A Little Bit Morbid
Scene One | Off-Camera | 25th April 2023
“So you have Jack the Ripper, Jack the Stripper and the Thames Torso Murderer. Torso might have been the Ripper too, but not enough evidence to support it. Murder of prostitutes is pretty common amongst Serial Killers, so that’s not enough evidence to connect the dots.”
Alex smiled, and nodded. It was almost like Luna had been waiting for them to arrive in London. She’d automatically assumed that Jack the Ripper was going to be final unsolved mystery of the tour. And, whilst she denied being a Ripperologist, here they were. Was it somewhat disconcerting that Serial Killers were a hobby of hers? Yes. Did the glow of happiness that came with rattling off the morbid details and the differences seem to be coming from a rather dark place? Yes.
But seeing her happy, was worth listening to all of it.
“So, how unsolved of a mystery are we talking here? For all three.”
”Oh baby, I’m glad you asked.”
And so, he spent his afternoon, hearing all about the suspects involved in the many different cases. The legitimacy of each one, the likelihood of another. The reality, it seemed, was everyone was an expert and absolutely nobody would have been any closer to solving the crimes at the time they occurred, than they are in the modern day. Yet, the rhetoric did make him realise one thing.
That maybe the lack of solution is sometimes more refreshing than finding some semblance of the truth. Because when they moved onto the more modern day killers. The Fred and Rose West’s of the world, or the one that made him shudder more than any of the others, the Dennis Nilsen’s of the world. There was almost a safety in the idea that the rippers and strippers and the torso murderers of the yesteryear never had their lifeless and emotionless visages exposed to the greater light.
And that is what he needed. She may not have meant to show him the way forward, but Luna had definitely helped him understand what he would need, walking into Into the Void. The killer mindset, the viciousness of Nilsen, with the unassuming and unapproachable reality that was Jack the Ripper. The irony of the name was not lost on him either. Jack Washington across from him once more, and the former Ripper Queen across from his own. Fate, had a funny way of presenting itself for them. Jack the Ripper was the opposition of The Conspiracy, two hundred years later, and he didn’t even know it.
“Lexi, what’s going on in that head of yours?”
A cigarette hung loosely from his lips, sitting on a small balcony, overseeing the greater city. He inhaled deeply, holding a bottle loosely in his left hand, the right moving to take the cigarette from his lips and tapping the ash off.
“I’m amused, is all. I go to dark places, and wish nothing more than to escape them. Find the warmth in the day, the warmth in the reality. Warmth in you. The frozen heart thaws, but I find solace in the darkness. Imagery is so much more visceral when we live in the dark. You, however.”
He places the bottle down on a small table that sat between them, moving his hand then under the table to take hers in his. Lacing their fingers through each other, and pressing their palms together.
“Your purity is in the light, in the happy. Yet, you seek the dark. You find the frozen to thaw, and you melt it with your warmth. The dark leads you not, and in your softness, release. Don’t let them take that from you, Luna. Don’t let anyone take your light.”
A smile, all it takes. Just a smile, the slight blushing of her cheeks, the tightening of her fingers around his. For a moment, they were the moment. She was fixated on his problems, because he allowed himself to be lost. But it wasn’t her fault. It didn’t belong to her, to fix what was wrong. The opportunity now stands before him to fix what is wrong. To win the Internet Championship back, it would take a little extra. Jack, had his number. Jack, was the better wrestler. Jack, made his fucking blood boil. But the opportunity to rectify past mistakes lay in front of him, and there was one thing he was certain of.
He was far more of a killer, than Jack Washington.
She took the cigarette that was embering in his fingers, and placed it to her lips. Bad habits resurrected, but he had no legs to stand on to deny her. Sometimes, bad came with the good. They were victims of their own addictions at times, though, they had fought others off.
“You say the sweetest things to me, sugar. All buttered up, and make my heart beat, you do. But, Lexi. Don’t you forget. We’re all a little dark, honey. From the top, all the way down. We’re coated in the paint of evil. So don’t worry lover, I’ll be your sun, if you stay my rock. I love you, Alex.”
“I love you too, Lu.”
Was it the first time he had said it? No. But was it the first time that the meaning was truly conveyed in the words? Undoubtedly. She had lifted herself out of the chair and rapidly spun around the table to land in his lap. Arms wrapped tightly around his neck, as she buried her face into the nape of neck. His hands snuck around her sides, as he held and pulled her into him.
“Just don’t go Mary Ann Britland on me, please.”
She laughed, heartily and shook her head against his neck.
“Too late. Your drink was already poisoned. Nice knowing you, lover boy.”
He knew sure was joking, and yet…
Rippers, Strippers and Murderers
Scene Two | On-Camera | 26th April 2023
Tap, tap, tap. The light tapping of shoes against old cobble streets. The light of the moon filtering through the streets, old school lanterns lining walls, lit with a off-putting buzzing low yellow light. Whistling, a man in heavy thick trench coat slowly walking his way down the street. A briefcase in one hand, his face obscured under a large top hat.
“Jacky boy, Jacky boy. You took something from me, with claims of grandeur. You took something from me, to spite me. You took something from me, and you failed to succeed on it. You took away my opportunity for a guaranted shot at whoever holds the crown of crowns, and in turn, you took away my own. You embarrassed me, Jacky boy, and then you spat in my face. You continued to mock, because your way of success involves the utter belittlement of all others. Ignorance and denial of anything before you, and overconfidence as a result. You are the epitome of arrogant bullies, Jacky boy. And now, it all comes full circle, doesn’t it? Once again, you fail. Right on the cusp of success, and you come up short again. You took my opportunity, you took my crown, and you fucking squandered it, Jacky boy. And now, here in the land of the Rippers and Strippers, you have to stand against me, once again. And I am looking forward to it, Jack. I’m looking forward to meeting once more, because this time. This time the stakes are a little bit different.”
“Do you know why the stakes are different, Jacky boy? Let me tell you. Because the truth remains the truth. No matter what you say about me, no matter how much you deny my existence in your mind. You had something to prove. You had to prove that Alexander Raven was not as good as you. That the things you claim, the things you say. The things you spout as gospel truth, are just that. Gospel truth. Are they gospel, Jacky boy? Are you going to make me the next victim of Jack the Ripper? Are you going to put me down for a third time. Are you ready to fight me once again, Jack? I wonder about that, I do. I wonder, because failure doesn’t sit well with you, does it Jack? You mock me. You belittle me. You spout accusations of tears, and grovelling. Of begging and pleading. You belittle me, because you are projecting your own failures onto any that will fucking listen to you, Jacky boy. But, if I remember. You were the one crying about the lack of fairness. About how you were being held down. About how you had to jump through hoops and loops to get what you feel you deserve. You see yourself, as the King upon all other kings. That the world title belongs to you. That you should have had the chance against Mac Bane, and not Michael Harris. That you should have had the chance against Ken Davison, and not Finn Whelan. That you should be in the main event of Into the Void against Michael Harris, and not the undeserved King James and the pack puppy. Yet here you are, against Alexander Raven once again.”
A small alcove lays to the side, swathed in darkness. From just beyond the edge of the dark, a pair of feet, the lower part of a leg. The man turns to look into the darkness, and places his briefcase on the ground.
’NAPALM’
The snapping of the locks, echoes off the darkness. Murmurs and muted voices bounce through the air from the distance. Speaking of a world beyond the isolated once they were in. From the case, he pulls a large surgical saw, and a pair of gloves. He closes the lid of the case, and places the saw on top of it, as he pulls on the gloves.
‘FAILURE
“Truth is as truth is, Jack. You are not as good as you want to be. You are not seen the way you want to be seen. You are not anything beyond what you feel yourself to be. Yes, you took the Internet Championship from me. I can admit my failings. Something that seems to elude the narcissistic, arrogant elite that fester and muck about in the filth the permeates every aspect of this fucking cesspool. You are one of the worst, Jacky boy. Like the filth that mucks this here city of sin. It is, convenient, that we end the tour here. That the fates have authored a redemption for us. A redemption of failures. A redemption of our own misgivings. You see, Jacky boy. You see I do not like you. I do not care for you. You are, what I stand to eradicate. A goddamn bully. An arrogant fucking prick, and a senseless dribbling sycophant. Words, yes. You seem to have an issue with words. Nothing I say is beyond the intelligence of the groveling maggots that you seem so akin to. Yet your insignificant, juvenile mind thinks that I use words to hide behind. There seems to be this ideology that Alexander Raven uses language to befuddle and confuse. But that’s not in the slightest bit true. Every word I say, means exactly as it is stated. Every word that I say, is within the conscience of any who would just listen. Yet you won’t listen, Jacky boy. Nobody ever fucking listens. And if they just listened…”
‘KINGSLAYER’
“You would fully understand. I speak only what is true before me. The reality that I stand in, is one that exists outside of the Stained Glass Lies of the world above. Distorted and disconnected though I once was, no longer will I allow myself to be continually deluded by failures of existence. No longer will I allow the filth to run rampant over the cesspool that I intend to clean. The streets will be washed, and in the napalm death that follows, salvation. Salvation from the incestuous unending murk that you perpetuate each and every fucking time you step into the ring, Jack. Every time you open your forsaken mouth and spout and spill lies upon lies. Cry? You think I would fucking cry because of a stumble against a pathetic little worm like you? No, Jack. No, loss doesn’t scare me. Loss doesn’t make me run away, loss does not affect me in the way it seems to affect you in your mind. Failure does not end anything, for the story, the story will continue. And in this story, Jacky boy. In this story, I am the FUCKING Ripper.”
He picks up the saw slowly, holding the handle in one hand, the blade resting lightly against his other palm. He holds it up to the light, reflecting the surgical steel off the ambient low-light of the buzzing lanterns. He stands up slowly, pushing the briefcase into the darkness beyond. The legs on the ground slowly beginning to move, and then the figure plunged into the dark. Screams, croaks and cries. A cacophony of sound, a mixture of women wailing, men crying and birds croaking. The feet curl and tense and then suddenly disappear into the dark alcove. And then.
‘SILENCE.’
Silence. From beyond the veil of the dark, liquid pooling. Liquid flowing into the deserted alleyway. The clop of hooves, the rumble of wheels. The world suddenly filling with noise once more.
“Symbolism, Jacky boy. I am a man who believes in the symbolism of things. Metaphor, example, symbols. I am a believer in the mind, because the mind dictates the actions of the physical. I work in undoing the problems of ones own false narcissism, breaking the distortions of their own falsified reality. I am the False Prophet because I deem what is truth in the real world. Only false because of the lies that everyone lives in. But it’s okay, Jacky boy. It’s okay. I understand your hesitance. I understand your reluctance. I understand your problems within oneself, because I know the mongrels of this world. I know the bullies. I know, the arrogant swine that you associate with. You are forever attempting to show the world that you are more than the pathetic, snotty little brat that they see you as. And no matter how much you claim it is not skin of your back, you continue to live in the lies you create for yourself. You create a reality that you cannot hope to continue. For the world does not react to the way you put yourself out there. Nobody sees Jack Washington the way that Jack Washington wishes they did. No, what they see Jack, is what I see. A petulant child who screams and cries when he doesn’t get things on his own terms. And now, they see you, in the same you try and paint others. A failure. Coming short of your journey, once more. The consolation, Jack. Why would you listen to me? What words do I have that maintain any level of sincerity? What words do I have that mean anything to you? You’ve painted the picture of me in your head, and there is no changing that. An edgy, over-yearning adult emo. Someone who wanes poetic, someone who uses black and white filters. Who sees themselves as more than a pretentious hack. Someone who thinks that they are greater than they are. Yet the truth, Jacky boy. The truth, that you refuse to see. The truth that you refuse to acknowledge, is that Alexander Raven. Alexander Raven is more than just the lies you paint.”
“I am nothing more than another person walking this earth. A person born of trauma, agony and pain. A person born of their failures. I am broken. We are all, broken, Jacky boy. From the women who work the corners, to the psychopaths that run businesses. From the nobodies that you pretend do not exist in your world, to those you dethrone for your own sanity. Beating me was a god sent for you Jack, you know this. It was a god sent, because without the Internet championship. Without another victory over me, you’ll be known as nothing but the muck beneath the boot of those who are able. Beating me, proved nothing. Nobody wants to see Alexander Raven succeed. If you hadn’t lost, there wouldn’t have even been space for me on this card. I know that very well. Or they would have thrown me back into the Roulette title picture. The main event is populated by men who couldn’t stand to me. Yet, they get the opportunity, that should rightfully be mine. You want to talk about what is owed to someone, Jack? I am owed far more than you. Who the fuck have you beaten? Who the fuck do you think you are standing in my ring, making claims about my insignificance? I am the one who beat Austin James Mercer in a fucking cage. I’m the one who out-wrestled Fenris. I am the one who silenced the runty fucking lap puppy, Miles Kasey. O’Malley, redeemed. Ken Davison couldn’t beat me again. I am the fucking Kingslayer, Jacky boy. I am the one who dictates where things fall, and yet they hold me down. You, you are to blame for the silence that they place upon me. For the rattling of the foundations, they seek to punish me. I will not allow it, Jacky boy. I will not allow for the words to twisted and manipulated. I will not allow for your lies to continue pump into the world. So like the women who lay slaughtered in the streets over a hundred years ago, you too, will fall. You will be the fucking whore that I rip the body of. Mutilated, beaten and broken. Forget about you, Jack? Not a fucking chance.”
A horse drawn carriage slowly trundles into the laneway. It stops just in front of the darkness, and the side door swings open. What looks like a body bag is thrown into the carriage through the open door, and the figure steps out of the darkness, holding the saw up to the light. Stained with red, in his other hand something that appears to be leaking. He grips the weird carrion tightly in his hand, and slams the door closed.
‘INSOLENCE.’
The carriage pulls off into the distance once more, the clopping of horse hooves on the pavement. The person pulls their briefcase from the darkness once more, and kneels down whilst opening it. He places the saw into the briefcase, gazing down at it, removing his gloves. The trophy is placed beside the suitcase, as he closes the lid. He lifts his hands to his head, removing the top hat. Alexander Raven, of course, beneath the veil of the darkness. A smile wide across his face, his eyes wide open. Spatters of muck and viscera across his face, a grisly visage. A mask of death.
‘ENDING.’
“I need you to understand something Jack. This is personal. This is personal, because you’ve made it so. You thought it okay to undermine my own personage for the furthering of your own. You embarrassed me again, Jack, and I am not a forgiving man. And any of those who have wronged me before, will tell you the same thing Jacky boy. That no matter what you may think of me before. That no matter what you may believe to be the truth of Alexander Raven. That when I step into the ring with a goal in mind, there is not a single person who is more violent, more focused and more skilled. They’ve all learnt over the last year that Alexander Raven will rise to any occasion, and that when opportunity presents, I will take it. Yet I must pose a hypothetical, to you Jack. Something to make you weigh your arrogance against your ambition. You beat me again, congratulations. Thoroughly humiliated, I must slink away. Hide and lick my wounds for all the words become lies, and in that a truth is painted. That Jack Washington is just better than Alexander Raven, on every day of the week. That here at the climax, with the peak of the mysteries, you are the iconic name alongside the unsolved mystery. Jack Washington to become Jack the Ripper, and to leave Alexander Raven insulted and defeated. Handed his first one-on-one loss of the year. My first one-on-one loss since O’Malley got one over me at the beginning of my reign of power as Internet Champion. But then, you are stuck with what you wanted to mock with. Do you think, they’ll give you a second look whilst you stand as Internet champion? No, the truth, Jack. You beat me again, you’re just as fucked as you were before you entered the tournament. No Michael Harris, no Austin James Mercer and no Miles Kasey for you. Placated and silenced, they’ll throw the same people at you, over and over. Bill Barnhart, Ken Davison, hell, probably Miles Kasey, even Carter. The same, over and over, because the repetition is what makes it mind numbing.”
“You become what you seek to destroy. The second best. Something Fenris deemed me to be. Second best. Because everyone is focused on being the King of Kings. Everyone wants to be the one who stands on top. I am no different. What is different, and it is what Fenris was made to learn. That when I stand as Internet Champion, I am not second best to fucking anybody. When I wear the crown, I am the king of kings, the One True King. But more than that, far more than that. I learnt something in my reign. That kings fall by my sword at my whim and decision. That kings fall when I take them to be hunted. For I am the god damned Kingslayer. The Napalm Kingslayer, who will cleanse everyone in glorious fucking death. So I ask you Jack. Do you win, and become all that you resent? Do you lose, and have to admit that Alexander Raven is better than you when it comes down to the big match? Do you win, and forsake your opportunities to demand your supposedly rightful claim to the throne? Do you lose, and get laughed out of the conversation? I ask you these hypotheticals Jacky boy, because the truth is hard to digest. The truth is hard to acknowledge. The truth is, that with you taking the championship from me, you put yourself in an unenviable position. I lose, I look no worse than previously. Jack Washington gets a win over Alexander Raven for the third time. He has Raven’s number. You have the ability to beat me on my best days. Okay, that’s fine. There’s always a worse one. I set my eyes on the future winner of our main event, and whoever is lucky enough to take the whole damn tournament. I let them know, that the blade of freedom is hanging above their heads and in that. Coming redemption and retribution. Coming is the end of their reigns, for I am the Kingslayer. And they are the final Kings that need be slayed. So I ask you, Jacky boy. What do you do, when the bell tolls?”
‘DEATH.'
From his coat pocket, he removes a small box of matches. He slowly slid the box open and slid one out. The rapid strike, the flicker of a quick flame. He moved and touched it to the amorphous blob of carrion, it quickly taking in flames. An explosive burst of rapid flame.
“Hypotheticals, symbolism, analogy. God-complex and arrogance. You, Jacky boy, are everything I’ve spent my time here trying to fix. Trying to eradicate. Trying to change. And I am the villain for it. I am the bad guy for stating the facts as they stand. Calling out the arrogance, calling out the bullies. The cock-headed arrogance of it all, and then you have the bravado to go and make claims on who I am as a person. Someone so lost in themselves, that they think they can comment on the reality of another. No, Jack. Whilst we all may be insignificant slugs crawling on the face of this plane of existence, we are starkly different. I comment, because I know myself fully. I know my disconnects, my distortions and the truth of the world. I do not belittle for the sake of amplification. I bring you down, to remind you that just like I, you are nothing but the muck beneath the boots of those who would seek to oppress. Beneath those who break the fragility of a child. Broken and beaten, traumatised and left to rot in the street. You, embody what Jack the Ripper was. A faceless man who thought himself better and stronger. Able to elicit his strength, power and fear over those who were not strong enough to stand against him. The problem for you, Jacky boy. I will not simply roll over like an obedient fucking dog. I will not stand by and let you continue to mock, belittle and arrogant effuse yourself all over the fucking insidious muck hole that is this city of sin. Unlike the Ripper, you, Jacky boy. You will be caught in my grasp, you will be brought down, and The Conspiracy will choke the life from your ebbing body. Carrion and corpse you will be, for I am the Napalm Kingslayer, Jack, and you are nothing. Just a petulant child with far too much ability for the minuscule grasp and understanding he has on the world. So continue to prattle and beat on. Continue to mock, continue to run your mouth, like the slimy little cunt you are. And I promise you this, Jack. I will bleed you dry, and you will be forced to finally see. That no matter how much I talk. No matter how much you pretend to not be listening. Complain about my words, yet match me at every beat. No matter how much you run, on and on. Nothing will save you form the retribution that is coming. Win or lose, it doesn’t matter to me anymore Jack. I have one goal.”
“I want to hurt you.”
Slipping the box away, he lifts the top hat back onto his head, and grabs the briefcase. Turning on his heel, he kicked the burning carrion backwards into the darkened alcove. Inside, the walls are splattered with the same viscera and liquid as his face. And in the middle, in front of a small door. A wax head, with another hat sits in front of the door. The head clearly moulded in the visage of Jack Washington. Eyes rolled back, and a bloodied neck. The burning ball touching to head, and sending the wax up in flames as well. The door behind it swinging open slowly, as Alexander Raven steps through it. In the distance, what looks a small room with a wardrobe. A smile across his face.
“I don’t forget, Jack. And I want to know. That I am coming for you. I am coming to redeem my faults. Win or lose, I do not care. All that matters, is that you are brought to your knees. That you are made to bleed, and feel your life leaving you. I want you to know that this is personal for me, because you, you felt the need to make an example of me. And nobody gets to make an example of Alexander Raven. So, Jack. Are you ready to make true on your claims of my obsolesce? Are you going to make me cry, Jack? I waiting for you to do something fucking meaningful with your time here. Right now, nothing you can do will change my opinion. Nothing you can do, will change what I intend to do. Championship or not, it is fucking irrelevant. You are another king of the filth, that must be eradicated. So prepare, Jack. Here in this city of killers and filth, I will show you the danger. I will show you my truth. And when I beat you, Jack. Because I will fucking beat you. Be it here, or be it the next time, or the next time, or the next. When I beat you, I need you to understand. There is nothing you could do, to prevent what I have planned for you. I am going to choke you the fuck out, bitch.”
He laughs, stepping into the doorway. His head snapping up, seemingly hearing something.
‘AGONY.’
He turns his head towards the wardrobe at the other end of the small room beyond the door. Nodding a little as he slowly closes the door behind him.
“Can you hear the voices, Jack?”
“The Conspiracy is here.”
The closing of the door, the click of a lock. The sounds within, men crying in pain. The lap of flames, muted beyond the closed door. A world crying out in pain beyond the door.
And then…
Darkness.
Silence.
Nothing.
