Kidney Pie

Yes, Jack the Ripper ate people. Pieces of them, anyway. And so this story was just begging to be written. Hope you all enjoy it.

Sweeney Todd belongs to Sondheim, unless Tim Burton can fight him for it. Jack the Ripper belongs to himself.

-Does her business, but…-

Mist hung thick in the air, transforming the contents of the alley into ghostly shapes, but the moon shone bright enough to let Mrs. Mooney see. Its light struck sparks in the cats' eyes, making them shine like twinned jewels through the rolling white.

There was something about that night that made her hair stand on end. Perhaps, she thought, she had been living on cats too long was beginning to feel their instincts. Or maybe it was the rumors from Whitechapel, although she wasn't the kind of woman to let such things get the best of her. She smiled. Murder was always good for business. Customers would devour their pies as the listened hungrily to the latest details.

She crept towards a pair of brilliant blue eyes floating above an old garbage can. Drawing closer, she could see the cat was a handsome tabby, with the big, muscular build of an expert mouser. Perfect. She leapt at him, snatching the yowling tom by the scruff with a practiced ease. And perfect again.

The baker froze as a head suddenly thrust itself into view in the alley's opening. The face was shadowed, hidden by a battered top hat and a mane of dark hair, but there was something unmistakably predatory in its tilted set. Mrs. Mooney crouched into the darkness behind the cans, but the cat continued to growl and struggle.

The sound drew the intruder on, the hunting head joined to a rather sinister figure as the man crept out from behind the wall and stalked slowly into the opening. Leaning slightly with his arms held just away from his sides, he looked ready to pounce as he peered through the fog for the source of the noise.

Very slowly, Mrs. Mooney reached for the cat with her free hand, wrapped her fingers around its neck, and squeezed, crushing the growl into a pathetic squeak. The stranger cocked his head, listening to the strangled squealing.

The baker didn't take her eyes off the man as he took a slight step forward. Holding perfectly still, she tightened her grip, cutting off the last of her victim's voice and letting it struggle in silence. The figure looked blindly towards her, waiting, until he finally gave a faint grunt of dismissal and drifted back into the dark street.

Mrs. Mooney breathed a sigh of relief before she swung the twisting tabby against the wall and broke its neck.



-What did your Lucy look like?-

Sweeney opened his favorite razor as the old pain welled up again. Running an old, soft rag over the already spotless silver, he forced himself to focus on its sleek, polished sides, the feel of its engraved handle beneath his fingers, its perfect edge, until his memories retreated again into the shadows of his mind.

It was beautiful, the sole precious thing left in his life, the last cold glimmer of Benjamin Barker's happiness. And it was lethal, a deliverer of swift, clean, efficient death.

Simple death. He wondered idly, turning the blade slowly in the moonlight that fell through his window, how it felt to butcher and mangle a body like they say this 'fiend of Whitechapel' did. Perhaps he would ask Mrs. Lovett.

He cursed inwardly. Mrs. Lovett! He had been so lost in the light on his razor that he had forgotten she was still sitting in his chair. And still talking.

"Mr. Smith – You remember him, don't you Mr. T? His shop's on the other side of St. Dunstan's – he says it's got to be a Jew, but Mrs. Allen was telling Mrs. Howard it was a doctor." She was lounging in his chair, looking so infuriatingly as if she belonged there, his dark angel, as she discussed the same rumors in her own unflappable way. In her own hungrily, dangerously gorgeous way. He scowled. "Mrs. Oakley, from Fore Street, she swears he's some kind of 'angel of death' sent to purge the streets of London, which makes you wonder about that Reverend Lupin fellow she's always on about…"

He frowned, feeling a twinge of something like jealousy. Wasn't one demon enough for her? He turned back to his razor. He wouldn't bring it up, then. But maybe he'd try it out, just for a lark. When the judge came. He smiled darkly at the grinning blade.

"FIEND! HELP!" The distant shrieks caught his attention, and, surprisingly, made even the ever practical Mrs. Lovett jump. "MISCHIEF!" He knew the voice. It was the old beggar woman who raved at their customers. "MISCHIEF! MISCH-" The desperate cries cut off suddenly. A strange curiosity came over the barber, driving him towards the door of his shop.

"Where are you going?" Behind him, Mrs. Lovett half turned, looking back at him over the chair's padded headrest. He could hear the panic in her voice. Good. He kept walking. "You can't go out there!" He was opening the door as he heard the clunk of her new boots chasing him across the worn floorboards. He was already outside when he felt her hand snatching at his sleeve. He smiled as he pulled against her hopeless tugging and dragged her after him into the cold, foggy street. "Mr. Todd!"

How afraid she was just because he was going out to find that miserable old tramp of a beggar! He almost laughed. That would teach her to sit in his wonderful chair, and belong there, and be beautiful.



"Come on now, Mr. T, let's go back and I'll get you a nice tot of gin and-" Her voice was frantic as she pulled harder on his arm. "-And you can tell me all the lovely things you'll to the judge." She must be desperate. He kept walking. "Now- See – Mr. Todd-!"

"What!?" He turned sharply to face his accomplice, placing one foot down with an unhealthy squelching noise as he did so. The noise was revolting, even for the worst of London's streets. He looked down. "Oh."

The beggar woman was strewn across the filthy cobblestones, her flesh ruined and herself all pulled out of herself. His eyes traced the jagged tear across her starved stomach and gave a disapproving grunt. He hadn't even bothered to sharpen his knife. So much for Jack the Ripper.

"Let's go now, Mr. T, you don't want to see any more of this, now do you? We'll get right back before somebody sees us." Sweeney half grinned, half grimaced as he leaned closer to the corpse. Bloody woman. He'd take as long as he wanted to, and see how she liked her Saucy Jackie while she admired his handiwork. What was her hurry, anyway?

The beggar's hat had been lost in the struggle, and her filthy locks lay spread in the muck of the road. Her filthy blonde locks. His eyes moved to the body's face, only to find that it had none. Its skin was peeled away, its eyes wide, staring out of fleshy, exposed sockets.

"Huh." He turned away, starting back towards the shop, the baker letting out a relieved breath as she followed. "Never noticed she had yellow hair."

-Did you come in for a pie, sir?-

Curse her, why did she have to squeal so? Jack crouched back into the shadows as the two figured retreated from his latest job. If they'd have given him a few more minutes he could've gotten really creative with her. He scowled. Should've known better than to try my tricks on a loony. Always bloody screamers.

Creeping from his hiding place, he stepped back into the road and looked down Fleet Street after the couple who had interrupted him but could see nothing. It was the night's deepening cold, he knew, thickening the fog. He pushed through it as through a curtain, but they were gone. He spat out a silent swear. They'd have those cusses of coppers down on him to spoil the game. But they'd see. He wouldn't go far.

Edging towards the nearest building, he found a darkened shop. The doorknob twisted in his hand and he smiled as he slowly opened the door. The little bells on the other side gave only a faint jingle in the dark as he slid inside. With a soft chuckle, he reached for the knife in his coat pocket. Maybe he could make tonight a double event.

"Who's that, then?" The killer jumped, throwing his shoulders against the glass panes of the door as she spun around. A gas light flickered on and, behind a cluttered counter, he saw a ghastly 

couple, lean and pale as hungry ghosts with wild hair and hollow eyes. The same pair? "What do you think you're doing sneaking in at this hour!?"

Jack blinked, dumbstruck. "Um… Aren't you open?"

"Who on earth do you think would come for pies after midnight?" The baker's black dress was low cut, her wayward red curls nodding as she tucked her chin questioningly towards the white skin of her chest. Could she possibly imagine how very enticing she was? Whore.

The man beside her had drifted wordlessly away, standing by the garishly papered wall as he polished the blade of a silver razor. Perhaps now wasn't the time to make a move. "Oh. Well, I was out and was getting hungry…" He could feel the weight of a little butcher's paper package in his breast pocket, something he'd taken from the old beggar. He was hungry, but not for pie. "But I'll come back another time if you're closed." He reached behind him for the doorknob.

"Oh, no, dearie. You don't want go out there again." A note of concern crept into her voice as she leaned slightly over the counter, giving him an even better view. If I had her alone in a dark street… "Here. Since I'm up, I'll get you a nice pie. Sit down, I'll be right back."

She turned and left, leaving Jack to follow her with his eyes as he sat in an empty booth and took off his worn top hat. The odd man was now leaning in a shadowed corner, his eyes only on that razor. Quickly, the Ripper estimated his chances of disposing of his silent companion before the woman returned. Then, perhaps, his visit would be worth his while when he traced that glorious cleavage with the point of his knife. His eyes caught the gleam of silver as the stranger held his razor up, examining it in the dim light. Maybe the odds weren't so good.

Hearing the rustling of skirts that signaled his darling little whore's return, he sat up straighter to watch as the emerged from the bakehouse stairway, carrying a tray with three pies. He almost cringed. He hated meat pies. But he knew he could hardly say so now. "Here you are, love. They're a bit cold, but that's what happens when you sneak around in the dead of night like that." He eyed the offered pastries suspiciously as she set them down in front of him. They were probably made from stray dogs or something. All these little pie shops did things like that. He picked one up gingerly, closing his eyes. Perhaps if he pretended it was her sweet, filthy flesh he was biting into, roasted, maybe, with a lovely gravy…

Suddenly, he wasn't sure he was imagining it. He opened his eyes in shock, greedily taking another bite. There was no mistaking that taste. The pie quickly vanished. "It's -" He caught himself, flashing the baker a genuine smile as he stood and leaned in close to her ear. "It's delectable, my dear. But might I say…" He wasn't sure whether he felt like laughing or kissing her as he suddenly envisioned much greater potential for the meaty bundle in his coat. "…that I have always preferred steak and kidney pie. Or just kidney."

"Kidney pie?" She knew. He could see it in her face. Jack nearly did laugh as he rook the little parcel from his pocket and slipped it into her slender hand.



"Oh, yes. It's very nice." Straightening up, the Ripper deftly tipped his hat back over his shock of dark hair, winking. "Say you'll bake me one?"

"Yes, of course I will…" She backed a step away as she spoke.

"You'd say anything but your prayers, wouldn't you, sweet?" He let out a hearty chuckle as he reached for the remaining pies. "Do you mind?" She shook her head and the stuffed them both into his pockets. He was still laughing as he slid out of the booth and out the door.

Dark-coated constables were already dashing past him as he started out into the night, shouting and hurrying in their useless way. He smiled, glancing up at the sign on the shop. "Mrs. Lovett's." He would definitely have to visit Fleet Street again.

-The End For Now-

Thanks for reading, and I hope you got a chuckle or two out of it. Reviews are very much appreciated.