He laid in a moist crawl space below the abandoned Desmond Co. cannery. In his hands, the daily newspaper. It read as follows:
"A third prostitute has been found dead, this time floating down the River Thames.
Scotland Yard is dissuading civilians from calling the serial killer by his now voguish nickname - Jack the Ripper.
In other news, hair pomade and beef stock are 5% off at Henry's Grocery."
Laughter filled the small crawl space; a heinous, malicious laughter. He pounded at the walls of his confine, scratching at the rotting wood.
"The fucking twats got my title wrong! After all I've done, they're calling me a ripper.
I am a researcher, a specialist, a savior!" One punch sent his left arm through the the wood, revealing the dirty river directly outside.
It stunk of feces, piss, and garbage - the beautiful fragrance of London.
Kicking down the rest of the weak wood, he launched himself out of the crawl space and into the water, in reality for no reason; the latch leading into and out of the crawl space was unlocked.
He swam upriver until reaching a rusty ladder on the side of the river, attached to the flood wall.
James climbed up the ladder which led into an alley, and walked down it. A woman lay reclined against a grime-covered wall, smoking opium from a large pipe - likely stolen.
She was in a dazed state, unaware of James even after he stepped on a piece of glass and broke it. He drew a switchblade from his pocket and stepped behind the woman.
In a quick motion, he opened the blade and cut her neck open. She choked for a moment, then fell to the floor.
The wall was covered in a large blood stain caused by the initial spray from her neck.
He licked the blood on the knife, delighted with himself at the efficient kill. Without notice he looked up, and began running. He felt his body tremble and sweat with fear.
Suddenly his decisions all seemed wrong and unfair to the people around him. A dark epiphany.
James ran into the open and began to panic. He ran as quickly as possible, bursting into an abandoned home. There he pushed a cabinet against the door and began to cry.
He pulled at his hair, ripping strands of it off, along with some skin. Blood poured from his scalp. He took a moment to observe his blood covered hands.
He put up the switchblade to his Cephalic vein and felt a soft sting. Suddenly a wave of crimson liquid poured from his wrist. He cried, beginning to feel weak and lightheaded.
It all turned black for a moment, and then red. Flames arose from everywhere and hideous beasts assaulted him. Skinless dogs ate his extremities, only for them to regrow and be eaten again.
He felt only agony, his mind a blank slate. Then it all turned white, and everything was blurry. He saw a giant, no, a human. There were no giants, he was just minuscule.
Instinctively, he brushed his face with his arm. It wasn't an arm, but a furry leg, outfitted with short claws. He felt a tick on his back and scratched at it, to no avail.
A feminine scream pierced his moment of curiosity.
"Jimmy! Get the fucking broom! It's a damn rat, hurry the hell up!"
He saw a child run up to a stout woman, broom in hand. The kid handed over the broom to the woman, who looked at the rat furiously for a moment before raising the broom up.
Then it all turned black once more.