HUSTLE BUSTLE
The lady is dressed in shabby finery. Her parasol is tightly furled and dangles from her wrist. A bustle, no longer bustling, is almost flat. It is easy to see she spends much of her time lying down. Fool, fool, turns a corner and enters Ellis St. Where the only gas lamp is out of gas. She stumbles and starts to fall. What an opportunity for me! I grab her, plunge my dagger directly into her heart. It gurgles, blood spurts out but I jump back before it touches my long grey coat. The whore's eyes are popped open but she is quite dead, sees nothing more. I peel back her body skin, rip out her intestines and with no conscious thought, leave them on the broken sidewalk, waiting silently for a bobby to find her on his first morning tour of duty. I am not going to be interrogated.
I am home. I am comfortable. I am not yet satisfied.
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DEAR READERS:
I cannot continue this true story. I have frightened and upset myself. It just so happens, my name is JACK.
Have a good night.
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