The Clap of the Gallows

I am Jack the Ripper. In a red ink pseudonym, I announced myself in letters to the Metro Police months ago. Later, on a cold November day; I sat on a hard-wooden stool, infamous. My writing table angled at forty-five degrees, I sketched her insides by candlelight, my last surgery. And all I could do was sketch them, reorganize them, like a bloody puzzle.

A part of me longed for the still dampness of Newgate prison. There, they could keep me from my knives and in turn, I would indulge daily conjugal visits—quid pro quo by blood lust for flesh lust. And off the streets, I would be. Inside their windowless tomb, I could write poetry and fuck. But they would have me swing from the gallows instead. So I fuck and bleed the city.

That evening, alleyway shadows darkened the damp crevices of my drapes so often. Dread scattered my nerves into the depths of my gut each time. I anticipated a knock on the door by one of those lantern carrying pricks. Every horse clop and whistle shriek angered me. And I needed a fuck and fresh blood.

My dear Van Gogh wrote that too much sexual activity detracts from your work. He painted sunflowers and I extract them out of torsos.

At the next door theatre, Pamela, a beautiful actress, whom I watched through my peak hole in her dressing room ceiling Lincrusta, which, served me well. I often climbed amongst the insides of the Pavilion theater attic like a spider: a horrible one, with enormous size, that murdered in the dark, and danced in blood with eight rotten legs.

One Saturday, Pamela's bright ass clapped and jiggled to the pelvic violence of a twenty-year-old wine boy. I watched his eight inch cock slide in her as she layered on Mascara. If I had hands as steady, I could further dissect the organs I absconded from the temples of my subordinates.

The next day it was my turn. Her usual lover, Sullivan, often wore death masks and heavy crimson robes with his pecker free to roam the thick corridors until he ravaged her. But after my descent from my hot splintered world, he laid on the floor with choral hydrate glossing his lips. I entered Pamela's room in Sullivan's cotton clown death mask, heavy robe, with my cock protruding like a kukri.

"I thought you had rehearsals?" she said.

I ran to her, lifted up her red metallic nightgown, smacked her bubble ass; my fingers crawled her torso to grope her tits: large cold grapes. I grabbed her wrists; flattened her palms down low on her makeup table. This perked her round white ass: smooth, soft, neat and bubbled. With bent knees and a numb cock—hard as ivory, I entered. Pamela was wet. I slid out and back until I found that wine boy's rhythm. I looked up at my peak hole and saw my own eyeball fixed like a marble staring back: an absinthe hallucination. I widened my upper thighs so I could dominate her ass like an orangutan in heat. Her soft dangling tits were fun to molest. Soft balloons and a turnkey to harden my cock.

Sullivan walked in and gasped, visually absorbing several of my thrusts. I took in the growing sclera of his eyes as my cock flooded Pamela's insides.

"Oh, my little girl," I said. "Oh fuck."

The odd and foreign sound of my voice entered Pamela's ears like scattered cock roaches in new light. I pulled out and spilled the remnants all over her bubble ass that wiggled and winked at her betrayed lover.

"You fucking whore!" Sullivan said.

I rushed Sullivan and tackled him with his own thick crimson robe. He transformed into a red mummy, and I slammed his head unconscious. I rushed Pamela and powdered her bulged eyes with talc. Blinded, she crawled under her vanity mirror. I skipped to the ceiling trap door in the bathroom; pulling its chord. And, alas, back in the attic's dust.

Van Gogh was right, sex detracted from work in which I would have had both their hearts in my physician's bag. But I filled her ass instead. And my come dripped down my leg, collapsing the spider inside like a silly drunkard.

The evening shadows continued to darken the damp crevices of my drapes so often. My organ sketches went from realism to impressionism—cartoonish kidneys. I left my old flat, grabbed my black bag and skipped across the gloomy puddles to a doss house.

I sat on a cot and watched the peasants with their rat feet scatter the wood floors for bugs. They couldn't see the big one sitting their contemplating them. A young blonde lady draped in a tethered gown; breezed by with a sweet gust of apple cider and rum. Her ass cheeks flicked away the fabric as she strutted—a bubble ass in the doss house.

I approached her in the corner.

"Grapes for booty," I said.

"Get fucked," she said.

"Grapes for all in the doss house and I won't rip tonight if you oblige," I said.

Moments later, her morbid skirt covered her face and my cock vanished into her ass. I soaked and smeared her bubble butt with alcohol and a rag—it gleamed like peeled potatoes. The doss house now reeked like a hospital. I peppered the floors with grapes, feeding all, and hand fed my blonde princess under her garments.

I peeled off her dress and wiped her charcoal smeared skin with alcohol. Her naked body: curved like a Degas ballerina statue. Two dozen watched as I polished and sterilized her tits into a gloss, smacked her ass, and fucked her like a maniac. I undressed myself to be bear naked too. Out of grapes to toss, we focused and fucked for an hour with a packed doss house. Her ass wobbled, her tits swayed, my white ass jiggled, and we moaned to our own gorgeous perspiration rain and joyous rhythm of flesh smacking.

"I am Jack the Ripper. I will wreak havoc on White chapel—oh this pussy is so good, little girl. If you're Queen Victoria allows me to write poetry and fuck at Newgate prison. What an ass, oh fuck. I will surrender on a condition that your Queen will not have me hanged and I will write extraordinary poetry that will inspire all of you, in a positive fashion. I am about to come..."

Eighteen pairs of eyes watched my tongue flop out and my eyes roll white. I death gripped her soft bakery hips and kept stabbing in my throbbing cock. Those ass cheeks; soft like angel cake and sweet like blancmange. "Oh fucking...no!"

My come ran down her thighs like the roaring River Lea. I spilled my juice all over the floor and smeared it with my bare soles. Bunchstems from the grapes scattered the floor like bellied up spider carcass. Then my eyes found a pair of polished boots; attached to them—one of the Queen's peelers. The ethanol odor faded as did my freedom.

"Well, Jack...you shall come with us...we'll do you right," a bobby said.

That was the last day of London's sunshine for me. Writing poetry in a windowless tomb is hell. Three weeks in, no conjugal visits: as I am too violent, and my knives; probably set for a London museum. Not even a pistol in my possession to go out like Van Gogh. I could hear the clap of the gallows; behind my dull grey concrete cell. And that is what my poetry is about: that sweet clapping sound of quick death.