Arthur had waited patiently-too patiently considering the massive change he underwent-for his next night on the prowl. Each night at his manner, in the outskirts of London, he could simply hear the sounds of Whitechapel calling to him. The lovely ladies lining up for a taste of his knife. Abberline running in circles whilst trying to uncover the culprit. The entirety of London, perhaps even England, wallowing in their fears of Arthur. And Arthur enjoying a splendid ice cool pint of whiskey at a Whitechapel pub for a job well done.
But, I digress.
While he was lying in wait, he would indeed stroll around Whitechapel-He hadn't completely abandoned it. Either strolling with Abberline or an old colleague reminiscing on his youth, and all the fond moments with the Englishman beside him. All the while, Arthur had kept his eye out for the next precious pet who would scream for mercy in his name.
However, he was quite the nitpicker when it came to hand selecting his new art display.
'Too hairy... too big on the waist, on the chest even and hair on the chest, what is this? A circus! Ugh, and her dress is a walking catastrophe. Victoria would vomit at the sight of it.' Arthur would find himself thinking, as he was on one of his numerous tours. Yet, one very fateful day, he spotted the perfect woman. So distasteful in her acts, yet as beautiful as a siren to Arthur's rages. However, there were faint bruises decorating her skin, something that had Arthur debating whether or not to convert her into his vision. But, then again, collaborative work can be quite the spectacle.
Oh was this lady in desperate need for a bit of dirty money. Anything to pay off her lodging, simply anything to have a roof over her head! Oh, how simply overplayed and dreadful this predicament is! Whoever could help?
Perhaps our gentleman Arthur here could heed her cries provide her with a shilling, or two, perhaps three if he felt his heartstrings pulled by her story. All to have her under his arm for only a short while. She had an appointment in Hell to fulfill after all, Arthur did not want to see her be late.
Annie Chapman, a divorcee with two surviving children out of the original three-an alcohol dependency exactly like the last tramp Arthur had visited-and hungry for a quick buck, was to have her name gracing the headlines the day after.
He returned home after spotting Miss Annie walking with no care in the world, well also after visiting her majesty for some lovely tea and swinging by for a quick walk past Abberline's office, it was midnight and finally September the eight when he returned-best not to leave that out. Before his preparations were to begin, Arthur had prepared himself a bath. To put in a simple matter-which this was a simple matter, taking a bath was not considered anything remotely genius-he scrubbed himself until the point in which he was pristine, turning some spots raw from over scrubbing, since being covered in any form of dirt seemed to falter his allure.
He clothed himself in his customary clothes, the original button down dress shirt with dress pants; complemented by some newly pressed bowtie and a vest that was partly concealed by a suit jacket. All of which was covered by a black, offsetting, overcoat. Arthur had decided to go against the top hat he wore last, for something a tad bit fresh. A deerstalker hat to be precise. Something radiant, and something that Abberline would find to be complete and utter irony.
And, he simply could not fathom a crime without his beloved knife. Having polished it just the other day, it's beauty captivating Arthur in more ways than one. And he had slipped it, oh so gently as to not create any scruff marks against the shiny blade, into it's holster beneath the overcoat.
Oh, was he ready to begin. The painter had finally prepped his tools in order to decorate the blank, the bland, canvas.
Arthur could not linger amongst his house any longer, which is why he dusted off those tired old legs of his, and walked all those miles to Whitechapel. He did not need another carriage driver spouting off to Mr. Abberline like the last go around.
This, however, was at four in the morning-the sun still hadn't arrived for its mandatory appearance at the horizon-and the intoxicating smell of old whiskey causing Arthur to become sidetracked and indulge in a quick drink.
A quick drink that had lasted until five that same morning, but let us not gloss over unimportant details now.
Nonetheless! Mr. Kirkland was on his merry way to uncover the location of his precious Annie-alcohol reeking from his breath but he was somehow still sober enough to register his actions. Luckily, he hadn't taken long to find her. Find her showing off her legs on the street, simply famished of any currency.
"'Ello, Miss." Arthur called out, catching Annie's partial attention-as she noticed a friend walking on by from across the street. "Name your price." Now the Briton had snared her undivided attention, slipping a few extra shillings than what he requested into her hand.
All the while, Mrs. Elizabeth Long-the woman across the street-was watching with prying eyes. Taking note of the odd hat resting on top of blonde hair and the ominous overcoat obscuring what was underneath. But, she hadn't decided to call out when that man was leading her friend astray.
Now, Mr. Kirkland was in the clear. Holding Annie Chapman's hand as they were approaching Hanbury Street.
AN: Thank you all for reading, I certainly enjoyed myself while writing this and I wish the same to you while you read this.
Isn't Arthur such a doll?