A Cart Through the Void

[The Baron]

Workhouse Way

Mister Lusk,

Sor,

Another done an proper, she din’t make no fuss. I tuk what I come for an left ‘er nice an ready for the rozzers to see. Witechapel wakes but they never see me pass. I know them streets like me own cart paths, dark an empty but full of screams.
You think you know but you don’t. I be there before the birds sing, before the coppers rub their eyes. It’s me road, me way, an I walks it when I please. No one stops a man what’s meant to be there.
She still had a breath in ‘er when I left. Ain’t that a thing? Eyes closed, lips partin’, tryin’ for air what weren’t comin’. But she weren’t comin back. Not from what I done.
Wait a bit Mishter Lusk. Wun more an I send you somethin fine.

Yours in haste,

The Man You Pass By



The Baron

[Fiver]

As fictional Ripper letters go, this is not exactly impressive. Attempting to copy the From Hell letter is unimaginative and lazy. You also fail badly at imitating the persona, real or feigned, of the real letter - taunting, bestial, calculated to shock. Your melodramatic "full of screams" isn't the same and it completely contradicts the actual murders. Between strangulation and throat cutting, the Ripper was making sure there were no screams at all

That's far from the only way your letter fails to make sense. It contradicts the available evidence about the wounds to the victims. If it had ever existed, the similarity to the From Hell letter would have ensured it would have been heavily publicized at the time. In some possibly authentic letters, the Ripper mocks the police for getting things wrong about him. In none does the Ripper show your letter 's colossal stupidity to even hint at his occupation, let alone to do so repeatedly with all the subtlety of a train wreck.

Now let's deal with your lack of research. The Whitechapel Vigilance Committee was wasn't created until 10 September 1888. Your letter clearly is referring to the most recent murder, which cannot be any murder before Annie Chapman. If it had existed and been believed, it would have made carman John Davis the prime suspect.

You also imply your letter writer "tuk" organs from their most recent victim. That also eliminates Nichols as the victim referred to in the letter.

[John Wheat]

Workhouse Way

Mister Lusk,

Sor,

Another done an proper, she din’t make no fuss. I tuk what I come for an left ‘er nice an ready for the rozzers to see. Witechapel wakes but they never see me pass. I know them streets like me own cart paths, dark an empty but full of screams.
You think you know but you don’t. I be there before the birds sing, before the coppers rub their eyes. It’s me road, me way, an I walks it when I please. No one stops a man what’s meant to be there.
She still had a breath in ‘er when I left. Ain’t that a thing? Eyes closed, lips partin’, tryin’ for air what weren’t comin’. But she weren’t comin back. Not from what I done.
Wait a bit Mishter Lusk. Wun more an I send you somethin fine.

Yours in haste,

The Man You Pass By



The Baron

More rubbish as per usual.

[The Baron]

The Mysterious Case of "Coincidence Man"

It was a dark and moody morning, so early it technically didn’t exist yet, when even the sun was like, “Nah, I’m good.” The street was dark, silent, and smelled vaguely of regret and expired milk.

Larry and Greg, two men of questionable intelligence and even more questionable decision making skills, walked down the street, groggy and unaware that they were about to witness the most obvious murder scene in the history of crime.

Greg, the slightly smarter of the two (which wasn’t saying much), suddenly stopped. He squinted. “Dude. Look at that.”

Larry, mid yawn, turned his head. A few feet away, standing in the shadows, was a creepy carman. The kind of men that made you uncomfortable, like he was just a bit too creepy for this world.

And at his feet? A woman... and blood. Everywhere.

The carman was standing perfectly still. His hands were covered in what could only be described as extremely suspicious red liquid. His face was blank, the kind of expression you’d expect from someone who just realized they left the stove on but decided it wasn’t worth going back for.

Greg whispered, “Okay. That dude definitely did it.”

Larry snorted. “Greg. Come on. We don’t know that.”

Greg’s face twisted in horror. “We don’t?? Larry, LOOK. At. Him.” He pointed at the man, who was still standing motionless, blinking about once every seven minutes.

Larry scoffed. “Pfft. That’s just circumstantial evidence.”

Greg’s brain short circuited. “Circumstan.. CIRCUMSTANTIAL?! Larry, that’s not circumstantial! That’s direct evidence! That’s prime, uncut, pure murder! If murder was a product, that scene over there would be the organic, grass fed, farm to table version!”

Larry waved him off. “Oh please. You’re being dramatic. Maybe he just found her like that.”

Greg’s eye twitched. “Found her?? What.. Larry, NO ONE ‘finds’ a woman actively bleeding out at four in the morning and just stands there.”

Larry crossed his arms. “Maybe he’s in shock. Maybe he’s mourning. Maybe he’s composing a haiku in her honor.”

Greg pointed furiously. “Okay, well then explain the blood on his hands.”

Larry shrugged. “Maybe he tried to give her CPR.”

Greg threw his hands up. “BRO. That’s not how CPR works. You don’t punch someone’s chest so hard their entire circulatory system explodes.”

The looming man smiled. A slow, creepy, horror movie smile.

Greg grabbed Larry’s arm. “Okay. We need to leave. Right now.”

But Larry, in his unshakable commitment to being a human pile of expired yogurt, didn’t budge. “Greg. Innocent until proven guilty.”

Greg lost it. “LARRY. We are not in a COURTROOM. We are in a DARK ALLEY. This is not an episode of ‘Law & Order,’ this is now an episode of ‘Two Idiots About to Get Stabbed in 4K.’”

The man took a slow step forward. His hand drifted into his coat pocket.

Greg grabbed Larry. “I swear to God, if you don’t run, I will knock you unconscious and drag you myself.”

Larry, the only man alive who would defend a serial killer in real time, actually shushed him. “Greg, don’t be rude! Maybe he’s just reaching for his phone.”

Greg’s soul left his body. “WHAT PHONE, LARRY?? THAT MAN HAS MURDER VIBES RADIATING OFF HIM LIKE A CHEAP GLOWSTICK AT A RAVE.”

Larry patted Greg’s shoulder. “Dude. You need to stop profiling people. Not everyone standing over a dead body with blood covered hands at an unreasonable hour is a murderer. Sometimes people just have… you know… bad luck.”

The carman chuckled.

Greg screamed, “HE JUST CHUCKLED, LARRY. HE CHUCKLED like a movie villain. That was a ’YOU’RE NEXT’ chuckle.”

Larry sighed, disappointed in Greg’s paranoia. “You really gotta stop watching crime documentaries, man.”

At that moment, the man took something out of his pocket. Something long. Something shiny.

Greg immediately sprinted. Larry hesitated.
“Greg, you’re being ridiculous! That could be a...”

Then the carman licked the blade.

Larry blinked. “Oh.”
Then he took off running.

As they sprinted for their lives, Greg screamed, “STILL THINK HE’S INNOCENT?!”

Larry, out of breath, wheezed, “…Could still be a coincidence.”

Greg tackled him so hard, Larry briefly saw his childhood flash before his eyes.. specifically the part where he ate glue.



The Baron

[Fiver]

The Mysterious Case of "Coincidence Man"

Larry, mid yawn, turned his head. A few feet away, standing in the shadows, was a creepy carman. The kind of men that made you uncomfortable, like he was just a bit too creepy for this world.

And at his feet? A woman... and blood. Everywhere.

The carman was standing perfectly still. His hands were covered in what could only be described as extremely suspicious red liquid. His face was blank, the kind of expression you’d expect from someone who just realized they left the stove on but decided it wasn’t worth going back for.

The Baron

Good choice putting this in the fiction section. Nothing about it bears any resemblance to anything real about the Ripper case.

[The Baron]

The Mysterious Case of "Coincidence Man" Part 2

The next morning, Greg and Larry sat in Joe's Café, a local spot known for serving coffee so strong it could legally be classified as a controlled substance. The café was full, people chatting, forks clinking against plates, the warm hum of morning life.

Greg, still shaken, aggressively stirred his coffee. Not because it needed stirring, it was black, but because trauma needed an outlet. Larry, meanwhile, was completely fine, tearing apart a croissant like he hadn't just stood three feet away from a literal murderer the night before.

"You still on about last night?" Larry asked, his voice as casual as someone discussing the weather.

Greg gripped his cup. "Larry, we witnessed a man standing over a freshly killed body."

Larry shrugged. "Yeah, but we don't know why he was standing there."

Greg blinked, his soul flickering like a dying lightbulb.

Before he could respond, the TV in the café caught his attention:

"Breaking news: The downtown murder case has taken an unexpected turn. We now have an exclusive interview with the first person to find the body, local carman, Charlie Coincidence Craw."

Greg's head snapped toward the screen.

Larry kept eating.

And then... THERE HE WAS.
The man they had seen hovering over a dead woman in the dark. Now sitting in a well lit news studio, speaking into a microphone like he was a hero returning from war.

Greg's entire body tensed.

Charlie Coincidence Craw sat upright, hands folded neatly, voice steady. "It was a horrifying experience," he said, pausing just enough to let the weight of his words sink in.

Greg clenched his fists.

"I was walking through the empty streets, late at night for no particular reason, when I saw her lying there," Charlie continued.

"At first, I panicked. But then I thought, 'No, I must stay calm.'"

Greg inhaled so sharply it nearly collapsed his lungs.

Larry, still chewing, nodded. "Smart."

Greg turned so violently in his chair that it screeched against the floor. "LARRY."

Larry held up a hand. "Shh. Let the man speak."

Greg nearly launched his cup at Larry's head.

On the screen, Charlie sighed dramatically. "At first, I didn't even realize it was a person," he admitted, shaking his head. "I thought it was… well, something else."

The interviewer leaned in. "Something else?"

Charlie nodded solemnly. "Yes. I genuinely thought it was… a fallen pancake. Or maybe a very large, abandoned sandwich."

Greg stopped breathing.

Larry squinted at the screen. "A sandwich?"

"A very large sandwich," Charlie repeated, frowning as if deeply troubled by the memory. "I even considered taking a closer look to see if it was still good. But then… I realized. It was a woman."

The interviewer gasped.

Greg grabbed the salt shaker and poured half of it into his coffee.

Larry tilted his head. "You know, I kinda get it. Sometimes things look different in the dark."

Greg turned to Larry, his eye twitching violently. "LARRY. HE CONFUSED A DEAD BODY WITH A SANDWICH."

Larry shrugged. "I mean, people leave food on the street all the time."

Greg stared at Larry like he wanted him to be the next dead body.

On the screen, the interviewer composed herself. "And what did you do next?"

Charlie sighed deeply, the way people do when they need everyone to know how much they've suffered.
"I knew I had to call the police. But I didn't want to be alone. So I waited for someone else to pass by… and, finally, a kind stranger appeared."

Larry nodded thoughtfully. "See? Smart thinking."

"Wait," Greg said, his voice dangerously low. "You found a corpse in the middle of the street, and instead of immediately running to get help, you… just… stood there? And waited?"

Charlie nodded solemnly on the screen. "Yes. I waited. Because one should never face these things alone."

Greg's eye twitched.

Charlie continued, completely serious. "You see, in times of crisis, one must make wise decisions. And I thought.. 'Should I run and fetch the police immediately? Should I ensure this poor woman gets help as soon as possible?' No. That would be reckless. What if I accidentally knocked over a streetlamp? What if I tripped on my way? No, no… It was better to stop. Take a deep breath. And wait until a second person could share in this experience."

Greg grabbed both sides of his head. "HE STOOD THERE. JUST STOOD THERE. LIKE A MAN WAITING FOR A BUS. NEXT TO A DEAD BODY."

Larry took a sip of coffee. "I mean, technically, he's right. No one wants to be alone with a corpse. That's just basic survival instinct."

Greg snapped his head toward Larry so fast he nearly dislocated it. "BASIC SURVIVAL INSTINCT IS RUNNING FOR HELP, LARRY."

Larry shrugged. "Well, I don't know, Greg. You ever been in that situation? Maybe you'd wait, too."

Greg looked like he was about to flip the table.

On the screen, Charlie continued, voice heavy with self importance. "Finally, after what felt like an eternity, perhaps eight, maybe ten minutes... a kind stranger arrived."

Greg froze.
"TEN MINUTES?!" he shouted so loud the café went silent for a second. "HE STOOD NEXT TO A CORPSE FOR TEN WHOLE MINUTES DOING NOTHING?"

Larry raised an eyebrow. "Well, he wasn't doing nothing, Greg. He was waiting."

Greg was visibly unraveling.

On the screen, Charlie sighed again. "The stranger was shocked, of course. But I remained calm. He suggested we try to sit the woman up, perhaps see if she was still alive. But I refused. I said, 'No. We must not interfere, there's the whole respect for personal space thing'"

Greg gripped the edge of the table so hard the wood cracked.

Larry wiped his mouth. "Wow. He's got integrity."

Greg's soul started ascending.

Charlie continued, his voice heavy with burden. "We decided we should get help. So we ran to find a police officer. And when we saw one, I told him, 'Sor, do not worry. Another officer is already on the scene.'"

Greg froze.

Larry squinted. "Huh."

Greg turned slowly. "Huh?" he echoed. "He LIED to the POLICE."

Larry considered this. "Well… it's not really lying if it's for the greater good."

Greg stopped breathing.

The interviewer wiped away a tear. "You truly did the right thing."

Charlie smiled humbly. "I only did what any good citizen would do."

The café clapped!

People actually clapped!

A woman wiped her eyes. Someone whispered, "We need more people like him in this world!"

Greg died inside.

"HELLO?!" he finally yelled, looking around. "AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO SEES THE ISSUE HERE?!"

Larry casually finished his coffee. "Greg, you gotta let this go."

Greg was breaking down, right there in Joe's Café.

A man at the next table sighed dreamily. "I hope my son grows up to be like that carman."

Greg collapsed onto the table.

Larry stretched. "Welp. I should probably head home."

Greg barely lifted his head. "You're just gonna leave? After THAT?"

Larry nodded, grabbing the rest of his croissant. "Yeah, man. I think we all learned a valuable lesson today."

Greg, physically and emotionally destroyed, whispered, "What lesson?"

Larry grinned. "Last night was a classic example of how we judge people too quickly."

Greg reached for a knife.

Larry grabbed it first. "Oop... gotta go!"

Greg screamed into his hands.



The Baron