The Death Of Jack The Ripper

She could smell his fear like black piss river; like

knotted balls of wors rolling in the smouldering

ruins of an abbatoir. Like suicide in Menstrual Lake.

Like the open graves of Hell. She could smell in as

she gripped the knife and held it to his neck.

She could smell his fear as cries for help grew

wings and trickled neatly into garbage cans. As 16

crippled hands fumbled with his zip. Twisted. Ate him

slowly . . . kissed him quick. The scarlet ghosts would

flinch--a glimpse of stocking! Shock the Red Night blue

and clean away the mess cos Jack is dead. JACK

IS DEAD!! (And nobody knew)