1884, Victorian Era, England. There was a certain aristocrat named Benjamin Watts who had already gotten his hands on a phone. A telephone to be exact, only eight years made (and patented) by Alexander Graham Bell. Mr. Watts was a frugal man with an eye for fine goods. He had a monocle through which he examined them with his grey eyes and matching hair and beard. This items ranged from other tech to minerals, such as diamond, and the finest of women. It would be worth noting that Mr. Watts was quite the lustful man. Regardless, he did not use his wealth to extort anyone for any reason. He was more interested in the leisure of life and playing with his new toy. That, of course, was the telephone. Benjamin also made sure to keep a certain person within his reach as much as possible. A Mr. Jackson Richardson. Now Mr. Richardson's interests were less than refined. He cared not for Watts materials or his toys. Though the women Watts kept in his company was more than enough to keep Richardson hanging around his friend. On a particularly dreary night, Watts made a call to Richardson. It was a call about his whereabouts as he had vanished for most of that October.
"Jackson, why have you not been responding to my calls?" Benjamin asked when the phone was picked up.
There was no reply. At least, not one that could be discerned. At first, a low groan began to build along with the sound of something being dragged. There was then a thump as if the object that was dragged had been dropped. Quickly there afterward, the sound of a blade, perhaps, striking a piece of metal could be heard. It was faint, and slow, but gradually began to pick up pace and sound.
"Richardson?" Watts asked, frightened by the sounds.
They all abruptly came to a halt when he spoke, as if the person on the other end had no idea he was listening. Then there was a scream. A female scream of pain and desperation. Of one who wanted to be released from their prison which may have been inside the phone itself. The scream too, however, was cut off. Though there was a loud bang, like that of a table cracking, that silenced the screamer. The line went dead for a moment before picking up the sound of shallow breathing. The person breathing stopped to take a breath before the line truly went dead.
The next day, Watts came to Jackson's house. He knocked once, twice, then three times within a ten minute interval. When he got no response he resorted to some sly measures. Watts was a rich man, but he was a ruffin before that. His knuckles still carried the bruises from being split open on the faces of other men. He removed the utensils necessary to pick the lock from his waistband, which also held other marvelous tools, and entered the home. It was two stories, but still cramped nonetheless. The entrance lead directly to a staircase which would lead to Jackson's chambers. Behind the access was the kitchen area which linked to the main living room. Watts was going to save the kitchen area for last, but he heard the sound of voices coming from it. He entered slowly, keeping to the narrow wall for protection. He got a peek into the room and saw three men and a woman lying at their feet. He recognized one of the men as Jackson, the black eyes and gruff facial features were unmistakable, and the woman as a Ms. Maria May. She was one of his hands who would do things such as bring him tea or wash his clothes. She had stopped coming to work a week prior to the current situation. Ms. May, however, was definitely no longer among the living. A shallow pool of blood sat at around her neck. As if she'd been slashed elsewhere and the last remnants of that were draining out.
"Jackson, fellows, what have you done?" Watt's asked, coming out of the shadows.
The other men were shocked to see him, but Jackson smirked as if he'd expected this.
"Benjamin my dear friend. You shouldn't have come here," Jackson began, hoisting Ms. May onto his shoulder, "Get rid of him." He said to the others.
The other to men were much younger and looked to be a little more muscular than Watts. They, however, did not have the experience of the men before them. Nor the tools he commanded. He had enough gadgets to make a Victorian Batman jealous. The taller of the two, blond hair blue eyes, came at Benjamin first. He swung high, but Watts blocked with his forearm. He then delivered the, never failing, right cross punch that had one him so many fights on the streets. It was a jaw breaker of a punch and it did exactly that. The man folded back, but stayed at a knee somehow. The other, black hair brown eyes, came at Watts next. He had a blade, but Watts did him one better. He reached across his waist band and removed a small six shooter. The man did not react in time as Watts fired through his abdomen. He recoiled back into the table, knocking it over, as Jackson backed away near the back entrance.
"Stop there man! You've committed a cri-" Watts tried to warn him, but the man whose jaw he'd broken tackled him into the wall.
Watts accidently fired twice, wasting precious ammo into the ceiling. The man bashed his fist into Watts' side several times while Benjamin tried to regain his senses. Benjamin grunted while he brought his elbow down onto the man, causing him to stagger back, before kicking him away. He tripped over the body of the black haired man and hit his head against the cabinet. It was enough to knock him unconscious, but Benjamin felt the chill from his younger days. He finished the man with his gun without looking at him. This was mostly due to Jackson having escaped out the back at some point. Watts raced to the door and looked for him wildly. He saw him far in the distance and fired after him. Two shots, two misses. Jackson had gotten away.
Five Years Later
Benjamin Watts sat in his usual chair in front of his fireplace. The adrenalin of five years prior lingered gently in the back of his head. His finger itched to pull a trigger and his knuckles crackled with excitement whenever someone came within their range. He stroked his beard to ease this while listening to "Come into the Garden, Maud" on his phonograph. The music was more than soothing and put the heavy soul of the man at rest. He, however, as rendered unable to hear as a man approached from behind him. A man with a gruff face, black eyes, and a blade.
"Benjamin." Jackson said, coming into view from the shadows.
Watts reached over slowly and stopped the phonograph. He stood and looked over the chair at him.
"Jackson." Watts said, not afraid even though he wasn't armed.
"It's The Ripper now, Benny. I'm sure you've eard' of me. In the papers and such."
"Yes, I knew it was you as soon as I saw the tag line. I'm assuming you've come here to settle our score."
Jackson laughed. It was low, raspy, and sounded tortured. As if he was forcing it out despite the pain in his throat.
"There's no score. Just your end, old friend." Jackson said.
"Quite." Benjamin replied, grabbing his cane from the side of the chair.
Benjamin was in his mid sixties now; Jackson only mid thirties. Jackson was faster, taller, but certainly not stronger. You see Benjamin may have stopped being a delinquent, but he never truly stopped fighting. He relished the chance to give someone a good lick or two. Now he felt as if he could still take Jackson, assuming he could get rid of his blade. Jackson took a quick step forward and slashed without so much as a warning. Watts blocked the blade with his cane and smacked it away in the same motion. The blade slid across the floor several meters from the pair. Jackson looked annoyed, but instead of diving for the weapon he came at Watts. He tackled the older man into the wall and bashed him across the jaw with his elbow. Benjamin was stunned briefly, but hooked Jackson in under the arm and delivered punch after punch to his abdomen. His fists were still as strong and rough as ever, cutting Jackson's skin after making their way through his clothes. Jackson managed to push free and stumbled back, clutching his side.
"I must be getting old. My fist should've broken your ribs with less than four punches." Watts remarked opening and closing his right hand over and over.
Jackson grunted in pain, his hand on the bloody bruise. He roared in rage and rushed at Benjamin. The older man stepped to the side and slammed him against the wall. He then whirled Jackson around and tossed him into the fireplace. To burn where he belonged.
End, Benjamin Watts Vs. Jack the Ripper
