He moved swiftly through the mist, evading sleeping vagabonds and drifting gypsies. James turned into an alley, and waited. He knew she would arrive soon enough at her most profitable venue,
Whitechapel. "Home to the worst people London has to offer. Criminals, chartists, and shady migrants." James thought, "Worst of all, whores.
Ooooh how they throw themselves at any man they see, asking incessantly for this and that. They think I am so stupid. Mother thought so too.
" It was then that he saw her, in tight leather and thin fabrics.
She had enough rouge on her face to color the entirety of France's pale women, her bodice adorned with so many useless and cheap trinkets.
Piercing her lip was an iron ring, "The audacity!" He thought to himself.
"You're new around here." She proclaimed. He wasn't. In fact, she had been stalked for months. Almost salivating from the mouth, he asked her roughly to turn around.
"You got money?" The prostitute asked.
"Yes, I'll pay you after." James was lying, he had the money, but there would be no after. She turned around, lifting the back of her skirt up.
"I see you like the back door." She said, trying to sound seductive.
"Ugh." He said with disgust, putting the gigli saw around her neck. She struggled to breathe for a moment, turning purple and clawing at her neck.
James had sharpened his saw though, and had soon lopped her head off. He looked at it with glee, a childlike twinkle in his eyes.
He began cackling and caressing the head, shouting "You got your due mother! You got your due mother! You got your due mother!
" He took the body and the head farther back into the alley and through a door that led into an abandoned textile manufactory.
James took a scalpel from a table he had prepared the night before with medical tools. He cut her open with the utmost care, wary to not harm a single part of her innards.
Blood and bile spilled unto his trench coat, all while he wore the largest of grins on his face.
In three hours he had taken apart every piece of her, classifying her organs and storing them in formaldehyde.
Then something snapped. He collapsed to the floor, weeping ceaselessly and striking his fists on the hardwood. He held the scalpel to his artery and contemplated the greatest of sins.
James threw the scalpel to the ground, washing away his guilt with a bottle of Rye Whiskey he had brought into the manufactory.
He took the head of the deceased wench in his hands, looked at it intensely, and then kissed it. He threw up on the floor, once more beginning to cry. It struck him, then, that he had a job.
"Yes, I must serve the lord and purge the foul from his glorious earth!" He shouted loudly inside the mill, hearing the walls throw his words back at him in a series of morbid echoes.
What a demented fool. He was, as the Romans used to say, non compos mentis.