Dear Boss [Prologue]
Title: Dear Boss [Prologue]
Author: Corleoned (Me XD)
Pairings: John/ Paul
Rating: R for murder, slums, graphic descriptions of violence, and angry mansex (XD Later.)
Summary: The late August of 1888 bridged the gap between modern violence and Victorian innocence, the idealism of Victorian society shaken to it's core by a sexual sadist and serial killer seemingly running rampant around East-London. No one had seen him, yet no one could forget him. He lived, and still lives, in infamy, as Jack the Ripper.
Author's Notes: Hopefully first of many of a mystery slash, my first attempt at such a genre. Comments are loved and appreciated :3 -has not been able to write for months- (Historical Notes inside)
Disclaimer: I own nothing of The Beatles or Jack the Ripper.
Historical Notes:
'My knife's so nice and sharp, I want to get to work right away, if I get the chance. Good luck.' -Jack the Ripper
'Murder is born of love, and love attains the greatest intensity in murder.'
The rippling face watched him from the deserted, dim, cobbled streets as Paul McCartney stared into the distant forbidding darkness, nervously weighing what little, oh so little, time he had against his raw, bloody instincts. It was not a matter of what he chose, for truly, he had no choice in it. He bent to what his will told him to do, despite his most stalwart attempts to keep control. The night wasn't helping.
She was beckoning him seductively through the rain, the raindrops winking at him as they fell from the sky, as if the world itself was inviting him to enjoy all the benefits that Hell itself had to offer.
He swallowed, immediately glancing down before instinctively flinching away from the pulsating mirror, his own face slipping away like a playful shadow as it bled into the lines of the stones underneath it. What used to be his reflection slid under his shoes and down the road, reminding Paul that a part of him truly was everywhere, just like the papers said. If only they knew how right they were...
A drop of rain broke his face, Paul shivering and turning the collar of his coat upwards, waiting for his reflection to appear again, mesmorized. It seemed to be judging him. It seemed to be alive.
Paul bent over the puddle slightly, staring back at it, as if attempting to win some sort of futile staring contest. He must look completely insane. He knew he was, by this point. The face simply watched him, looking back at choices made and imagined fates ahead.
'We are all shadowed by our other selves,' Paul whispered, his heavily-accented voice that he usually took some sort of gentlemanly pride in sounding strangely weak and dead in the freezing night air. It was as if each letter he had spoken had frozen in midair and dropped to the ground with the rain, shattering on the ground below him like a child's head. He looked up slightly, another drop of rain falling on his cheek, creating a tearstain, the weather around him becoming one singular judgement of his decisions....
-------
'Be careful, darling, you might fall,' A voice suddenly rasped as a dirt-ridden and seemingly stained hand reached out from the Hellish sidestreets of the Whitechapel slums and slowly wrapped itself around Paul 's thin but neatly dressed forearm.
He stopped abruptly, eyes widening at the gnarled fingers that dug in at his wrist. His first instinct was to call for help, but all he could manage was to weeze out a thin chuckle. Like any policeman really would hear. He knew that Whitechapel had a grand total of three bobbies for the entire area. He snorts as he feels himself calming. Like he needed some bosses' help....
He allowed his eyes to narrow in contempt for the trash touching him. Another questionable woman of the night, obviously insane, no doubt. With obvious disdain, Paul slowly and carefully pried each digit off of his arm, his action firm enough to be threatening but with enough basic human compassion as to not set the wench off. He glared at the corpselike claw, his own appendage instinctively going to the smooth weapon in his coat pocket. He could kill her in a moment, no one would care. But the clock tolled in the distance now, time constantly at his back, reminding him of his duties, pushing him forward before the sun would kill the night. He made his way into the darkness, as quickly as he had come. He already knew he had drawn too much attention to himself, and he was going to have to risk running.
Quickly his feet pounded at the pavement, heart running in tandam, stabbing against his ribcage as he analyzed his situation. He had overdressed, he knew he had. Even his shabbiest clothes were ten times too fine for such an area. Still, perhaps such a sign of affleunce would bring him a shred of respect, even from the worthless women and children that lined the streets, the sleeping mixing in with the corpses. Money did indeed speak as loudly here as in any other part of the world, and would hopefully allow him to gain the high-priced information he needed from the women, even if it made them cry...
His carefully masked anger slipped for a moment as he thought of the women, making sure to run across the street before an oncoming cart ran over him in turn, stepping over the latest Times article as he does so. Paul slowed only for a moment to look at the latest graphic pronounciations of the Ripper murders blazing like fire across the front page, the fire spreading to several other penny papers in the gutter. He smiled slightly, almost fondly at a drawing he had seen around a thousand times since it had been printed in this morning's paper. The figure of the woman with entrails bared, neck slit, a pretty 'necklace'. The detail was still visible, but all evidence slowly beginning to decay with the downpour of rain, the gaslite streetlamps glowing dully, hardly a comfort. Most of the lights had been smashed out anyway, Paul grimly noted, checking his pocketwatch discreetly and rounding one of the last corners to his destination, his pace slowing to a unconcerned stroll.
He knew the cost. Three pennies or a loaf of stale bread. He knew that was the fixed cost to buy a body, undoubtably because three pennies was the approximent cost of a large pint of gin. Paul chuckled for the second time that night. But it just seemed so easy! The rewards were incomparably endless in comparison. Prostitutes disappeared every night with hundreds of different men, strangers by face and nature, and a silent condition of anonymity was kept, honour among thieves. Who would be able to recognize the Ripper?. If any of them lived past an attack, it's hardly likely they would tell. He smiled slightly, turning and burrowing through the maze of streets Whitechapel provided, adreniline pulsating. This was going to be a job and a half tonight....
-----------
A lone man watches Paul walk by, smiling slightly, only his teeth and eyes visible in the darkness, Whitechapel's own dibolical Cheshire Cat. His eyes wickedly in the night as he slowly rolls off of the wall and starts to pad after him, predatory, a badly stringed violin screeching in accompanyment in the distance. The man shrugged off the erratic sounds of the night, the screaming of his mind, dialed in on the creature in front of him, tranfixed. This was his walk. What was this one doing back here?
He had seen him the first night, the night it all started. He had quickly retreated into the shadows, a master of geographical knowledge, quickly making his escape. He had grown up on these streets, and they were the only comfort he had known. Harsher than a human body, but more gentle than the human mind.
But he had seen him.
Lord knows, that one had seen him. At opposite sides of the street, the fog had blocked all sign of distinctive features as he had blinked back at the set of eyes facing him.
And in that moment, they knew each other.
His temper flares, his thoughts immediately jumping to attention and becoming more discordant, creating dissodance with the violin wailing through the rain. He was taking his work away from him. He couldn't work here, he couldn't, it was his, all his. 'Mine,' He manages to mouth, breathing thinly through his nose, willing the evil to leave his soul, before replacing the pain with a charming if slender smile.
'We'll meet again, stranger,' The man rasps in the direction of the finely-suited man with a slightly-accented Irish lilt, not uncommon in the area. He checks both ways, chuckling slightly as he makes his way back into the light of the street. Casually he throws his threadbare jacket over his shoulder, tipping his cap at a passing prozzie making her local rounds, looking her over slightly, wondering if he should go for a round, but deciding against it. He'd follow the other one. He was the only thing that had interested him lately. Besides the obvious of course.
Strange thing was, he didn't feel like a person anymore. Ever since his first encounter, he was free from everything. For the first time in his life, he was more than a nobody. He was a nothing who answered to no one, not even God. He couldn't die. He had all the time in the world...
'All the time in the world, Mr. Ripper!' He yells out to the sky, cackling as several women shriek at the mere mention of the name, the top of his boot ramming into something hard. Unemotionally he gazes down at the body of a child in the gutter, a common sight. Less than half survived here.
He perches next to the awkwardly ragged girl, petting her hair gently back from her face and showing the flies away. Aged nine, probably, most likely died from abandonment and starvation.
'Would you have loved me if you lived?' The man murmurs, tucking her soiled but golden hair lovingly behind her ear, holding her head in his lap.
No response.
He did his work silently, grabbing the head of the girl and to the accompanying rhythm of the crescendoing violin strings beat it into the side of the curb, watching emotionlessly as the skull cracks and the blood starts to adulterate the rainwater, swirling until the contamination slowly slinks down into the gutter itself.
Quickly he stows off into the night, wiping his hands on the nearest wall before cleaning them in the nearest puddle. He was used to it. No woman had loved him, no woman would.
'No,' He whispers, clutching his head in the darkness, beating it against the wall aggressively, attempting to break the voice from his mind, just like he had helped the little girl. And suddenly, as if a switch had been turned, he stopped, blinking as he stares at his hands, blankly gazing around before making his way back to the hospice. Ben the cat would be waiting for him.
I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games.
How can they catch me now...
Love ,
Jack the Ripper
Author: Corleoned (Me XD)
Pairings: John/ Paul
Rating: R for murder, slums, graphic descriptions of violence, and angry mansex (XD Later.)
Summary: The late August of 1888 bridged the gap between modern violence and Victorian innocence, the idealism of Victorian society shaken to it's core by a sexual sadist and serial killer seemingly running rampant around East-London. No one had seen him, yet no one could forget him. He lived, and still lives, in infamy, as Jack the Ripper.
Author's Notes: Hopefully first of many of a mystery slash, my first attempt at such a genre. Comments are loved and appreciated :3 -has not been able to write for months- (Historical Notes inside)
Disclaimer: I own nothing of The Beatles or Jack the Ripper.
Historical Notes:
- Please excuse any discrepencies, they obviously were not meant.
- In case you are unfamiliar of the area in which our story takes place, it is in the most destitute parts of London, the Eastern section of the city known as Whitechapel. Poverty, starvation, crime and prostitution ran rampant, alcoholics made up ninty percent of the population, and less than half of the infants born lived past childhood.
- Prostitutes were percieved as 'fallen' women, disposable bodies who chose their 'sexually perverse' way of life, the furthest thing from the truth. Many women simply went to the streets to eat or to feed their family. The 'hedonism' lie was simply spread by the West-London upper-class who did not wish to deal with the differentiations in class and the rampant poverty just outside their front door.
- There was a cultural fascination with death in Victorian England at the time, mostly due to the popularity of the recently published Sherlock Holmes books and 'penny-horrors'. Because of this, Jack the Ripper was featured in every newspaper, pamphlet, and quickly grew in infamous worldwide for his heinous crimes.
- Lastly, forensics were simply nonexistant, photography of murder scenes having only currently come into fashion. Namely, the police at the time were doing the best with what they had, even though they were the laughingstock of London.
'My knife's so nice and sharp, I want to get to work right away, if I get the chance. Good luck.' -Jack the Ripper
'Murder is born of love, and love attains the greatest intensity in murder.'
The rippling face watched him from the deserted, dim, cobbled streets as Paul McCartney stared into the distant forbidding darkness, nervously weighing what little, oh so little, time he had against his raw, bloody instincts. It was not a matter of what he chose, for truly, he had no choice in it. He bent to what his will told him to do, despite his most stalwart attempts to keep control. The night wasn't helping.
She was beckoning him seductively through the rain, the raindrops winking at him as they fell from the sky, as if the world itself was inviting him to enjoy all the benefits that Hell itself had to offer.
He swallowed, immediately glancing down before instinctively flinching away from the pulsating mirror, his own face slipping away like a playful shadow as it bled into the lines of the stones underneath it. What used to be his reflection slid under his shoes and down the road, reminding Paul that a part of him truly was everywhere, just like the papers said. If only they knew how right they were...
A drop of rain broke his face, Paul shivering and turning the collar of his coat upwards, waiting for his reflection to appear again, mesmorized. It seemed to be judging him. It seemed to be alive.
Paul bent over the puddle slightly, staring back at it, as if attempting to win some sort of futile staring contest. He must look completely insane. He knew he was, by this point. The face simply watched him, looking back at choices made and imagined fates ahead.
'We are all shadowed by our other selves,' Paul whispered, his heavily-accented voice that he usually took some sort of gentlemanly pride in sounding strangely weak and dead in the freezing night air. It was as if each letter he had spoken had frozen in midair and dropped to the ground with the rain, shattering on the ground below him like a child's head. He looked up slightly, another drop of rain falling on his cheek, creating a tearstain, the weather around him becoming one singular judgement of his decisions....
-------
'Be careful, darling, you might fall,' A voice suddenly rasped as a dirt-ridden and seemingly stained hand reached out from the Hellish sidestreets of the Whitechapel slums and slowly wrapped itself around Paul 's thin but neatly dressed forearm.
He stopped abruptly, eyes widening at the gnarled fingers that dug in at his wrist. His first instinct was to call for help, but all he could manage was to weeze out a thin chuckle. Like any policeman really would hear. He knew that Whitechapel had a grand total of three bobbies for the entire area. He snorts as he feels himself calming. Like he needed some bosses' help....
He allowed his eyes to narrow in contempt for the trash touching him. Another questionable woman of the night, obviously insane, no doubt. With obvious disdain, Paul slowly and carefully pried each digit off of his arm, his action firm enough to be threatening but with enough basic human compassion as to not set the wench off. He glared at the corpselike claw, his own appendage instinctively going to the smooth weapon in his coat pocket. He could kill her in a moment, no one would care. But the clock tolled in the distance now, time constantly at his back, reminding him of his duties, pushing him forward before the sun would kill the night. He made his way into the darkness, as quickly as he had come. He already knew he had drawn too much attention to himself, and he was going to have to risk running.
Quickly his feet pounded at the pavement, heart running in tandam, stabbing against his ribcage as he analyzed his situation. He had overdressed, he knew he had. Even his shabbiest clothes were ten times too fine for such an area. Still, perhaps such a sign of affleunce would bring him a shred of respect, even from the worthless women and children that lined the streets, the sleeping mixing in with the corpses. Money did indeed speak as loudly here as in any other part of the world, and would hopefully allow him to gain the high-priced information he needed from the women, even if it made them cry...
His carefully masked anger slipped for a moment as he thought of the women, making sure to run across the street before an oncoming cart ran over him in turn, stepping over the latest Times article as he does so. Paul slowed only for a moment to look at the latest graphic pronounciations of the Ripper murders blazing like fire across the front page, the fire spreading to several other penny papers in the gutter. He smiled slightly, almost fondly at a drawing he had seen around a thousand times since it had been printed in this morning's paper. The figure of the woman with entrails bared, neck slit, a pretty 'necklace'. The detail was still visible, but all evidence slowly beginning to decay with the downpour of rain, the gaslite streetlamps glowing dully, hardly a comfort. Most of the lights had been smashed out anyway, Paul grimly noted, checking his pocketwatch discreetly and rounding one of the last corners to his destination, his pace slowing to a unconcerned stroll.
He knew the cost. Three pennies or a loaf of stale bread. He knew that was the fixed cost to buy a body, undoubtably because three pennies was the approximent cost of a large pint of gin. Paul chuckled for the second time that night. But it just seemed so easy! The rewards were incomparably endless in comparison. Prostitutes disappeared every night with hundreds of different men, strangers by face and nature, and a silent condition of anonymity was kept, honour among thieves. Who would be able to recognize the Ripper?. If any of them lived past an attack, it's hardly likely they would tell. He smiled slightly, turning and burrowing through the maze of streets Whitechapel provided, adreniline pulsating. This was going to be a job and a half tonight....
-----------
A lone man watches Paul walk by, smiling slightly, only his teeth and eyes visible in the darkness, Whitechapel's own dibolical Cheshire Cat. His eyes wickedly in the night as he slowly rolls off of the wall and starts to pad after him, predatory, a badly stringed violin screeching in accompanyment in the distance. The man shrugged off the erratic sounds of the night, the screaming of his mind, dialed in on the creature in front of him, tranfixed. This was his walk. What was this one doing back here?
He had seen him the first night, the night it all started. He had quickly retreated into the shadows, a master of geographical knowledge, quickly making his escape. He had grown up on these streets, and they were the only comfort he had known. Harsher than a human body, but more gentle than the human mind.
But he had seen him.
Lord knows, that one had seen him. At opposite sides of the street, the fog had blocked all sign of distinctive features as he had blinked back at the set of eyes facing him.
And in that moment, they knew each other.
His temper flares, his thoughts immediately jumping to attention and becoming more discordant, creating dissodance with the violin wailing through the rain. He was taking his work away from him. He couldn't work here, he couldn't, it was his, all his. 'Mine,' He manages to mouth, breathing thinly through his nose, willing the evil to leave his soul, before replacing the pain with a charming if slender smile.
'We'll meet again, stranger,' The man rasps in the direction of the finely-suited man with a slightly-accented Irish lilt, not uncommon in the area. He checks both ways, chuckling slightly as he makes his way back into the light of the street. Casually he throws his threadbare jacket over his shoulder, tipping his cap at a passing prozzie making her local rounds, looking her over slightly, wondering if he should go for a round, but deciding against it. He'd follow the other one. He was the only thing that had interested him lately. Besides the obvious of course.
Strange thing was, he didn't feel like a person anymore. Ever since his first encounter, he was free from everything. For the first time in his life, he was more than a nobody. He was a nothing who answered to no one, not even God. He couldn't die. He had all the time in the world...
'All the time in the world, Mr. Ripper!' He yells out to the sky, cackling as several women shriek at the mere mention of the name, the top of his boot ramming into something hard. Unemotionally he gazes down at the body of a child in the gutter, a common sight. Less than half survived here.
He perches next to the awkwardly ragged girl, petting her hair gently back from her face and showing the flies away. Aged nine, probably, most likely died from abandonment and starvation.
'Would you have loved me if you lived?' The man murmurs, tucking her soiled but golden hair lovingly behind her ear, holding her head in his lap.
No response.
He did his work silently, grabbing the head of the girl and to the accompanying rhythm of the crescendoing violin strings beat it into the side of the curb, watching emotionlessly as the skull cracks and the blood starts to adulterate the rainwater, swirling until the contamination slowly slinks down into the gutter itself.
Quickly he stows off into the night, wiping his hands on the nearest wall before cleaning them in the nearest puddle. He was used to it. No woman had loved him, no woman would.
'No,' He whispers, clutching his head in the darkness, beating it against the wall aggressively, attempting to break the voice from his mind, just like he had helped the little girl. And suddenly, as if a switch had been turned, he stopped, blinking as he stares at his hands, blankly gazing around before making his way back to the hospice. Ben the cat would be waiting for him.
I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games.
How can they catch me now...
Love ,
Jack the Ripper