An ordinary domestic dandelion is a beautiful, golden yellow weed that may gradually take over your house?s garden. It is up to you to decide if the people in this are dandelions. There is a young British woman who died long ago. Is she something that needs to be rooted out of a giant lawn, namely, London, England? Before she takes it over, ruling and dominating it with the world?s most lengthy and painful possible forms of death?
Or is it Charles, a stranger in a strange land, who might seek his eternally lost soul, which he thought was in the future, who is the real dandelion? Lastly, is it possibly the person or people you would most suspect of such a status ? murderers? Some think death is something to be imitated, though it may be a weed in all of our gardens. And one of the world?s most famous killers, oft imitated, is a part of the following story.
?This will never be easy,? thought me to myself as I gazed out the filthy panes of the room I was renting. It was a beautiful day in our many districts of London, one of which inhabited England of the 1870?s. I knew, however, that I was special and different. I had been favored by the gods that be for some unusual purpose, or I was imagining things. Some unnatural thing had been telling me what to do for my life?s purposes.
For my name was Annie Chapman, born of two parents as all such usual people are, but I was definitely stuck now living in the Whitechapel area of a small but scattered parish of London, a city of multiple desires and random lost causes, but mostly punishment. In my time, it was well known - and all our mortal souls had to suffer its bitterest stings. So far as I could tell, women and children seemed to suffer most of these prejudices. The men had a hideous freedom to their causes widespread throughout Victorian England, in spite of the fact we were ruled by a queen. Feeling permanently depressed about this, I gazed out the window, looking at an autumn tree beginning to sprout its wondrous and small leaves. I recalled my father, a man of austerity and grace, who had been impoverished. The fact he was stuck presiding over an ant farm bothered me.
I sensed to myself, that although I was some colored and unfavoured, as I was not very coloured, I could perhaps get a job from the Jews down the street at one of their many small perfume, antique and trinket shoppes, a jewelry store, or perhaps a lasting slot as a flower girl in another district. Still, as my parents had told me to trust Jesus our Lord and Saviour, I was curious. I had found Whitechapel district, and it seemed to me that we were so overcrowded and under favoured in London of that time and place that it would be best to end my existence here. I did not much apply at the shoppes. I saw my looks to be somewhat freakish - and felt work for me was scarce in all known quarters.
I was not certain of suicide, but had taken to light drinking of the only local beverage that afforded me any substantial pleasure at all, which of course was small beer. I noticed these imported beers were oft German or Irish. As I was with the other local ?girls? who inhabited the lodgings of our elderly female landlord, who winked at me and let me know that only pleasures of the evening or money could reconcile her duplicate balance sheets, which I was dead sure she was forced to keep, I was sad, for I knew my eventual end must come from intractable diseases. On the other hand, nightly I dreamed of a time when I could experience genuine sexual pleasure. This often involved fornication in broad daylight, which I only imagined. Sometimes I also envisioned a husband, who looked peculiarly like my father. He was finally killing me to get rid of enforced existence, and I hated this as much as anyone would in near same situation.
I loathed being only a girl in a men?s world, and did not want to be anything else. For to me, it would make no difference if I lived or died, as it seemed to be for all others in my time, but in some way I would have liked to lead an entire human existence.
My sole body was to be for the filthy old men - and the younger, equally filthy rogue, lordly and absurd - but well dressed middle aged gentleman of that era, and whatever else came my way, one which would only be stifled as far as ultimate heartbreak and pain needed to be hidden. I cheerfully went about my business, sometimes wondering if a time would come when I would meet my true lord and savior of the world, Jesus Christ. For I could not forsake the duty that God Himself had apparently handed me. I was surely to leave this world too soon. With the juxtaposition of a name like Annie Chapman with Whitechapel, I knew my end would not be pleasant, nor a good example. I understood my tale that was never told was not for your children, the god fearing, or the happy.
I often thought: the Word between me and Whitechapel was simply the word ?chap,? almost a common word used in English at that time. There was a logical explanation for my concupiscent unstoppable fate. Perhaps our local, bitter deaths were supplying its greater usage. Yet after having applied at a dozen small shops, including apparently two Jewish ones, and after several episodes of being winked at, tormented by flies and insects, and smelling the street garbage, I felt something like a voice telling me where to go. I knew I was no such ?chap.? I was a crappie and would never be a dowager. I had to learn that man is the dominant life form, and that woman was only a feeling appendage.
I headed for Whitechapel based upon this. There was simply nowhere else to go. But I wondered. Was there some other place for one like me, I thought as I looked down the length and breadth of my home?s glowering streets, wandering for the sake of exercise alone, during the day. I thought, it is time. I must gather my long skirts to myself, and reflect upon what I must do. It will not a good thing be. I must never gain too much weight, or I would lose the one job I had left my family early to access.
I will have to sell myself at night to these strange men, as I cannot seem to get another job. Yet, it is not so much because of my eerie skin color, I reflected. Surely, although I am ?dirty,? and ?filthy,? and all of those things, this could not be a pre-ordained fate. I am as much blonde and blue eyed I decided, as I am a lady of colour, although I am only one person, who must decide if she is a person. Surely a lady of the evening could never be let to be. Although at one time, I found myself at a veterinarian?s office, being told that the only living I could have was cleaning animal cages. I wondered to the man in charge if I could have any facial coverings for this. ?No, chit, hurry up and clean those cages, or you are terminated from this job. Get over here, and when you are done, come in the back. I have a big surprise waiting for you, chippie.? He wanted it clearly for free. As I left, I told him, ?Next time, supply the ?chippie? with a mask of some kind.?
Needless to say, once outside this office, I realized what my definite fate would have to be. I had been too defiant in my own way of something I could not understand or relate my life about. I was rooming near the Whitechapel district at the time, in a rundown and filthy hovel, and I simply went to the office of the renting hostelry, talked to the manage, and was told I owed sixteen farthings for rent, even though I owed none. I knew I needed a certain amount of farthings to make my way in the world, and had oft lost count, as the varieties of pence and farthing, quid and crown danced through my growing mind. I had not met the level of souls who needed only pence, as that would come later.
I remember thinking, damn you, God in the highest. You are simply some concept dreamed up by man. I am going to live in Whitechapel district, alone, and away from you. But at night, I cannot even dream of a man. I must face down the British Empire beasts who think they are lions at night, one at a time, until ?it? finally happens. And the unicorn can never help lasses who cannot see straight after two days of life. As the seal of the British Empire dictates, something is a lion, and something is a freak.
Therefore the first is a predator, it casts around for what to feed upon, and it must eat in order to survive. If this is its wife, its husband or its own land, it must make its statements, sign onto its ?just? causes, and take on its own workloads. But these are always assigned to it by another force, one which subsumes it to cause its death.
Casting about for the dozen girls whom I was to work with, whom I had first met at a trade school, I found Cecilia, and Mary. I asked Mary if there was anyone else named same as her in Whitecap area. I immediate thought there ought to be two such Maries. ?I should like to live in the same rooms with her,? I told Cecilia. ?What, are you an invert? Do you like women? You don?t look dark or short enough. I?d think beer and some high life would be enough for you. I have a nice man who wants to see you. His name is Charles. He?s the cutest bloody bloke in England. Come back here.? She was indicating the deep interior of the tavern we congregated at, to speak between us.
I paused for a moment. ?What, is Charles not lit up? Is he, ah, a drunkard, and perhaps not white or something?? I had been introduced for breeding purposes to many such. Having turned them all down as unsuitable, I had slept only with white men.
?Whatever would make you say that? He has a name and a pedigree. Don?t you think you would like to meet him? By the way, he wants to discuss an arrangement with you. He told me he wants to organize us ladies into sort of union. Can you imagine, Annie, we could work for decent wages for a change?? She giggled. ?Really, he thinks he?s bonnie Prince Charlie, oh, he?s a rough but good hearted cuss. No, he?s out for blood.?
I had read in the newspapers, having been a schoolgirl and able to read, and having greatly enjoyed this period of time in my life, of things such as unions and also how men only took advantage of women. Still, I knew how men lived and died on the job. My father had perished away from our apartment, and we had never known what had happened. There had been a story in the papers out of Sussex about an industrial accident in the silver mines of Brazil. I wondered how my father had traversed the waters; maybe easily, maybe hard. In a ship, or in a slave boat? Such had begun my long slow slide downwards. I had taken to drinking and also carousing with the local men. But I had also contemplated drug abuse, especially cocaine, and had turned aside. I had thought of my education. But my mother ran out for our four other children, all younger than me, and I had to go work for my living. For a time, I had to suffer cocaine withdrawal, but we were tough girls at the time and no problem was had waiting out the shaking. You see, the elaborate clothing of our times dictated our existences almost completely. It took well nigh unto fifteen minutes to lace up one?s high button shoes, and they cramped one?s feet sufficiently to cause intolerable agony, although removal of them felt like surrender.
Most fortuitously, in Leeds I found a new style of shoes that were less ponderous. These simply laced up to the ankles and had become widespread in America. Made of patent leather, they were expensive but not impossible to buy with our wages.
Penny small pence for my thoughts, where I could ever head them, as my dark friend Cecilia, who was good at slipping in and out of the shadows and back alleys as she introduced me to the Life, dragged me to the back of the dingy tavern and I came across Charles. He was standing there, and sure enough, I had to think what I thought. He was indeed a Negro man, and he had on the most arcane African grin I had ever seen.
?Would you care to make more money at what you are bound to do?? Charles asked me, taking my hand quite gently and giving me an obviously acquisitive peck on the back of my hand. ?I?ve never been treated so like a lady before, Charles. Is?t your real name??
?Yes, but you are now to have a new name. I want to call you something else, but you may select it, my fair lady. What would? a care to be called, now if you work for us?? He was a scant taller than me, but loomed larger than my desires could push him back.
I reflected upon how much I loved my Lord and Saviour, and how much Charles looked like the Devil. As he stood there, he resembled pictures of the Moors I had seen in my book. They were treated as the enemies of our England, and I wondered. Would this man help secure me better fortunes? No, there was no such thing as hope. He held my hand for the briefest of moments, and then released it as his gently slid downwards.
?I?m sorry, Charles, but I do so work alone. I will reside in Whitechapel, and, ah, I will await the coming of the one who will save me from my appointed task. Upon the coming of my Lord, I will then go home. Do you understand this, my Charlie?? I decided to give him his grin back, and smiled the smile of one I knew was quite uncertain. Perhaps this boyish man had something in mind along the lines of gathering up our monies. His hat was cut of the finest cloth, and his costume smacked of recent times and extremely well adjusted accouterment. He looked like a good ?old boy? from say, Liverpool, where I understood the fine arts were gaining in attention, and there were nice museums. But I doubted he?d long attended school, from his overly active mannerisms. His frown was too like his smile; arduous, songlike, and full of evil implications.
?Ah, I understand. But would you like me to buy you a beer first?? The fellow stood there, looking at me proudly and far too arrogantly to be thinking he would be in any trouble for accosting me. I knew now what my prospective clients would also probably be. There would be no mercy whatsoever from the disease threat. I knew now beyond all certainty what I was going to be forced to become. And it might last longer than long. There were growing hospitals that could take me in, and the treatments there for disease were as medieval and arcane as any I had studied in my way at school.
I would be taking some of the men of England with me on this unpleasant Biblical Job like journey, I decided. If not many a long year would await my misfortune, I should be a slit throat. It would help make up for some of I and my girls? lack of good circumstance. It was not the men folks? fault; I could not see it any other way. And yet they all seemed to think that sex was something they owned or otherwise could throw away as some sort of ungodly machinelike contraption. I was sure I myself would turn out to be one.
?Charles, I need initiated into this. Could you buy me a beer, and could we step upwards into an upstairs bedroom, one last time, before I settle down into my life of prostitution??
He snidely frowned, and said, ?Look, young lady, I am definitely not liking your mood and would require some recompense for your time, if I was to be a fancy man for you. I have done this now for several years, and it is high time I became upwardly mobile. When do you want to go into an upstairs bedroom with me?? As he stood there, I saw that he would be rankled if I took anything like a sweet time with him. Also, I picked up a deep sense that he wanted something nice out of life which he could never obtain.
I took his two toned but silken left hand in one sudden motion. ?I have sixteen pence in my pocket. If you must be such a small boy about this, I can certainly pay you for going through the motions with an aging and soiled dove such as me. It is my rent money, and it is all I have. Let us go upstairs, and for one hour, let us be a man and a woman together. You can show me the way. I will even lead the way upstairs for you. Do you want to beat on me? Do you have equipment, or is it as simple as it looks??
?No,? said Charles, casting his eyes away. ?I do, but actually, I will take your sixteen pence and get you out of here. Let us go buy you one beer, and be done with you. Come on now, such a choppy; let us go buy you a glass of wine. Come on now, Dove.?
So he led me over to where I and my friends congregated, and was the only one of his kind there as we settled in to what would be one of my few last glasses of heavy and dark brew. I sat and tired watched its aged traces swirl in the glass. The piano player was fetching a good tune out of the wooden instrument, and several of the girls were dancing merrily, pulling their skirts up aways, sometimes doing what we thought of as the stage dancing which I had seen growing up, down in another district, one which the rich were known to haunt and which had many a festive ballroom hall dance going in it. Some journeymen, carpenters and tradesmen, were dancing about, as the tavern was not as small as it looked from the outside, and it was a good time being had by all. Even me. I was surprised as I looked around, happy for a moment at the lack of Christian antipathy. The men whirled their girls around, dipping them, sometimes dancing erratically. I began tapping my shod foot rapid time to the music, and clapping my hands.
?Chuck - my bonnie lad,? I tittered suddenly into my feminine hand, which had beautiful red nail polish on each nail - but of the nailpolish was starting to chip around the edges. ?Charlie my darling, let us get up and dance.? As I gazed down the bar, I could see the Jewish owner of the tavern, or so I thought of him, wiping all the glasses with one towel, and dreamed briefly of securing a job as a tavern girl. Charles seemed to flinch. I thought, would the tavern owner hire him? Perhaps he would not work there. I wanted to reach out and grab him by the waistcoat and haul him - slowly - upstairs with me.
?Wait. I have to go dance with the ladies who work for me. Wait here.? He left me, his grey tailcoats swirling around in mock protest. Then one of what I assumed now were his girls handed me a newspaper. It was a headline on that grabbed my attention. As I read it, my heart sank, although it was nothing unexpected and I had been looking for it.
It read, ?Ladies of the Evening Disappearing in Whitechapel.? As I read the story, it turned out they were doing anything but disappearing. Our bodies were being found in strange and peculiar places, splayed out like carpetbags, in odd positions. And I felt chilled to the bone when I found other Mary indeed. It was a young girl I knew who had gone to a separate school than mine, once I had met her at a coffee shop, and we had shared dreams of working as writers, musicians, waitresses and artists, and she had been found in an alley with her throat ripped wide open and her abdominal cavity also gutted through her heavy clothing, in a position which began to sink deeply into me.
Sitting with my head spinning out of control, I happenstance saw a street at night. It was one of many - with dead bodies upon it. I also viewed an absolute picture of what had happened. As the grey cold swirls of a thick London negotiable fog gathered around both the victim and the oppressor, I saw who it was. He wore a long black cloak and a broad grey brimmed hat. He knew what he was doing, too good of a job at it. If it was one person, it was an unlined medical doctor. I read other articles, and there was some attempt to blame the entire local Jewish population. It finally centered on a butcher named Leather Apron, and there was talk of arresting this Jew. I knew for a cold hard fact that it was not him, but a cadaverer who lived and worked near the vicinity.
And I next saw a sepia toned picture of what the ?vultures? that gather and make money off of us had done to her ?pretty? corse. She was so dark and mysterious, and had lovely long black hair. They had sewed her body all up to pose her both as a new thing called pornography - and as a medical item. I had to think, I somewhat minded the porno, but was happy about the medical aspect. Then it dawned on me. This would lead to the widespread abuse of women. However, it seemed a new way to make money, one that might get some of us away from the horrendous sweatshops, where in crowds you could only work until you dropped, were out on the streets and got yours. And the growing photography arena must of course have something strange to take on. I thought, Charles should try taking pictures of us, but perhaps he has not such knowledge as that.
I was sure of a sudden that it had all been a necessity, and that it had happed before, but had not been reported on by the newspapers so frequently. Please if there be a God, I briefly prayed: do not take enormous photographs of my dead naked body. And what if this attitude spread out, engulfed the other citizens of London, and destroyed her?
?Excuse me. I have to go see a doctor now, everyone. Oh, I have to get out of here.? Being medium height but of slight build, yet a little paunchy round the middle, it took quite a lot of lifting my skirts and pushing to get the crowd aside and to leave the large room of a tavern. God was telling me where next to go. I cruised lightly down the street, giving a glance to the left of me every time, seeing the beautiful shops of the Jews and others gleaming in the broad daylight. It looked like a nice home for real people, the sort that could wish you a taught day and hand you the proper portion of goods. I looked, and there was someone who looked like Charles working in the back part of grocers. It turned out to be an island woman from Haiti who was sweet on white men, the likes of whom gave her three children, but had deserted her each time for someone else. Every time I needed fresh fruit, I would ask her to give me an extra portion for the others. But she finally stated that her billet was too long to give us any further. Her name was Hattie, and I almost asked grocers if they would hire me instead of her. Grocers was white mostly, but Hattie had been so nice to us I could not bear to hurt her and ruin her life.
I sighed, adjusting my bonnet and retying the strings alongside my glowing cheeks. In autumn in London town, there were many bustling down the sidewalks, heading places all unknown to me, many of which I had already been. I knew the shop of the doctor was down the street about two more blocks. I shifted my skirts about my leggings, and began padding like I was some sort of panther - or perhaps another cat of my own - a bit further. As my eyesight was perilously obscure, I could make out the sign above the door. It had been hand painted, but I had been told long ago that only menfolk painted signs.
?Dr. Jack Rinehart,? it seemed to proudly proclaim, ?Mortician, barber, necrologist, and exterminator.? As I lingered over the last word, I seemed to hear a macabre song in my head, one about cockroaches and the plague. I shuddered as the wind whipped around my bonnet, and as I looked over at a greenly growing oak tree in a planter, it sent some leaves over to me. They slicked across my eyes - and then I took one - and peeled it off. It was the only way I could be a ?peeler.? That was a member of the authorities, such as Scotland Yard, or the local bobby police. The job of a policewoman was rare indeed. All of our girls made the lowest possible wages, and were easy to take advantage of, but so were most of the men, I supposed. I had dreamed of taking the train to Stratford of Avon on Sea, but had no relatives out there whom I could stay with while I found work. I hoofed it to the chap?s office, thinking that if enough of us were dead, they would eventually catch the miscreant. Still, considering what we were doing, it seemed all right to me either way. Surely, the population of England could use some lowering.
I paused at the door of his office, wondering if it was also his residence. It was so crowded in downtown London that it probably was also his place of abode. There was at least one set of rooms above the office, and a gaslight flickering in one of them. In those days, you see, we had no electric light everywhere and relied on flame lights.
But the chap was a medical doctor. As I walked into his office, I gasped in horror. There were various undone girls on the tables, and quite a few boys. Dead boys, everywhere. Corpses were openly spread to see, obviously to be examined in spurious and hideous manners. As I wheeled around, seeing the dead for the first time in my life, I gulped and gasped. I drew a hand to my throat, putting it away, and stared at the man with a kind of hatred. Something real was telling me this was our persecutor, and not a good man.
?Are?you a mortician? Is this where you take their lives, or save them?? He looked slowly over his pince nez, taking his spectacles off, rubbing them on his bloody sleeve. I looked into what appeared to be a Teutonic face, one which I had never seen before. It was white but red with a kind of age, and looked furrowed above the brows. His hair was uncombed, and his cloth apron as blood soaked as I had ever seen on a cattle butcher. And his entire body was shot through with disease, especially most of his face.
?Miss, I presume you want to speak with me? Come have a seat over here. Would you like to get up on a table, so I can examine you?? His lips curled into a kind of vicious snarl, as he began to reach behind me, perhaps to close the door at my back. I inched myself backwards, holding the door?s handle grasped firmly, ready to swing it open, but had nowhere really to go at this point in time.
?Nooooooooooo,? I scattered through my loose teeth, thinking this could be the occasion I had been waiting for right here in his office. ?Do you, that is, are you Jack Rinehart, and would you come up with me to my rooms now - and we could have a good time?? I wondered if trying to make him into a customer would settle his hash. But it was more than obvious he had something utmost lifelong in mind that I couldn?t approach. ?Do you think you and I could go up the street to a lovely restaurant, and eat??
Women are the xx chromosome and the eternal optimist. Men are an xy chromosome. They are far more ready to kill than to be optimistic. Eating is out of the question when you are the thing that needs to be eaten. What makes you think my name is Jack?
I thought to myself that is the most inane thing I have ever heard. ?Do tell,? rang out the hollowest voice I had ever heard in a man speaking that way. ?Are you ready for me now, little whore? I am certainly ready for you. Come, lie down.? He was about medium height, and for one moment, I daydreamed about describing him to Scotland Yard. He had a brush of brown hair on top, and his bluish green eyes danced with foul wickedness. Yet I was finally confronting my male self. He was as diseased as he could possibly be. I had never seen a white man or anyone else look that far along when it came to dying. His voice began echoing in my head for awhile, like a ringing declaration of the bottomless pits of hell. I knew he could have no wife, no lover, and no children. I wondered if he cerebrally loved men. I finally decided he had been having at those corpses indeed. What an extremely courageous?man. No, he wanted us to fare far worse than him. Did he actually need to be doing what he was doing, and what was it for? And I knew his total lack of mercy must be sustained for our lives. He had been plotted by the forces of chaos for infinity before he was even born. At this I knew, right now I had only freckles. It was almost as if I had seen my ?other? at last, where I was putting my possible victims and most significantly, myself. And I know how I accidentally looked at him. The wonder that crossed my face, combined with devastating loneliness, spread ample across it.
For an instant of time, we looked at each other, I with love, and he with hatred.
And in return, the lust for blood or something else took over his own once fine and elegantly alabaster features, twisting them into a sort of malevolent farfetched grin. ?You know me. Come on, and let me tell you what I?m doing here, you idiot whore. I won?t hurt you; I promise this. You only need to climb up, and tell me your troubles. I will treat you like a father. Here is the place, babe, and old child of the night. I will save you much pain - and take no long time with you.? He motioned in a Londonian way towards an empty vivisection table, with a pure white cloth spread perfectly over it.
His suit under the apron was impeccable, with a brown vest buttoned across his muscular chest. I could see him as a young and vital man, and he was ungodly handsome.
?I won?t kill you, honestly, as I promise you. Simply perch on this table, pretty bird. You need your health checked into, and you need regular medical care. Isn?t that what we?re here for, to help you? I have decades of experience working with whores. It won?t hurt you all one micron.? His grin turned friendly, and he looked so normal and polite as he did not reach for me. Letting me stand there, I contemplated only the silver slab.
I saw my shallow death, only about five feet away from where I stood. It would involve much blood letting, and an agony he would not want to cause here. My screams would carry, so he must be somehow mentally gone. I knew how it had to happen, and I felt so disappointed, and not afraid. A kind of disgust appeared as well. I could not really see his medical instruments, and a few of them began to gleam at me, vacillating in the autumn heat as they loomed larger. I had seen pictures in books of Inquisition tortures.
For a moment, I wished he would use a smaller such implement upon me instead. Then I realized what that would entail, and closed my eyes for ten seconds. The idea occurred that perhaps hundreds of children had fallen to this maniac. A ping in my head, and I felt as though it told me many more virgins would in the future. Or was it only we ?whores? should these ?maniacs? have their practices? Yet, as I eased the door behind me back and forth, I did not say anything and looked, to see if any of the ?bodies? moved. One did, and twitched. I dreamed of childhood prostitution leading to the sale of body parts. One day in third world countries, these would be harvested, to be sewn into the others.
Why would a man named Jack Rinehart be held accountable for world evil? It was a British and German born name. It flashed through my mind that he had been writing letters to the newspaper, boasting flagrantly of his many crimes. Perhaps he was simply the ?very first? murderer to seek such widespread publicity. He had left his ?lady? corpses as widespread indeed as humanly possible, with slit vaginas open wide for the public to view, in as nauseating of final poses as could abuse fragile senses. As I found later, so much doubt would be held about them. No one knew if he had committed four or twenty such murders, and all supposedly of London prostitutes. One source settled on nine, stating that was the apparent number of such deaths in his vicinity. And so many other crimes were committed that were similar to his, by other ?people? at that time. People placed on fires in crowded hovels, people left to die in the gutter. Our overcrowded city was why, and it took awhile for me to collect my mind.
He had been German, and something had sent him to ?our? country. His name meant River Heart. I thought, when he is done, he will throw himself into the Thames. It was a splendid yet now polluted river winding its way through the heart of London, which of course had nothing of the sort but the Strand region. Right in downtown London, they sold popular magazines for those who could take the time to read them. I often had nothing but time on my ladylike hands. I liked to read the publications which were housed in that area, and once I had bought something new. It was a tale of a pair of learned sophisticates who roomed together, named Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. It was said the author, Arthur Conan Doyle, had based them on a doctor he respected and himself. I had a feeling the stories were a distant attempt to solve our murders. The real life doctor could tell where you were from anywhere in England by examining you. I chuckled, thinking he certainly at least knew where our Charles was from.
They were something new called private detectives, and they wanted to help mankind ? howsoever, only in a fictive way. The writer was an optometrist who had friends in the medical profession, and I had a feeling one of them was probably the ?gentleman? before me, well protected by his lifelong cohorts. They would never do anything about him, only boasting and bragging about their abilities to save us, be like us, or some other way steal our stories from us - and otherwise pretend to help us without ever doing so. The entirety of London was abuzz with what was happening to us, and what to do about it.
?You are a good man, Dr. Jack Rinehart,? I stumbled out. ?I am not trying to save myself. Not anymore. But would you give me some time to be sure of where I am located? I am Annie Chapman, and this is most assuredly Whitechapel District of England. Is it not, and oh, I would like so to lie down, but I must hurry back as I never finished my beer. Also, I should enjoy it much if you would take me out to lunch, once, as I have never been escorted to luncheon by a real man before. Would you do such honors to a lady of the evening as I am now? I was once a good girl, much like??
It occurred to me of the strong Jewish presence about this district of town. Lately, there had been some reports of doing something about ?the Juwes menace.? I felt sad, thinking somehow perhaps we were possibly to blame for their woes. Then I realized the ?good doctor? was tapping my knee with a rubber instrument. I had not read of our ?menace? by far, although there was talk of running us out of the districts. We were too ?needed? by the local insatiable gentry to think of ruining the Victorian English ?male? life. And I had thought it proper to live such a life in its way, but had finally run into our deaths. I knew that women, men and children were being used in obscene and furtive manners. It could only be our overcrowded city?s living conditions, and lack of jobs.
?Hah. Lie down, whore, and I will get the instruments of torture. There you go.? He seemed to gesticulate in the general direction of the table. Being quite fast on my feet, I was already out the door, and knew who ?Jack the Ripper? was?now. I thought, his instruments of torture are the medical devices we currently have to use.
As I hurriedly passed by everyone who must have missionary position to get pregnant and all of whom ?Knew? women were somehow smutty whores, or that somehow certain ladies were all right and being such judges of character as I, I smiled. The lot of them seemed to have someplace to go, perhaps home to a hearth and fire. I watched a carriage pull up to someone elegant and she got in with a man and their three children. ?Dear God, Allah, Mary?whomever,? I thought to myself, when will they ever learn to stop? I figured me probably - and all whom I knew - could find pregnancy on our own.
Stop what, I deemed to myself. But as a sewer rat, white as a sheet and larger than a cat lurked in an alley ten steps from where I trod, I took myself down another side street to make my way ?home? and pack swiftly enough to leave. I still had my sixteen farthings. And I highed myself over to Whitechapel District, on the other side of where I had lived before, earnestly endeavouring to look as harried and impromptu as I possibly could. I thought to the crowd, see me, feel me, touch me, reel me in - and peel me. Peel me, it dawned on me for the first time, peel me like an onion. Diaries, I twittered, coughing into my hand, a head cold that felt like pneumonia. Again that time of year, as I pulled my blue shawl about my neck and dreamed of such a death. Well, now that I have met the murdered, it is probably only a matter of time before he comes. How will he know which rooming house I am lodging at? I must enquire there to see if I can elude him, or if the police would be intrigued enough to settle this incident of mine.
??allow,? I breezed to the night manager of the lodgings, who was a short and settled unkempt Indian man, probably a Hindu landed immigrant, keeping his books behind a complicated hand carved antique desk in the lodgings. The desk was not Victorian, like our Queen, and was something particularly beautiful and exquisitely fashioned from his own nativity. ?What?s your name?? I leapt forward with, anxiously searching him.
?If you think you are going to make a lay instead of paying me money outright, upfront for your rooms, each paid every week you stay here, until you are gone for good, you are wrong. Would you care for room 221 A? There is a girl staying there, but it is a private room. We have another one available for two people, but of course, chippie, you will want a private room. Or would you like something more expensive??
?Ah, I have but sixpenny farthing.?
?Sixteen will bring you recompense and a good night?s sleep, for a time.?
?I have sixpenny farthing.?
?Here?s the key and there?s a good girl. Go downstairs and to your left,? he said, and I complied immediately. It was good enough that I had an honest man for a manage and I didn?t mind his attitude, but he could change on me any time. I dared think his kind might steal from me if I owned anything, but I wasn?t planning on it. Maybe if I lasted, I would slowly gather some few cheap items for my room, such as I could buy at local shops. I had trouble inserting the key in the lock, and it nearly bent twain - although it was made of a thick iron. Finally, I jimmied the door open.
There?s your room. Put the key down on the filthy table. Now you can see what you are. Look in the mirror. See what used to be your pretty face? Now it will be gone for a long time. Look at the bed? See the stains. It used to be a bed, and it is still pleasurable. Now, lie down upon it. There?s a dear. Ready for a good time? The bed is not as bad as those ?the slaves? used to not own, but you are already exposed to mildew. And now, I thought, what would I be exposed to? I had seen bloodless hookers who seemed normal. When Allen had first suggested I try Whitechapel, he had said, ?Do not fear the diseases.? I had tested out well in school - but did not think my abilities were sufficient for the sweatshops; however, I had applied at them and been told to go away. I had waited in a line for over twelve hours, and Allen the shop steward had brought me a jug of pure water to drink. The sweat had soaked my entire two sets of clothes, and the water was a stream straight from Jesus. I downed half of it and said, ?Here, you have some.?
I had thought those were the longest half day of hours I had spent in my life. Little did I know that a half day must repeat itself, even though the first one had been arduous. It had involved noise and a feeling I could not handle a life of severe work without any breaks. I was sure they let you attend a lavatory and at least have time for a sitting down.
No, I have to wash up and get ready for tonight. I have to go out and collect my rent money. And I have to be sex in any position any man wants outside, even in the pouring rain. I have to do this in spite of a good Christian upbringing, and being as sturdy as I am from running in the woods outside of Leeds, to compete with the other girls at school, I must not retire, truly, ever again. Also, whoever you are, I am not a man. Nor am I an invert, nor an object of worship. I daresay I sham not ever get a proper grave.
Oh, but you shall, my deario cheerio, you shall. And there will be colour pictures, and such wakeful and ?new? celebrity. All English women whatsoever, no matter what their birthright, will come to fear your attackers. You will be photographed repeatedly in various odd positions. Also, the photographs will improve over time until you are making money hand over fist, you and all such beings of worship everywhere. There, see yourself in the mirror? See how pretty you are? Ah, you think yourself an ordinary girl of the streets. The grave will be equally pretty, over one hundred and one years from now. Forsworn, you all had told me that I, Annie Chapman, must live life in the 1870s as best I can, and it will not last long. For what is life if it is so dominated by perversity?
I am going to leave your heart laid out on a pillow, the voice of Jack said arch deeply into my head. I have gone mad indeed, I reflected as the voices continued. Perhaps smart I had an overactive imagination. Once a teacher said ?we? could imagine anything you want, and it would happen to you. Now, lie down on the bed. There?s a girl. I am going to come soon, no, don?t get up. I will send Charles if you don?t listen to me, and he will not be happy with you as you are not helping him earn his keep. He?s such a caged up little spoiled bratty monster. I trust you would not wait for him? He is my own male Negro.
?Thanks none, and now I have no volition of my own.? I looked out the dusty window at the street traffic, and realized to my happy surprise and painful downfall simultaneously that the avenue or whatever it was outside obscured all street noises coming in. The rattling carriages and push carts could be heard by me no longer. I was trapped, decided I was insane for ?knowing? what Jack Rinehart was, and lay down to relax on my bed. Oddly, for a moment I almost felt a kind of luxury. I looked up at the cracked ceiling, and at the tiny bedroom I now inhabited, probably for life. I thought, I never knew I could live in such a space as this. It was plenty for me, and I felt a deep relief.
I cast my white arms to either side of me, feeling the soft nature of the smelly old bedding, relaxing myself solely for the purpose of readying my body for what must soon take place. I would have to go out beyond, out in the alleys of the district, which wound and twisted in the deep nightly fog of industrial Great Britain, so polluted with the tars of factories that tended to hire men alone and some women, and listen for the tomes of Old Ben, the biggest standing clock tower in the world, to tell me when to come home. I would have to stand and wait, as the odd ?rich? men of London came to while me away, taking their time, as I insisted on pay in advance for each opportunity they took.
In a few hours, I must begin the process of somehow dying for and against Great Britain. I would feed the birds and insects soon, the rats and cats and dogs of the streets, or perhaps only be carried away to the morgue to await perhaps a notch longer fate. I had often seen indications of the Catholic Hell, and perhaps it would be eternal, as I was uncertain if I had somehow chosen this. I recall coming through Leeds where I was borne on a train, and seeing the scrawling of a madman or two on the train depot walls. It said, ?Blame us your problems then lengthy kill yourself.? And underneath, I had seen the words, ?Annie will light the way for no one?s life.? As I got off the train, a professional looking man pushed into me, stating, ?I have been waiting for you, and you come across my way when you least expect it. Then you will be our great stupid whore for life.?
However, as a schoolgirl should, I shuddered to myself as a surge of pleasure tackled my parts below. I would never feel fulfilled by a man, I reasoned; I would have to tolerate a kind of abstract torture indeed. This my hideous master had so informed me. But eventually, I also believed, he would have to share similar fate to all of his victims. If nothing else, he would have to work especially hard for his living. And surely he would have to be as my real father, who had gone somewhere. Perhaps I could even get him to give up, trust me, love me, and marry me. Lastly, as the pleasure checked by me went off, I made my way into the train station.
But as I was searching for the public loo, a feeling assaulted me in the center of my clothed but parted bosom. It seemed to be proclaiming what a ?heart? I had, and how it would be of some use. I did not want to touch my own bodice over this. I shuddered, as for the first time I thought I had felt the ?passion? of Christ. It was not a good feeling, felt like having sex with myself alone, and I put it right away. I flashed on somehow it would involve the slow removal of my living heart from my dying body.
As life is unfair to all, I gathered myself up, smiling, and pulled my brush and comb out of my traveling bag. I had done this at the train station, and now in my final room in Whitechapel. It was a large carpet bag, dotted with flowers, and I opened it carefully, pulling the brush through my long hair that was brown and shone with some other colors. It made straightway as I pinned my hair back and put on my choice bonnet. I was bathed and dressed, due to the water closet right there at my disposal. I had thought it would be down the hall and to be shared with the other girls, but for an unknown reason, it was right there next my room. I wondered briefly what a long fall ?death? would be.
I stalked like a true whore out of my room, gathering my courage and smoothing my long dress. As I entered the darkening of the nighttime, I took small steps, spacing each apart, my high button shoes clicking lightly on the pavement. What a thing being a detective would be, I mused; what a life that would have been, under other circumstances. Peering over my spectacles, if I could have afforded them, I would be looking all around for clues, in order to tell the authorities what to do to solve these awful ?crimes.? But I was a criminal, an illegal person called a prostitute, and I had to do what I was doing. For half a distracting second, I thought I saw a brief glimpse of someone. He was standing there in the fog. As I moved towards him, he disappeared, quite out of sight.
I followed him. ?Oh sir, kind sir, would you like to come see my lodgings? I live up four blocks, in Whitechapel district, and need you to share my wares. Would you like to be with me for a brief while, and spend my time or perhaps dinner with me??
?No, stranger, I am busy. Perhaps you are seeking some other gentleman to take your time with and find another pastime which you can overcome with greater ease. Say, would you like to stroll down this alley with me? I find that the night air allows some other beings of an evening to make their choice appearance, oh say in a dark manner, that might need such a lovely girl as you,? said this man new to me as he grasped my arm so lightly and then harder as we went down an available alley, making me think he must believe he is nearer to God than I, and an obvious conclusion to that, as we strolled past a Bobbie, the local London police. The bobby looked away. I winked at him as we walked past, quite a couple of chips floating along the avenue, like a kind of steered boat. I noticed the man was doing all of the steering. I trembled, but said nothing.
I somewhat wondered if this gentleman?s god was a man named Charles. As I had studied somewhat that people came from either Jerusalem or Africa, I had to figure so. I was being silly, but he was grasping my arm quite hard and pinching it. I sighed, reflecting on oops he does seem to be pinching me. ?I believe you are a bobby at this rate.?
?What? Are you talking to me, whore? I am not pinching you.? To pinch someone at the time was a London expression for arresting them. Of course I was in danger of this.
?Well, where would you like,? I whispered, ?to stop and get our business done? I must take payment in advance, and I must know what you can afford to pay me. I would take at least ten quid for a standing up, and at least twenty-five quid for lying down.?
?That is way too much money for a good girl like you. I will tell you what. Go over there, and stand up. Then I will give you a real treat. You will like what I am doing so much, that you will beg me over and over for more. First, I will take of your behind.?
As he squeezed my buttocks, a silence passed over and within the steady fog. I heard the clanging of the bells far away signaling the passing of the boats through the locks. They had always been musical to me, letting me know life held at least one good in it.
?No, actually, I have to make my rent money, and I need you to pay me in advance,? I declared, wrenching painfully away from his tight grasp. But I was still held. So I said, ?Look, young sir, I need payment for anything I am going to do here.?
He released me. ?You like what I am going to do to you.?
?I do, and indeed, you are such a fine young gentleman. But I require minor recompense for my actions on your behalf. I tell you what; five quid is enough for a standing.?
?A standing what? Surely you want to wrap your fine,? here he put his hand under my chin and stroked my face so fetchingly that I wanted to wretch up my dinner, which I had not had that evening, ?Mouth around my wonderful loins and suckle like a babe.?
?No, but I will do that for you if you pay me ten quid and five farthings in advance. I must have the money first, or I will refuse to do anything for you whatsoever.?
?Then I will hit you repeatedly, my dear,? he said, drawing me over to the alley wall. I wrenched away, and backed up. As he started towards me, I screamed at him, ?Save me!? to see if the bobby would arrest me or what he would do. Then I ran, raising my skirts. ?Idiot chit, I would have pleasured you! Stop, I will not run after you!?
Scared, I wondered at this, as the event had seemed not to make sense. Would I make any money at this, with such discouragement? Perhaps I had best find my friends again and discuss matters with this Charles. Was there some way to make a better arrangement? I strode over to my new abode, trying to hide myself, and then it dawned on me. I would have to go out again, this same even, and try to find someone else who would pay.
I decided to cast around and see if Charles or any of my female friends were in the vicinity. As I walked casually through the London fog, I sneezed. I took out my Becky box and a pinch of snuff, applied it to my nostrils and felt good about not being too scared to sneeze in public. Snuff was common for colds back then, although it cured nothing. I looked for shapes in the fog as I took the opposite way from my first ?customer,? who was obviously recalcitrant about payment.
Noticing I was heading out of Whitechapel and into outer downtown London proper, not far from where I could go to the Strand, get a nice cup of tea and a paper to read, and while thinking perhaps of buying me the Strand Magazine to read the further adventures of the two detectives, who fascinated me for a reason I could not fathom, I cast around. There were too many persons of interest in this district truly to make a customer. Bobbies lurked around every other corner, and I could barely see. Whistling for a taxi, I pulled over a carriage and boarded it. I had plenty enough money.
?Take me out to the waterfront. I have payment, and need to view the ocean for my health. And thank you,? I told the carriage as he helped me step into the vehicle, and he took his seat and the horses? reins. As we traveled, I began to hear a voice. It said that some day, such carriages would be without drivers, and would involve an internal combustion engine. Fancy that, I chortled. I tilted my bonnet, which had a nice but fairly unkempt hat perched upon it, back over my mildly sweating head. I did not wear makeup, although whores of the time did, as my features were pleasant and passable.
Big Ben began its nightly chimes, sounding that the hour was two am. There are three victims of Jack before you, said the voice. I thought, now I know I will end up in Charing Cross, on the mental wards. I had best tell no one of this, although that would be one way out, and I thought this would have to do as the way out. I dreamed of drowning myself once we got to the water. But I deduced the thing to do was take a long stroll, paying no attention to anyone, until some man approached me. Surely such would then have the money to pay for my business, which I planned to work at.
I debarked the carriage, paid the driver, wished him a good even, and took myself down to the waterfront?s edge, pushing through the fog with a light air. It parted before me, and I heard the voices of men fishing off the docks, all of whom looked strangely Asiatic. I thought, these are the Chinese, the chinamen who fish out here beyond most public reach. I had heard they might be good for some conversation from my girlfriends. Approaching shyly and tentatively, I came behind one who was pulling bait from his hook.
For a moment, I recalled the British habit of dropping articles such as ?the? and ?a? and ?an? when speaking, especially in the poorer districts, among the lower classes.
?Any luck catching worthwhile garby? I hear they flock down here?droves.?
?Who, me? No speak you. You not lady. Go away. Aw, such unhappy face. Don?t cry. No, stay. I show you how to fish. You look like work hard.?
I leaned across the wooden railing of the deck, not understanding the tears. Then I registered that he?d said, ?Work hard.? It seemed to jar something inside me.
Really, I inwardly squealed! And then he did it. He actually baited a hook for me. ?Here you go. Now, when fish nibble on line, pull up. You wait for jerk on line. I jerk, ha. You jerk, now you go down in line and pull up when fish bites.?
I stood there, ready to fish until I died. I had found a nice man. But he was not a paying customer. Nonetheless, I let the gentlemen there show me how to fish for the next three hours, listening carefully to the chimes of Big Ben letting me know when I should make my way back. I had the best night of my entire life fishing with the chinamen. And after one and a half hours, I had caught me the finest groupie that ever had cleaned the waters of the Thames in our backwaters. Then I caught another, and another.
?You done now, Lady? We go fish and keep ourselves now. You go home.?
Wanting to hug this man like he was my Saviour, I held back fresh tears. Then I said, ?Yes, I must be toddling off to my rooms - and you get a night?s or a day?s rest. There is so much I have to finish tomorrow. By the by of this river, do you happen to know where I can find male clients? Do you have the business around the docks??
?Nah - that is not nice girl. You should get work. Tell you what. You come back here tomalley night, and I think maybe find job for you shelling clams and oysters. You likee? Wife and I love have you cook dinner for us. I own a big inn on these docks. We have food and serve liquor drinks.? I marveled at this simple man?s ironic honesty.
I paused. This man was not a Christian, but was offering me a job. I had heard the poisoned waters of the Thames made the shellfish unpalatable, and knew British shops refused to sell them to their regular customers. Looking away, I said, ?Thank you very much for your kind concern. But I have to do business as I should. Thank you. I hope you and your families prosper and never have any more problems.? I knew the industrial pollution being pumped into the Thames would last for possibly centuries. The rest of the entire world would have to suffer from our horrific practices, and perhaps die.
Gathering my long skirts again, I headed off in the direction of the street, where the regular carriages gathered in a long row, waiting for gentlemen. And also ladies. I had not ascertained that any such clients were in the vicinity of this whereabouts, but the carriages were obviously waiting for them. I approached the lead carriage, a silky black in the pale moonlight, and asked the driver pardon. ?Could you tell me, is there any place a girl can work ?the business? around here? Are there any other prostitutes in this vicinity?? My boldness shocked me, as if I thought I had found a way to have others at my beck and call.
?Yes, there are those Chine whores who go down back the buildings. Maybe you should go over there and talk to them. They have a good time down there, and you can check at the local tavern?or the opium den as to how they would expect you to?perform.? For once, I dreamed of the lure of strong opium, recalling my stint with cocaine. But the Chinese charge you for using their dens, and I had no money. They would probably demand payment for entering the seedy drug havens, built mostly for men, but not the taverns. I wanted to go back and fish with my ?friend? forever. I needed something more. There were real folks around these parts of the sea, who had good souls.
?Perform what? You mean like in a play? Do they have plays and arts down here??
?No, not for a girl like you I don?t think, although I suppose you could ask.? The man was white, and I felt like I noticed this for the first time in my life. He was friendly, and smiling at me. But he had the same aura of an uncertainty I could strictly feel.
There will be horseless carriages someday, I had heard the voices in my head speak, and as I had now insanity, I did not suddenly want to pollute the troubled Chinamen of this good district. They had their germs they were born with, and I mine. Even though Charles seemed so well and not to mind his trade, which was obviously not in his best interests. I was sure there were rougher Chinese than the good man who had helped me fish, but he obviously wanted to pull me in. I thought, perhaps he only wants a cook, and the wages do tend to be rather low. I will go die alone.
As I left, I saw a somewhat Occidental Chine looking girl pass by, obviously diseased. She glanced at me as though she could love no one, and I immediately swayed. As she passed, I longingly glanced in her direction. Shamed, I hurried on and took the second closest carriage back to the district I had decided I would be working from until I found out whether the voices were correct in their assumptions. I saw a gathering of Asian girls, all chines looking, clustered around a tavern as I left the area. What a splendid place. I saw the lettering of the Chinese and obviously the Nipponese or others begin to magically appear in the gaining twilight. It must be about five o?clock morn. I had found the Occidental district of London - at last. There was lettering on the shops I would never see again, and I could almost read it in the gaslight. I wished I could stop and get one of their newspapers and read all about what their ?doings? were, and how they fared. But they only used whores here too, and the streets were perhaps lined with them.
I called out as I passed, ?What is the name of this sweet district?? The crowd of Chinese people looked at my carriage with narrow and staring eyes. I fancied the neat pigtails on the menfolk, and the pertly drawn black hair of their women. They towed their children along, holding their tiny hands. Not knowing what it would be like to be an ethnic group for a change, I yelled, ?I mean - what it is in Chinese??
?The Waterfront,? said one lady, ?and you go away now, you white whore.?
Pulling up to the kerb, the carriage let me out, and I felt the chill begin to grip me. It was the end of autumn, and winter?s awesome grasp began to clutch at everyone around me. The day labourers and their present accompaniments such as street clearances surrounded me. I felt rather trapped, like a person perilously close to realizing the total authority of nature in a large metropolitan city. I began to wonder if it was possible to seek male clients during the day, perhaps in a guarded back alley of some kind. Then it dawned on me. Seek out Charles. It wasn?t a voice in my head; it was my mind, calling me to understand that I would have to use a male authority figure to collect my prostitution monies. Surely, if I went back to the tavern in the other district, I could find ?our? Charles, or someone like him. I wandered through the streets, being pushed aside by people repeatedly until I wound my way through them, and came to the tavern where I had initially began my search as to where to live to become a street lady.
??Allow, governor, where?s the bloke who runs our racket around here??
?What d?you mean?? said the tavern keeper. It was the same bloke as before, and he seemed no greyer or older than when I?d last set eyes upon him, but he acted as though he had never seen me before in his life. I strolled up to the long, shiny and flat brown bar between us, the zone delineated and marked by that which kept the customers away from the professionals. It was meant both to be sat at and as a wall of separation.
?I need bonnie Charles the?what is it called? The union of prostitute?s organizer. Could you tell me, kind sir, where I can find him nowadays??
He looked at me to punish me again for having said the word most awful. Then he coolly turned to continue putting glasses away and straighten out the various drinks and bottles behind the bar. I sat myself down on the wooden chair pulled up by me, and asked him, ?Dare you listen to me at all? Is there someone else around??
?If you think that is it, you are sadly mistaken. I only tolerate your kind when there is the lot of you, and no other time, mollycoddle. I will ring the authorities if you pester me.? He turned to me with a look on his face which shot through my entire beginning to come down with influenza, but yes I was a sturdy girl, and he said, ?Go straight to Hell.?
?No,? I said, ?I need to talk to Bonnie Prince Charlie, my one true love. Where is he, oh barkeep, that I may talk to him and treasure him and treat him as my husband?? There was a long pause. The barkeep stepped back one pace as if to ram his fist down my throat, but then he sighed and paused. ?I don?t know. He usually hangs out at the pool hall down three blocks apace, turn left, saunter down that avenue, and turn right.?
That was it and so I bought a glass of beer to thank the keep and paid for it with what was left of my sixpenny happence, and you don?t need to know how much I had on me. Turning to leave, I left a halfpenny on the bar as tip, and said thanks to the god again.
Following the directions, I found the pool hall, and many a fine swarthy fellow and some girls were hanging about in the smoke filled atmosphere, some with glasses of beer, wine and liquor, others smoking pipes and some simply playing billiards. I sauntered up to one table and was told to lie low, so I went quickly over to another and watched their game. Two men, obvious in their teens, were trying to figure out their routine and how to gamble, and having a right time by gauging a scoring system hanging as a giant sign of something perverse overhead. Before I watched the game, I looked at the scoring system. It was pretty, made of multiple colors. I thought on how Charles was not pretty, nor made of multiple colors, as the twosome playing the game bestowed before me were having. One of them sudden looked at me and said as in reply to my twisted thinking, ?Would you like to play the winner, sparrow? I?ve got this right down to brass tacks and only need to shove in three balls.? He came over and showed me slowly how one plays the game of billiards. One uses the laws of averages, and computes the many angles of knocking the rainbow coloured balls into the six pockets of the enormous green table. There are now ten balls to knock in, and it is so fascinatingly tricky. ?I?m Bob McKenzie, and you are lovely, my dear.? He held my arms as I learned the tricks of the pool trade, for the next two hours, and we made the loveliest music together as we danced. The entire time, as I was stuck looking for Charlie and had to call him my love, my mind turned evil. It seemed the right thing. I decided to peach on him and thus kill him.
?I am going to arrange something of an intrigue for you, Mr. McKenzie. Oh, that?s best, tuck your arm under my bodice, no, put it over there, oh you did, and let me hold the stick myself now. Why, I can line up the shot perfectly. Let me do this, Bob! I will arrange a neat demise of my supposed ?suitor? over this incident.? I looked at him with a lust for murdering Charlie that must have illuminated my youthful visage well. ?All you need do is turn authorities and order the death of?? I was swift interrupted.
?What? I would like to die for you, my lady, if you would come lie down with me. I should not die there, but will do a job servicing?? His voice trailed off. ?Actually, I tend to let out my spleen playing pool during the day, mostly, and I do brickwork around these districts plus out in the country occasionally.? His look at me made my jaw drop. Oh dear God, no, not that sort of man and he is one. ?Uh, hi. Are you eligible for marriage??
Laughter,
Karen Cole Peralta
Author Bio
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