
s**t! his hands fingered the knife. I can't kill him, surely even the Devils contracts can be broken by simple mistakes! I can't take the risk.
"Well now that you meantion it," he lied, "I did see a man rush down the alley with a gun, he may have had a knife with him too." Not quite a lie, more like not telling the whole truth.
The detective eyes him, cautiously, up and down.He nodded, then said farewell to Jack The Ripper. Still, He thought as he walked into the misty streets of London I feel there was something... wrong about Wallace. He seemed to be paranoid, although anyone would be if they just found out there was a murder not far from them. Maybe it's just me. He thought about turning around and inspecting the mans house, but some strange force told him to keep away. Maybe it was God, or someone more... sinister?

"Anything, John?"
"Nothing," Detective Capere said, "asked around town and the only thing I got was some guy who works at a barber shop next to the scene o' the crime." He rubbed his eyes. He was tired, after the body was found, he hadn't felt well. John Capere sighed and walked to his desk on the other side of the room, filled with cubicles and officer's working, dimly lit as well. Sitting down, he felt like he was going to puke, the murder had been the most gruesome he'd seen yet and would likely be something he'd remember until he died. The murderer had to be captured, there was nothing else on his mind but finding the murderer. He checked his email on his computer and found that he had one new message. It horrified him.

Dear Boss,

I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck. Yours truly
Jack the Ripper


Dont mind me giving the trade name

Immediatly, he attempted to track who the sender was, but the letter was also fit with a virus. His computer crashed. He swore loudly and grabbed an officer who'd been walking towards him.
"Tell the Commander Jack The Ripper's back!"
"Wha-"
"GO!"
The officer ran to the Commander's office, sweating like a pig. Capere massaged his forehead and closed his eyes. I knew the murders looked familier.... Jack was back, woman and now possibly men were going to be killed left and right, London was going to be plunged back into darkness. Silently, he prayed for God to help him capture Jack, but knew that the only way to capture him would be to catch him in the act. He heard his name called and stepped into the commander's office...

"So what you're telling me is Jacky's back?" The commander folded his arms, staring Capere down with his ice blue eyes. Capere nodded. The Commander, LeGrand, was a bulky man with a walrus mustache and short, black hair. His skin was fairly toned. He was stubbern, so much so he'd spit in the Devils face because he didn't believe in the Devil. Capere stood in the rectangular office, overhead a few plaques decorated the wall.
"That's right sir, Jacky's back."
"He died some time in the 1800's, I have trouble believing you, Capere. You're a wonderful officer, but this is just crazy. How long have you been working Capere? A week straight? A month?" Capere knew where this was going now. "I want you to take a couple days off."
"Sir I'm not crazy! It's true, he's back!" Capere slammed his fist on the commander's table, slintering the wood. "I saw the corpse myself, I saw the way it was cut up, it can only be the Ripper!"
"He's dead, Capere. We can't catch a dead man." The commander told Capere to get out, which he did. There was no point in arguing with the commander, he was too stubbern a man to believe anything he didn't believe. Once Capere once said chocolate ice cream was the best, the commander had several facts prepared and countered everything he said.
Capere shuffled out the door, rubbing his forhead. Maybe he did need a vacation, maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see. His great-great-grandmother had been murdered by the Ripper, it was put aside as a seperate case, maybe he just wanted to catch the killer.

Capere's Home
12:19 AM
Beginning.

Capere woke up, stretching his arms wide in an arc and yawning. He wandered over to his bathroom and turned the shower faucet on. He let the steam build up around him before stepping in and felt hot water on his face. He washed his hair and stepped out in a mere twenty minutes and stepped out, he pulled his towel over his face and stared at himself in the glass mirror above the sink. He had bags under his eyes, dark circles too. He felt his own brown eyes looking at him. His mother once said he was handsome, many others thought the same but him. He would never like his appearence. He looked at his stuble, thought of shaving it, then walked out of his bathroom. He was dressed and dried in thirty minutes.
He placed his revolver in its holster, the gun was perculiar as it held seven bullets instead of the usual six. Still, it had come in handy in some shootouts. He pulled his black jacket on and made himself some breakfast.
He pulled the car door open and got in. Capere turned the keys and his car's engine roared. He drove down to the barber shop. Only one thing was on hins mind, meet that barber again what was his name, Billy? No, close, William! That was it, William! He saw a few dozen crows sitting on telephone lines, long out of service, now they used satalites directly, no need for the phone lines anymore. The crows seemed to be watching him drive, but that thought was silly in it's very nature. He turned the radio in his car on. An old Beatles song came on. He heard Paul's voice, sounding solemn, in his car.

When I find myself in times of trouble,
Mother Mary comes to me,
Speaking words of wisdom, Let it be.
And in my hour of darkness she is
Standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, Let it be.

He sighed and listened to the rest of the son, it set his mind at ease as he drove to the barber shop. He spotted the barber pole and parked in front. He walked toward the door, trying to act naturally. If only he were Ringo!

The door opened and a bell rang above his head, he saw the building was empyt! A single sign stood in the center of the desk at the head of the room, it read:

Be back in 10 25

He stared at it, not believing his atrocious luck. He sighed, rubbed his brow, and walked out of the barbershop. He felt like he was being watched, he could feel the eyes, but there wasn't anyone around, most people were still asleep or at work.