Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 129571 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129571 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
She could’ve been right, or she might’ve been playing games. I had no time for either and checked my watch. The tour would begin in an hour. I had to be in place.
“My men will make sure you stay here and safe.” I continued to the door.
“That’s what they’re doing?” She flipped another page in her magazine. “Keeping me safe?”
“Of course. They’re here for Sherman and your convenience.”
“And if we decided to leave and check out London?”
“You won’t.”
Twenty men guarded the suite. Ten guys monitored Sherman and Sophia. The place could have held a forty-person party, and many guests that could afford the space would do so. I only needed a few guys to cover me as I got into the car. More security would follow me to Breaton’s tour. I hoped Jasmine would be there. If not, I would return again and again. If I had to buy out tour tickets for the rest of the week, I would.
As soon as I stepped out of the suite, Sophia called after me, “Try not to die tonight. I like you.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I adjusted my shirt and headed to the elevator.
Will Jasmine come tonight? What’s going through your mind, Benny? Wouldn’t you like to take all of your kids out on a fun field trip through a serial killer’s history?
Benny raved about Jack the Ripper in his journal. Sure the person had been the most famous serial killer in the world. Toward the end of the 19th century, he’d spread terror throughout London. But Benny thought the man was his hero.
I thought back to Sophia, Dawn, and Wendy.
For all we know, Jack the Ripper might have been Janet the Ripper. They probably couldn’t solve it because they were so backwards with their thinking, they were just so sure it had to be a man. Women are some of the most skilled murders.
I never underestimated a female. Any being that had the power to hold life inside of their bodies for nine months, and then somehow push it out of something so small and delicate, had my greatest respect. I would never trade my cock for a vagina. Too much responsibility came with it.
What will I do with Sophia? And how much more will she do, once Benny is dead? I can’t think of that. I have to focus on now.
Jack the Ripper, or maybe Janet, was claimed to be responsible for eleven separate murders between the years of 1888 and 1891. Benny described them over and over. For a few of my free hours in the suite, I’d reread his musings.
I still hadn’t slept. Another day of no rest and I’d be well on to the looney bin. I promised myself that I would sleep once Jasmine lay next to me.
In my bedroom, I read more of Benny’s craziness.
Ripper killed the first girl in August 1888. I bet he did a whole lot of others before then. They only called the ones in London. Those had been his greatest works.
His final masterpieces.
The first was Polly. She’d been a forty-year-old whore, selling her wrinkled pussy in Buck’s Row. The police had referred to the first deaths as the Whitechapel Murders since Buck’s Row was located there.
Later, the newspapers gave Ripper his due.
A delivery driver found Polly’s corpse. She had two slices to the neck and jagged wounds on both sides of her stomach.
Over a week later, the police found the second whore, another old one. She was close to fifty. That had to have equated to and looked like eighty years old in their day.
People died young then.
The police discovered the second prostitute, Annie, in the back yard of a place on Hanbury Street. He’d severed her throat with a sharp knife and then cut at her spine. Her intestines sat on her shoulder. They never found her uterus or part of her bladder.
Ripper was Piccaso.
He showed off on the second one, performing a surgical skill so clean, that the removal process would’ve taken him a good twenty minutes. And he did it all in the dark public streets. Doctors of that time guessed Ripper had in-depth knowledge of anatomy.
Killing does that to you.
Ripper showed off on the next deaths.
He’d sent a letter to the cops, signed it Jack the Ripper, and then killed two whores within the span of forty-five minutes. More women over forty. It was something about that age that messed with him. Plenty young girls had to have gone into that work and made good money.
Something about that age messed with his head.
Did his mom or grandmother do something fucked up to him? Or was that just the easiest age of prostitute to walk down the dark alley with him? It was always that one thing a murderer enjoyed, the one type of person that got our death cock erect and ready to bust.