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Back To Hell (male)


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You guys, this is something I never thought I would write. I have absolutely no idea why I did. The story just kind of sprouted into my mind and, well, it just got written too. It was the strangest thing. heh.gif This is MALE, COLD, and something of a fanfic too, although I definitely wouldn't call myself a "fan" of the Ripper. Anyway. There is blood and unpleasantness, so don't read if it bothers you.

Back To Hell

Gaslights only barely lit the streets of the infamous East End, London, on this chilly autumn night of 1890. The air was thick with soot and smog and the rotten stench of the River Thames, and breathing this polluted excuse for air was not much better for the lungs and airways than pure poison would've been. Asthma, bronchitis and pneumonia were more common than not, and the curse of TB was hanging heavily into the air, not caused by it, but dreadfully worsened by it. Even a common cold would ever so often develop into pneumonia or bronchitis and frequently lead to a horrible, drawn-out, choking death.

The people tried to kill off the despair the best they could, through drinking heavily, smoking too much, and indulge in dirty, detached sex with filthy prostitutes, the way the human race always seem to derail to. Murder, senseless beatings and suicide weren't uncommon in this boiling, uncaring, cruel kettle of a city, but over the past few years, some murders had been quite famous for their extreme gruesomeness.

And the murderer was still on the loose.

Jack the Ripper himself, a handsome, respected gentlemen with the heart of a snake, was walking the streets again, his shadow barely visible in the hazy glow of the gaslights. He was well-dressed and wore his hat proudly, behaving as if it was no strange thing at all that an elegant gentleman would walk the streets of the dirty East End.

He had been playing many roles during the nights of his murders – he had been dressed up as a soldier once, using the bayonet to cut the whore open – but he preferred this stylish clothing. It was more fun to kill while dressing as yourself, he had come to realise.

He cleared his throat and gave a quick sniff, cursing inwardly. The last thing he needed was to come down with a cold right now, but he had indeed been feeling a bit "under the weather" for a few days.

A sudden tickle flaring up inside his left nostril forced him to pull out his white handkerchief and smother a wet sneeze into the soft cloth.


He sniffed, hesitated and then decided it would only be the one. He lowered his handkerchief and coughed slightly instead, looking around to make sure he didn't draw any attention to himself. Perhaps it had been a foolish idea to go on a killing spree with a brewing head cold, but the urge to cut had been too much for him to suppress. Well, at least nobody was paying attention to the gentleman with the runny nose, and he picked up his pace again to make sure he didn't linger on one place long enough to be viewed as suspicious.

He had walked a couple of blocks searching for an easy prey, and was starting to think he'd be better off in bed instead. He had a tickly cough and his throat was getting raw, his sinuses were getting congested and his nose was running nearly constantly. Sniffling seemed to make the itch inside his nasal passages turn into a sneezy feeling, and he tried to avoid succumbing to the need. His nose didn't seem to care about his wishes, and he quickly pulled out his handkerchief again, sneezing into it several times, one right after another.

"Heh-CHissh! Heh-kSSHhu! Huh-gTSHH!"

"Oh dear, are you not well?"

A shadow loosened itself from the darker corners of the street, and through his watery, reddening eyes he could see it was a woman. She was middle-aged, somewhat ragged, and fat. When she came closer, he saw that she had a round but rather sweet face, as if she could have been beautiful once upon a time.

Jack the Ripper wasn't interested in beautiful women, not even the remotely so, but not only was his nose itching; his murderous hand was too. Besides, there was nobody else around at the moment, and if he hurried, he might be able to kill one more before calling it a night.

"I seem to be coming down with something" he said, sincerely surprised to hear how raspy and stuffed up his voice was getting.

"I know just the thing to cheer you up, mister" she said and approached him smiling. "But it costs".

"I have money" he said and ran the handkerchief underneath his nose again before tucking it away during the transaction. The coins he gave her quickly disappeared into the layers of skirts and cardigans, and he whispered:

"I want to do it from behind".

"As you wish, mister" she said and turned around, facing a brick wall and letting him grab her skirts, pulling them up.

"What is your name?" he said, while quietly pulling out the sharp knife he carried.


"Elaine… I think you know me. My name is Jack the Ripper".

Elaine gasped and pulled to the side, trying to get out of his grip. Usually he foresaw these kinds of movements, that was one of the reasons to why none of his victims had survived to this day, but this final time the murderer was overcome by a fit of irritated, chesty and wet sneezes that shook his body and caused him to drop the knife.

"Heh-CHuu! Heh-errSSHHu! Haah-kkSCchh! Heh-kSCHeh! Hehh… heh-gSCchh!"

Instead of running, Elaine reached for the knife and turned her back against the wall. The feared Whitechapel murderer, the ghastly Jack the Ripper, was taking a leap at her, sniffling desperately while doing so.

She pushed the sharp blade deep into his chest, pulling it out and stabbed him again, and again. Blood sprayed from the wounds, soaking his clothes and splashed her face. He stared unbelievingly at her as his body slowly weakened and he got down on his knees.

"You can't…" he groaned, pushing his hands against the gushing wounds.

"I did" she replied. "Go back to hell, Jack".

She left the body in the gutter, not bothering to clean herself up before entering the nearest pub for another pint. In East End in 1890, nobody asked questions.

And nobody really cared.

Reason for edit: I have no sense of directions, and I'm not a Londoner. shy.gif

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HA!! This is great! And hey, y'never know, maybe this is exactly what happened to him. :rolleyes: To think, a coldblooded killer like him, completely undone by a simple sneeze...I love it!

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This is terrific. I love a good period piece, even though, like you, I'm not generally a male cold fan. But the whole idea is so ingenious and the atmosphere so well drawn! I can just hear sound effects; or does that mean I've seen too many Ripper films...?

I hope you will not take it as a criticism if I say that I think you mean the East End rather than the West End. And that Londoners tend to say River Thames not the other way round.....

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Murphy: Perhaps that's what did happen... not that I believe so, but it just might have. ;) Thanks for commenting! :D

I hope you will not take it as a criticism if I say that I think you mean the East End rather than the West End. And that Londoners tend to say River Thames not the other way round.....

Thanks for pointing that out, I knew that, I really did. :lol: I have no idea why I wrote otherwise. I must currently be in a mirror universe! :laugh: Fixed it, and thank you for the comment. :D

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Rest assure, that there will be not much like this from me, but sometimes a story just begs to be written.. :):D

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Hehe! I have to say that I loved this little fic, well written and interesting! I wish he didn't have to die though, I def have a thing for villains :D

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Heh, thank you. Felt like he had to die though, I would feel pretty awful to write about Jack the Ripper in actual action. :P

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I LOVED IT!!! Thanks for sharing, so wonderfully written, Chanel!!!

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