I’m not sure when the concepts of pimps and madams became distinct; I think at some point they were both just known as procurers. But like actors and actresses, the role was divided along lines of sex and each half was delivered a role. The pimps were the merciless beaters, while the madams were the empathetic manipulators. You must understand then why I call myself a lady, but I also call myself a pimp.

I loathe the women of the night. How they reduce themselves to the form of a barrel with a hole in its stave, then the next morning, they swagger about like a respectable woman. Maybe some people are blinded by their shapeshifting, but not me. Maybe others are perfectly capable of separating a woman from her craft, but never me.

I see my girls for what they are, a means to amenities just outside the reach of an East Ender: fancy, new clothes; a Banting diet; and, of course, Hughie and Hare, my ride. Each trollop is the embodiment of one of these luxuries and so if the trollop is bruised I then see my clothes shredded, my food rotted, or my ride in flames. Therefore, it’s in my best interest to keep their bruises covered, and punish those responsible. 

I punished myself accordingly for what I did to Zadie. Plucked off one of my lashes and wore it like that for a whole day. I missed her cheek and swatted her square in the eye. Gave her quite the shiner. I spent the rest of the evening applying cover-up by gaslight. You start by applying a thin layer of cold cream over the bruise so the rest of the makeup sticks. Then you apply the powder.

“Good as new, gigglemug,” I said, putting away my puff into my trunk. It was a compact receptacle where I kept my office supplies. Each side was upholstered with leather, each sheet dyed in mauveine like the rest of my fashion. I looked up from my case and examined my work on Zadie from a different angle. It was perfect; my shredded clothes were magically stitched back together. It helped that Zadie’s long smile sold the whole package that “nothing’s wrong here”. Zadie’s smile was an eerie thing. Not just to me, her clientele were aware of it too. It never vanishes, no matter what’s done to her. I had the back of my ring stuck under her eyelid and it kept convex. “Are you okay?” I asked her for the hundredth time. “I must work on my aim, dear. I’m ashamed.”

Zadie nodded hurriedly, like she hadn’t heard the question, just reacting to the sound.

“Zadie, it’s tough to know when you’re really absorbing things,” I sighed. “Are you going to come late to your shift ever again?”

Zadie shut her eyes, then shook her head like she was stirring up a salad in her skull. 

“I trust that’s to be taken seriously.” I took a step behind her then patted her back till she was shoved off the sidewalk into the street. “Get to it.”

Zadie began to hum and waddled off into the dark. My bottom girl, Melita, quickly took her place in front of me. If Zadie was my clothes, Melita was my diet. I see all the finest delicacies in the curves of her body. Pink hams connected to the feet; bright carpaccio for her rosy thighs; and her middle was red like a round primal. It was a shame some men couldn’t appreciate her strangely rosy complexion, but those who did were obsessed. That’s why Melita is the bottom girl, she was my first girl, and she remains my best.

“Fannie.” Her voice was lowered; something couldn’t be heard by the streets. “The Celt’s putting girls on Baker’s Row.”

The Celt’s invasion was not unshocking as the other territories in East End were constantly in flux as pimps and madams butted heads in the streets. The Celt had never quarreled before but it only takes a little bit of greed before pimps start to push boundaries.

I found the Celt outside his favorite bar on Buck’s Row: the Round Dog Tavern. He’s a very easy person to spot. His hair was coral red; it extended far below his shoulders and was woven into a fishtail braid. He wore a silk vest over his bare chest that matched the color of the blue tattoos running down his naked arms. There were pictures of crosses and bears, triskeles and trinities, connected by spiraling Celtic knots.

“Celt.” I came up straight to his chest.

“Purpleback,” murmured the Celt with a Cockney cadence.

“You’re too far West.”

“But I’m not in your West.”

“We agreed upon a no-man’s-land,” I said, holding out my arms, gesturing to the ends of Baker’s Row. “I have witnesses saying you’ve intruded.”

“I won’t deny it, but I’ve got to make transactions,” he said pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. “I’ve got bluebottles on Buck’s Row, so I moved where it’s safe.”

“Pay the inspector, they just want bribes.”

“They’re not just looking for a ponce,” explained the Celt. “They’re out for a murderer.”

“A murder?” I exclaimed. “Who’d you kill?”

“It’s not me,” he grumbled.

“Then who died?”

“Young ‘fing named Polly, no minder, used to whore around sunup. I just let Polly do ‘er thing. Only seemed to attract the barmies. Kept them away from my girls. Guess one really snapped; minced up her middles. Now she’s brown bread.”

“Your brown bread if I catch more girls on Baker’s.”

“Or what?” sniffed the Celt, stepping forward. An inch separated our torsos. 

I stood firm, keeping my eyes locked on his. I squeezed my thumb till the knuckle cracked loudly.

“One day, us should just join forces.” The Celt rose his hand and landed his palm on my elbow. “We could rule New Town, if you’d just… take a step back down.” He ran his hand up my arm to my shoulder. “A pimp’s only good as his bottom.”

My hand was eager to rise as well. I had to actively fight the levitation. “I was never a bottom.”

“Then it’s a promotion.”

If I let my right hand move freely, I could do some real damage to his face. What my backhand lacked in strength, it made up for in feminine armory. I have nine cocktail rings distributed across five fingers studded with violet sapphires with whetted corners. When my slap meets their face, these jewels serrade their flesh like the edge of a steel whip. 

The only downside to tearing up the Celt’s cheek would be his merciless retaliation which I would not survive. It’d be like a bee using it’s one and only sting before its organs come tumbling out of its bottom. There’s no point in keeping my dignity if I’m dead, and so, I took a step back.

“If I see your girl cross onto Hanbury,” I swatted the air in front of the Celt’s nose. He blinked and crinkled his upper lip. “I’ll take her face off.”

I retreated back to my usual street just before sunup. My deal with the constables said we’d be gone before “the children could see us” which was roughly 6AM when the young chimney sweeps began their shifts. I decided to use the last hour of activity to collect my weekly dues from the girls. I only charged them ten shillings; a small wage that affords small services. I can sting but I can’t kill, which is good enough for my girls. Honestly, they can’t afford better protection. There’s something a little off about each of them, so they bring in less than the usual whore. I’m their only option; the discount pimp.

When 6AM rolled around, I returned to my horse and buggy to drive me home. I took a piece of my earnings and gave my driver Hughie his monthly due, plus a little extra to afford some food for Hare, my horse. Hare was Hare because Hare walks with a hop due to a pocket of fluid in his knee. I couldn’t afford a good horse but Hare does the job just fine. I like to play music in the carriage that matches with the beat of his limp. This way, he looks to be dancing.

The windup gramophone in my lap was playing "Hand Me Down My Walking Cane" when we reached the westend of Hanbury Street. The horse and carriage bobbed up and down to the beat, attracting the delighted eyes of passersby. “A nice night, Purpleback?” called out a young street sweeper, cleaning the shit left behind Hare.

“Lovely yes!” I called.

“Was it really Miss Hill?” asked my driver, in his soft childish voice. Hughie was a sweet boy, only twelve years old. Despite his age, he was an immaculate driver and a useful shot. He would guard my carriage at night; sleeping in the interior with the rifle I gave him. He was a wonderful boy and he deserved respectful answers.

“It was an awful night, Hughie,” I laughed, “murderers on the loose, pimps at odds with each other. Zadie got a black eye. It was all messy but the company must show strength in these hard times. And so… the night was lovely.”

“Of course, Miss Hill,” smiled the child. “A lovely evening tomorrow too.”

Hughie parked the carriage outside our home on White Lion Street. I share a place with Hughie’s parents, the Davies; that's how we met. I haven’t made the necessary funds to live on my own; I prioritize my style. I promised myself the next girl I brought in would pay for more lavish living conditions. Maybe a flat on China Row if she’s a real winner. I have one in mind.

I often find myself in Shoreditch, in the front row of a dingy playhouse, cheering her on. The voluptuous Elizabeth Stride, the Swedish actress famous for the role of Louka in Arms and the Man during its original run at The Britannia, her popularity ended by the natural progression of age. She’s been reduced to playing pantomime at The Frolic, perhaps the cheapest entertainment in all of London. 

It was cheap enough for the Davies to join me. I pay their son and their son pays them and that money then goes to these shows, so in a way, it was like I was paying for their seats. Therefore, they treat me quite nicely, almost like family, especially Hughie. He takes part of every minute to look up at me with this big smile, wide as Zadie’s but earnest, with all the missing innocence still intact.

“Why did the witch steal away the princess?” whispered Hughie during the play. Without any spoken words, the finer details of these plots were lost on small children.

“To make her dreams come true,” I said with a grin.

“Then why does the prince look so angry?” questioned the child.

“Because she took the princess before he could…” I said with a nod. I held my finger to my lips; we shouldn’t annoy the rest of the paupers; this was their one escape from exiguity.

After the show, I had no problems getting backstage to the narrow outhouses they called changing rooms. The women's room had enough space to fit two dresses, a mirror, myself, and Elizabeth.

“I can get you the attention you deserve,” I say to Elizabeth. She keeps her eyes fixed on their reflection in the mirror. This isn’t the first time I’ve tried to recruit her. “Your crowds are all women and children; grown men pay twice as much... but they come to me.”

“Men or no men it makes no difference,” said Elizabeth, dabbing a wet sponge to erode her makeup. “There’s no such thing as a more quality audience. All eyes are the same to me.”

“Well some are blue, some are brown, and some are green...” I said with a long inflection. “Don’t you miss the days of higher pay? I told you I’d match whatever you make here, plus ten pence. That offer still stands.”

“Ten pence for the cost of vagrancy?”

“Authorized vagrancy,” I countered. “Vagrants work shorter hours and work half as hard. Just stand against a wall for six-hours. You can sing while you do it, if you like…”

“Maybe I wouldn’t mind the life of a vagrant,” sighed Elizabeth, “but not one of your vagrants.”

“There’s something wrong with my vagrants?”

“I refuse to believe you're so naive,” sneered Elizabeth. “The harlequin, the rosebush, and the pirate. Now you want to add the world’s oldest whore to your freakshow.”

“Worst of all the ringmaster trains her freaks with a whip!” A third voice sounded from the dressing room door. I twisted my head and was surprised to see the renowned ‘madam in white’ marching up to us. “I can offer a sound business to beautiful women such as yourself.” She leaned between us and checked herself in the mirror. She adjusted her neckline to tilt the ratio of skin to dress.

This madam, Jane Cook, was a former Dahomey Amazon assimilated into the grime of Eastern London; trading in her colorful tunic for a pale sheet over a bustle. She runs a team of ballgazers ‘telling fortunes’ in a subterraneous parlor under Canning Town. And her women are, undeniably, more in vogue than my own.

“If you want top-shelf women, you give them top-shelf respect, not…” Jane grabbed my hand and raised it upwards so the jewels on the back glistened in the mirror. Elizabeth’s eyes fixed on the diamond on my pinky. She could see an eyelash connected to a dot of flesh, pinched beneath the girdle.

I snarled and yanked my hand away. It flung forward and swiped the glass of the mirror, leaving a deep wound in the silver. A wild feeling filled my chest and traveled up my arm which was far harder to contain than with the Celt. Jane was an old bottom-bitch, spinning off into her own enterprise. I wanted to reach right into the center of this woman and smack that young girl in the face, but things have changed. She was a madam making pimp money, and that amount of power has enough weight to crush my own fledgling operation.

I backed off once again, taking my fury with me into the night. I clobbered the cobblestone beneath my heels and rushed to check my girls. When I’m fueled like this, I tend to put that energy into micro-management. Melita was the least of my concerns, so she was last for me to check. Zadie finds you; you don’t find her, so that leaves Annie.

Annie was my Hughie and Hare. Her eyes were like a child, but she limped like my horse. Her stride was on behalf of her wooden leg. She claims she didn’t lose it and that she was born without it, but I’ve seen both cases and the stitch marks say it's the former.

Annie waddled up to me and presented me with my weekly pay, one day late and a shilling short. 

“I needed an extra day just to get this much,” she sniveled. “Can you forgive the debt?”

“Let’s assume for a second you're not just stealing from me.” I scanned her body up and down, checking for new purchases. Her ribs were showing through her shirt. “You're not pulling your weight. Try harder.”

Annie looked frustrated. “There’s legs that look more like legs, you know?” she sneered. “You could pay for one and I guarantee the sales will go up.”

“There’s no negotiation, you will give ten shillings, not nine!” I continued. “You will do what it takes to make that difference and you will hand it to me before sunrise.” I reached for the nine shillings in her palm and she pulled it away in a panic. That crossed a line for some reason.

I raised my hand to her. It went a lot better than the last time. My fingers met her cheek right on target. Instead of knocking her head backwards, it twisted with an elegant flow. A torrent of saliva shot over her right shoulder. The sound of a perfect slap was like a tree branch snapping in the wind. It left a short-term mark, faded before sunrise, with a long-term injury to her psyche.

As soon as the hit landed, Annie turned away and began to run, in fear that there was more injury planned. There was not. I stop myself quite easily once things get physical. Some of the steam is gone so I’m able to calm down.

“Annie,” I called out. “Annie come back, we’re all even now!” I’d find her some other time. I spotted Zadie in a nearby alley. I wanted to check in on her before I lost her again. As I approached her, she started scratching incessantly at her own behind. 

“You’ve got fleas, haven’t you?” I laughed, as I walked past her and stared at her back.

Zadie flailed about her head. “Those dots on Wilhelmina; they jumped onto me! Eck! Eck!” Suddenly, Zadie bent over and vomited up a black torrent.

“Those aren’t dots, young lady, those are rat hills! Black omen!” I screeched. “You’ve gone and murdered yourself, you naive fool.”

Zadie’s smile shivered, but it retained its form, even under the dire circumstances.

“Zadie, no!” I shouted. “How did you get rat hills?”

“Wilhelmina!” she repeated. “Wihelmina’s one of Celt’s girls…”

“That Neanderthal again!”

“She moved onto my corner and started selling us as a combo package.”

I punched the nearby brick wall over and over till my hand turned numb. The Celt’s intrusion had not only begun; it had already maimed one of my girls. I stared at Zadie collapsing against the wall and saw my purple derby hat pummeled out of shape; my speckled ostrich feather snapped beneath the Celt’s heel.

I cut through the avenues and dashed through the doors of the Round Dog, hoping to catch the Celt while he’s wankered, but he wasn’t there. I only knew of one other spot to see him but it could be dangerous barging into a pimp’s “office”. This office was in the alley between the shoe shop and the rundown terrace houses on Raven Row. The Celt didn’t check in on his whores but they were to visit him at the office three times a day for an evaluation of their night’s effort.

As I crossed the street on the other side of the alley, there was an eerie calmness about the area. The shoe store looked to be abandoned. The only people I saw were crawling along the ground. These were the Celt’s girls, lining the pavement with their limp bodies.

I wrapped a purple scarf around my face before entering. I stepped over half-undressed trollops connecting their pustules with claw marks. They wiped blood off their faces and smeared it along the ground.

“The Celt! The Celt!” I shouted through the fabric. “Take me to him, you rotting flesh.”

The arm of a woman laying face down in some garbage, suddenly rose. It pointed as though it were the only living tissue left in the body. I followed its directions to a Morris chair sat against the alley’s back wall. Lying fully reclined was the Celt. His shirt was unbuttoned exposing a bare chest full of rat hills. His head was leaned over the back rest. I stood on my toes and peered at it from above. His eyes were yellow and red; they hung open, motionless. 

I screeched like a train forced into a halt. My hate-fueled assault could not be with the Celt already dead; leaving me with unresolved animosity. My right hand stood high in the air tremoring. I had to use the left one to pull it back down at the wrist. The feeling left my hand and traveled into my chest. I shivered and looked at all the girls dying around me. I could swat them instead but it wouldn’t be the same. The feeling flowed up into my skull. I looked down at my amaranthine dress and imagined it melting in the rain. I’m standing naked in a violet puddle. I’m crying.

The Celt died like the man he was, a desperate man who fucks his own whores. Rat hills typically travel through heavy contact. A little abstinence and I wouldn’t have been left with so much tension.

I left Raven Row expecting that to be the worst part of my night, but as I came back to Hanbury, I realized just how bad things could get. The streets were swarming with top hats and blue tail-coats. For a moment, I was afraid my contacts in the police department had betrayed me, but no one seemed to be searching about. No, they were standing still, in little groups of four and three. They were all discussing something; superclustered around a backyard.

“Ms. Purpleback,” Inspector Neil suddenly stood in front of me. His large blonde mustache startled me. “Ms. Purpleback, your cooperation in this matter will be greatly appreciated.” Inspector Neil had been graciously accepting my bribes in return for leniency. He was my point of contact with the world of law enforcement.

“Please,” I begged him. “Just call me Fannie, Inspector.”

“Oh, I thought she might be yours…” He grabbed my hand firmly with his gloved claw. He wrenched me forward into the backyard to hover overtop of the girl in question. Her parts were plucked out and distributed across the grass. The girl’s face was swollen from a beating, it was hard to recognize her at first. But then I recognized the welts on her cheek.

“I knew your rings would match!” laughed the Inspector. He kept looking to my hand, clutched in his, and the marks on the girl’s face.

“Neil, listen to me, I didn’t do this!” I shouted in a panic. I finally yanked my hand out of his grip then backed away slowly.

“Ms-” He caught himself. “Fannie… we know who did this.” He stepped forward beckoning for me to join him back at the body. “Of course, it wasn’t you. This here’s a great loss to you.”

I nodded. I imagined my horse and carriage driving over a cliff.

“I’ve read about madams and their girls,” continued the Inspector. “Basically, mothers and daughters.”

I hadn’t the focus to correct him. “Who done it, Neil?”

“The Whitechapel Murderer,” said the Inspector, looking nervously at his feet. “He signs his name ‘Jack the Ripper’.”

“Signs his name?”

“He leaves us notes…” 

---

Dear Boss,

I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now? I love my work and want to start again.

The next job I do I shall clip the lady's ears off and send to the police officers just for jollys. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck.

Yours truly

Jack the Ripper

PS They say I'm a doctor now. ha ha

---

“I don’t get the joke...” I mumbled.

“Some journal published that we’re looking for a culprit with medical skills. His anatomical knowledge is above average. One theory says doctor. The other half says butcher.”

“Right… but why is that funny? Him being a doctor?”

“Because we’re probably calling a street bum a degree-holder, which has to be the highest complement they’ve gotten in their life.”

“I was a street bum,” I said quietly, “and I turned out alright…” I turned around and walked off into the night.

I returned my purple dress first thing in the morning. It was only ever a rental. I returned to more modest wear: a tattered, tea gown with a brown mark on the stomach. I bought it off the pickers. It wasn’t exactly purple, but it was a dark pink, and that was as close as we were gonna’ get in this new chapter of my life.

For the next few days, I kept the news from Davies, unable to look their son in the eyes, but eventually the little boy tracked me down, drinking my troubles away at the Round Dog. I’d been chatting with one of the Celt’s old ladies; she’d recently become unemployed. The only thing holding her back from joining the other pimps was the horrible facial caring left by the rat hills. I could past her skin to the shiny new dress beneath it. I tried to seal the deal but I was distracted by Hughie pulling on my dress trying to force me to come home. I was an inebriated mess, and so I felt bad and went along with the child.

When they woke me in the morning, they told me the news that’d been spreading through town: Purpleback was broke. I had no choice but to confess.

The Davies weren’t happy when I couldn’t pay their son any longer. Their faces strained and their stomachs growled. Hughie broke down into tears.

“I can still be your driver!” he hollered. His collar was soaking wet. “I don’t need the pay!”

“Quiet!” shrieked Mrs. Davie. “We need quid and you're getting a new job…”

“Can I still,” Hughie sniffled, “Can I still please sleep in the carriage?”

“Sleep where you like,” groaned Mr. Davie. “There’s no space for you to sleep here anyways.”

“It’s dangerous outside!” growled Mrs. Davie. “More dangerous than it’s ever been. You haven’t heard? Bastard killed two more last night…”

“The Ripper did?”

Mrs. Davie ignored my question at first. Then she sighed angrily and answered. “Yes,” she puffed. “Elizabeth Stride... Catherine Eddowes.”

“Elizabeth…” I whispered under my breath. The actress had been slain only a few days into her new life. All the promises of returned acclaim had come true, but certainly now in a way she’d accepted.

Hughie ran up to my leg and wrapped around it tightly. I put my hand on his head and patted. I pried him loose and walked out the door. As night fell, I caught sight of myself in a puddle building up under a horse. By moonlight, I looked like the very women I managed. My robes could no longer shield my honor. Royal colors intimidated the likes of Zadie and Annie, but they were gone now. All I had left was Meltia and she didn’t require such showmanship. Melita has always known her place. I brought her back from the brink of starvation. She relies on me.

When I caught Melita between suitors, she smiled and ran up to me. She stretched out her hand and produced a large mound of change.

“I can spare you twice the shillings as usual,” she said. She held out my hand for me and began spilling the coins into my palm.

“It’s not even pay day,” I said, feeling pitiful. “That’s your money.”

“I’m only as good as my pimp,” said Melita, dropping the last shilling. “It’s for the good of the company.”

“Well the company thanks you.” I let the coins fall from my fingers into my breast pocket. “I want you to come with me tonight.”

“I best pick up the slack from the other girls...”

“Please,” I said earnestly. “This is more important.”

I took Melita by the hand and pulled her forward. She dragged behind me at first then picked up pace. She didn’t ask where we were going, so she either figured it out herself, or trusted me even in my dire state. I led her to a little shop along the River Thames: The Eye of Mawu.

We clanked the brass knocker out front. A little slider pulled left and revealed a thin slot at the top of the door. Dainty, grey eyes peered through, then were quickly replaced by pitch black. Footsteps left. Footsteps returned. A new pair of eyes appear, less dressy, dark brown. 

“What a surprise.” The door creaked open, revealing Jane Cook. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“He got your girl,” I said greyly.

“Lizzie was also a dear friend...” scowled Jane.

My eyes rolled upwards then laid to the side. “I know you didn’t take it lying down.”

Jane poked her head out from the doorway and saw Meltia standing behind me. “You’ve shut down shop just to come see me.” Jane’s eyes softened. “Come inside. Take a seat in my office.”

As we walked through the halls of Jane’s magic shop, we saw into the open rooms where the men were serviced. At the entrance was the table with the crystal ball and the two chairs, and behind it was a curtain, and behind this curtain came the sounds of sensuality. Men called out as they made contact with the spirit world. The women made coos as though they enjoyed it. I’ve never encouraged my girls to do such favors, but these men were paying much higher prices here.

At the end of the hall was a red door with a padlock on it. Jane undid the steel and turned the knob. She hurried us all inside where we found comfortable seating arrangements placed in front of a roll top secretary. Melita and I sat on soft stools, while Jane laid back in her recliner on the opposite of the desk.

I peered around the room. Stuffed birds hung from the ceiling; exotic species I’d never seen before. Right behind her back was a fireplace with a rack at the top. Laying on the hooks was a long spear with a gold tip and a red shaft.

“So you used to be… a warrior?” I questioned, gazing at the magnificent weapon.

“Not really,” said Jane with a restrained laugh. “Perhaps an ancestor, but I grew up an orphan right here in Limehouse.”

“Ditto,” I replied, enthusiastically. “Of course I was in White Chapel.”

“Look at that. So much the same.” Jane reached into her drawer and pulled out a photograph. “I was fostered in a special academy for etiquette. Methodists who believed they could reform the streets of London through charity. Good people. They were good to me.”

I looked around uncomfortably. “Sounds like a dream out of a painting book.” Melita glared at my quivering. “We should all be so lucky… I found myself working under the merciless control of a whore. By day she ran our business, washing carriages for pennies. She’d slam our little hands in the doors if we weren’t quick enough.” I pulled off a few of my rings which hid the strange bends in my knuckles. “With nowhere to go home to, I followed her into the night. I thought she might have a home I could sneak into, but she just kept working. Sleeping with the same men we serviced in the day. She’d spend the night in their warm beds, while I froze out in the snow. I hated her.”

Jane smiled. “You seemed like the type.”

“The type?” I cringed.

Jane laughed. “You’re not the first person emotionally crumpled by a frigid whore. Sometimes a woman is so nasty it’s the only field that will accept her. It happens all the time. And so, I meet men who are tough to sell to; their whore of a mother turning them off to the concept.” Jane tucked her photo away in a folder and shut her drawer. She folded her arms on her desk and sighed. “Now there’s a Ripper, out there killing our girls, and I’m sure his childhood bears some resemblance to your own.”

“You think I want them dead?”

Jane looked to Melita, sitting quietly, her eyes pulsing into her lap. She looked nervous; scared even. “No, but your feelings towards them are just as bizarre.”

“I only want the Ripper dead,” I said assuredly. “The Ripper and the Celt, but I came too late to catch the Celt. Now I’m left with all this rage and no one to strike.”

“Yes, the young man with the rat pimples,” mumbled Jane. “That’s reason enough not to live in a gutter.”

“How do we catch the Ripper, Jane?” I called out; pressing her to focus.

“We use what we know to cast the appropriate line,” she suggested, “then we let you loose to dispense hot vengeance.”

“You won’t join me?”

“I don’t do violence.” Jane closed her eyes peacefully and tapped her nails on the table. “I trust your vision of justice will suit us both.”

“So we leave Melita isolated, somewhere no one would hear her screams. I hide nearby and corner him after he strikes…”

“No, it will have to be before he strikes, or you’ll lose Melita, here,” said Jane with a look of concern.

Melita kept silent. Her eyes had raised from her lap. They stared at the edge of Jane’s desk.

“It’ll be better if you, yourself, are the bait,” continued Jane.

“But I’m not…” I shook at the suggestion. “I’m not whoring.”

“Not really, but we can make it seem like it,” droned Jane, coldly. “Sweetie, your empire is gone. It’s public knowledge, now we all expect to see you on the street to make up for those losses.”

“The public thinks such things to ridicule me.” I growled. “They’re envious...”

“You can strike before he does,” continued Jane. “You just need to see him coming.”

“...How will I know it’s him?”

“The Ripper scoffs at the title of doctor and so it’s fairly obvious he knows doctors all too well; they may be on par with whores. They took something from him or they couldn’t make something right.” She explained. She got up out of her seat and led them out to the hall. “I’ve seen a man like that outside my shop. He never has the courage to come in. I’ve seen him through the peephole; I can see the stitches; a primeval effort to reshape the disaster he was born with.”

“Are you sure it’s him?”

“We’ll be sure.” Jane kept nodding positively. “I’ve already got my girls tailing him. He’s been skulking around Spitalfields since the last murder. All we have to do is get you close. And get you alone.”

Spitalfields was the dilapidated dream of a silk industry in England; completely outdone by cheap French imports. Now this part of town has lost its grace and become a foul-smelling rookery where droppings drip from window sills and famished children lay half-conscious in the mud.

One might find it difficult to find isolation in such an overcrowded slum but Jane’s trollops were well-accustomed to the area. There were “scarecrows” that kept the rooks away from certain cavities. I was situated in an empty cul de sac which once served as an arena for the Wild Boys. The girl that brought me there assured me, “They’d be preoccupied tonight.” A promise she’d keep personally as the Eye of Mawu opened wide for a wild orgy.

I felt foolish waiting there in the streets. Standing there, I was the common hooker. The veil between our statuses was gone now as I felt the cobblestone beneath my blackened heels. It would be boring if it weren’t so humiliating. Something about the embarrassment made time seem to pass faster, my every other thought was blank, so only half of every second seemed to exist.

Everytime someone passed by the entrance to the cul de sac I felt shame, as though this were some punishment. It was so easy to forget that this was all for my benefit. But even as someone turned the corner and walked my way, my body refused any excitement, any promise of closure. I almost wanted them to turn around before they saw my face and knew my name.

“Oh Purpleback, you’ve changed so much…” groaned the shadow approaching. It was short, but made average, by the tall hat atop its head. A long black cape flowed behind them. They caught sight of the faded rags covering my fair skin. “The colors of twilight have passed. So… has the sun set… or has it risen?”

“I’ve never been more ashamed,” I told the phantom. “This is surely the end of day.”

The dim gaslights overhead cast a shadow off the brim of his hat. I couldn’t see his face, till he removed the headgear and introduced himself as, “Jack,” he huffed through blistered lips. His face was a hideous mess. The right side sunk like a bag of mush. Threads and twine kept it from falling off the good half. “I’ve heard you've been through Hell,” said the Ripper.

“It wasn’t my first visit. Every time I come back it loses some of it’s novelty. It’s just a bunch of steep hills to me.”

“You must be tired,” he hissed. He reached under his cape and pulled out a knife. It was a special-looking blade. It was six-inches in length, the first four inches bent into a serpentine. The tip was straight and marked with dried blood.

I stood firm. I cracked my knuckles; the rattle of my tail. “You certainly know hardship,” I said, touching my face. “Were you born ruined?”

“My face was crushed beneath a knee-high leather boot,” he grumbled. “Nothing saucy. I was just a boy.”

“I wonder if I could recognize you without the stitches,” I said to him. “I can’t tell your age.”

“Where did you live?” he asked me, earnestly.

“Nowhere…”

The Ripper nodded. “In the night, I hid in Poplar, but the injury made me forget… most else.”

“Could you have been a cab washer?”

The Ripper shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Lots of girls think they know me. Doesn’t mean we’re the same.”

“You’re right,” I nodded. “We’re not the same species, but we have the same lust. I get my vengeance as a lady, you get your’s an animal.”

“A pimp isn’t like a lady,” snickered the Ripper. “You’ve always been playing dress-up as a man.”

“So have you…” I said between gritted teeth. “You wilted ape.”

The Ripper howled. The healthy parts of his face suddenly matched the mutilated and became fully dark. His knife went straight for my guts. I grabbed at the rounded edges near the base and held it there with my left hand. I felt it cutting into the flesh on my fingers. I screeched and shoved forward. He took several steps back. He raised his dagger over his shoulder, aiming to plunge it into the neck or face.

I brought the palm of my right hand to my left hip. I swallowed hard then released my hand upwards. The Ripper took another step back and stabbed downward at my swinging hand. I cried out in horror as his knife slid through the back of my hand just under the middle knuckle. The Ripper let go of the handle.

The blade was now stuck in my hand. I gagged at the sight. The reddened tip was now dripping with my blood. The final three inches stuck out from my palm. 

“Mommy took the toys away,” gurgled the Ripper with strange, new vocals. It’s like the air left his lungs; there were dry heaves after every word. “Don’t lock them away!” He snatched for the handle sticking out of the back of my hand. I pulled it away before he could reach. I held my hand up high; his short stature couldn’t reach, so he kicked me over with a boot to the ribs.

I was on the ground. My hands flung to my sides. The back of the handle hit the stone floor and dug the knife in deeper. I clenched my teeth and shut my eyes and in that second the Ripper pounced on top of me. The weight was modest but he balanced it all on top of my throat, wrapping his fists around my neck.

I gazed at him eye to eye. His eyes wept like a little street orphan hungry for food. I’d seen those eyes in the puddles in the streets and I’ve seen those eyes in Melita and Annie, Elizabeth too.

I held my breath and shut my eyes. I concentrated on my right hand. I made the pain from the knife disappear for a second. All I needed was a second. I found my anger and I let it flow. My right hand swung hard at the crumpled side of the Ripper’s face. It landed with a glorious smack, the sound made stronger by the wet residue of blood on my hand.

The Ripper’s grip on my neck let up. A piece of his severed tongue fell out of his mouth onto my eye. I brushed it off with my free hand and gazed at his injury. The knife in my hand had been shoved through both cheeks, leaving a torrent of blood spilling from the ins and outs of his jaw. 

Those teary child’s eyes began to spray. “-ommy,” he whimpered. “-ommy!”

I used what strength I had left to remove the blade. Then I used my other hand to shove his face and push him off of my body. I stood up while he stayed laying down in the center of the cul de sac. I left before I saw him die. It was more important nobody saw me like this and perhaps they never would.

“Dead or alive, it doesn’t matter.” Jane had coddled me after seeing the serious injury to my hand. Her girls carried me into the Eye of Mawu and immediately injected my arm with a healthy dose of opioids before covering my eyes and ripping out the blade. The sensation was strange like a mix of butterfly wings and pointy things. “You’re a good girl and you’ve done a good job.” Her voice was sweet and stoic. Jane brushed my hair with her fingers like a mother would her daughter. Under the spell of the drugs, I let it happen, leaning into every stroke and eventually falling asleep in her office.

I woke up in my apartment with the Davies. The mother and father were peeking inside a wrapped present. Hughie was posted by the front door with his rifle. He saw my eyes flutter. He smiled wide. “If he comes for you, I’ll take him out.”

“The Amazon says he could still be alive,” said Mrs. Davie. She knelt down at my bed and came up to my face, “but to think you… assaulted a man like that… well…”

“You’ve certainly earned this…” filled in Mr. Davie. He brought the beautifully wrapped box up to me and dropped it on my best. “It’s payment from Jane.”

“I’m not a whore,” I said shrilly. “I don’t need payment.”

“It’s a thank you!” called out Hughie. “Come on Ms Hill! You have to see it, at least.”

I stared at him with a blank expression. Then I looked at the box. I undid the bow and lifted the lid. I tore off the sheet of white film on top. My eyes were suddenly filled with purple. I touched the fabric and I shouted at the boy. “Did you sell the horse and carriage?”

Hughie hollered. “Hare can’t go anywhere even if he tried!”

“Grab the record player,” I stood up out of bed. “Let’s go for a ride.”