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.