Whitechapel

September 25th, 1888

     Four men make themselves at home in the claustrophobic, nondescript home of a deranged lunatic. There was a singular window allowing the waxing crescent moon's luminance on the men. A chain with an empty collar lay in the corner of the room, black mold infesting the contents of a small metal bowl. Despite the candles illuminating the hoary brick, the flat was darker than the dead of night outside. There is no heat, save for the measly bits of heat that the candles provide. Shadows dance around the pale yellow glow of the fire, rollicking across the soulless slate floor.
"I can not believe the absolute insolence of the press! They shame us! The Whitechapel Murderer? How plain!" a man in a quaint heather suit laments, tossing yesterday's newspaper to the floor. Stretched to take up the entire settee, legs extended at their fullest as if to accentuate his grief. "Then there is that wretched, disgusting title of the Leather Apron! The poor bastards just are not giving us a good name! Not in the least! We deserve a title with flair not some bland, imaginative crap!"
"Do you ever shut up, you dratted mary?" James Maybrick, a squab man of wedlock snaps, throwing the vivacious man's feet off the sofa so he can sit as well. He places his satchel beside himself, making an indignant sound as Druitt kicks his side in retaliation. On his finger bore no ring, only a faint tan line barely noticeable on his leathery skin. "What does it matter what the police say?"
"Maybrick!" Severin Klosowski tuts, casting a look of dismay at the plump man. "Do mind your manners! I believe that Druitt is quite right!" Leaning on the wall nonchalantly "Currently, the press makes us sound far too bang up to the elephant... I propose that we write a letter to formally introduce ourselves to the public," Severin Klosowski hums blithely, smirking slightly. "What should we call ourselves by?"
"Damfino," grumbles Aaron Kominski, tossing back his third bottle of Madeira. He lays, sprawled across his bed, It has no pillows or blankets. There is nothing but a few coats tossed to the side, thick and trimmed bear fur to keep him warm. He prefers his home bland, as too much color gives him a sensory overload. He already has too much of a burden keeping his mind tame enough to function on the daily. His home is his only asylum.
"Excellent idea! I do agree that we should assert ourselves as quickly as possible!" Montague John Druitt declares, springing up from the torn corduroy sofa with newfound vigor. "This must be a message that can never be forgotten---infamous as we!" Expectantly,
Maybrick scowls. "If we must." From his leather satchel he produces both an inkwell, pen, and page.
"Say, not that I am complaining, but why must you carry that journal around tirelessly?" Klosowski questions, nodding at the black, leather-bound book in the fat man's hands.
"None of your business," Maybrick diverts, flipping to the back cover and opening it. He uncaps the inkwell, exposing vermillion ink. "Think carefully of what you want to say to these mutton shunters because I will not re-write any of this, y'hear?" he asserts, glowering around at the group as he bends down to write on the cold slate floor. "How to begin... Ah, yes. Dear Boss..."
     A few moments of contemplative silence blankets the room. "I keep on hearin' th' pigs 've caught me, but they won't fix me just yet," Kominiski begins, "I've laugh'd when they lookin' so clever and talkin' 'bout bein' on the right track. Th' joke 'bout Leather Apron gave me real fits. I'm down on whores and I shant quit rippin' them 'till I do get buckl'd. Grand work the last job was. I gave th' lady no time to squeal." Leering at the ceiling, the unkempt man seems to be lost in thought. The eyes being the gateway to the soul, gave away the pure lust seething quietly in his mind. The lust for flesh, bloody or no.
     "Excellent, dear Kominiski! What a way to lead! Of course, though, Maybrick I do hope that you adapt the text to be a tad more... literate so that the police wankers do not belittle us for our grammar," Klosowski praises, unable to hide his surprise at the coherency of the wording. "I say we continue with," pausing slightly as Maybrick readies his pen, he continues, "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. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I can't use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope, ha ha. The ne---"
    "Woah, woah. Just to clarify, what do you mean by, 'ha ha?'" Maybrick questions, glancing up from the paper. "As in you have a peculiar laugh, or as in I write it in the script?"
     "I mean you write 'ha ha.' We must convey our superiority to them, so why not make this amusing for us? Taunt them a bit? Ruffle their feathers," Klosowski replies coolly, shrugging his shoulders slightly. Clearing his throat, he begins again, "Now, to continue; The next job I do, I shall clip the lady's ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight."
      Tittering, Druitt comments, "Such precision in your speech, it's almost as though you have rehearsed this!" Pondering for a moment, he raises his hand in the air, springing from the couch with vigor. "Let me add! I wish to say; My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance." he declares, voice laced with pride. He preens in the attention and lack of protest in the room, umber eyes sparkling with delight. Then, he swiftly adds, "And to be a good sport, I believe that our parting remark should be; Good Luck! Since we are all gentlemen, yeah?"
     "Right, gentlemen," Klosowski mocks, showing his little finger into his ear to fish out . Sneering, he adds, "Now yer at th' most important decision, lads. What're we gon' be called by?"
      "Of course!" Druitt exclaims with great enthusiasm. Rubbing his forehead in thought, he paces the corner of the room as he remarks thoughtfully, "We must figure out something clever, that does not shine a light on any specifics of our attire or individuality. We must be the Everyman!"
      "Perhaps if there were five of us that might pertain better to us. Besides, I am not so certain that every man will understand the relation, though I do enjoy your thinking," Klosowski admits, deep in thought. It was true that not enough folks around Whitechapel are well-read enough to understand the reference to Dorlandus' play. "How about Jack?" Klosowski suggests, "All men are Jacks, so therefore we are all men."
      "The Ripper," Kominiski asserts, "Jack sounds dull by itself."
      "Right, then. I think that sounds just fine," Maybrick praises, nodding at the men surrounding him. Softly to himself, he speaks the last line. "Yours truly, Jack the Ripper."
      "Oh! I nearly forgot," Klosowski chimes, "Add in; Don't mind me giving the trade name."
      "You moron, I've already signed off on it!" Maybrick protests
      "Oh, stop being such a blunderbuss," Druitt scoffs, snatching the pen and page from Maybrick's meaty paws. Ignoring the elephantine man's objections, he sprawls text adjacently across the bottom of the page rather bitterly, "Wasn't good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands. Curse it. No luck yet. They say I'm a doctor now, ha ha." Holding the page up to inspect it, grinning at the final product. "All set! I can only imagine the exasperation that those pigs will feel upon reading this! Oh, what a wonderful feeling! So mysterious! So ominous! Jack the Ripper. Now that most certainly will strike the hearts of the pupulice!"
     "The game is afoot, lads," Klosowski chimes confidently, a vile gleam in his eyes. "We will not lose."