With Miss Annie Chapman clung to Arthur's forearm, the duo ventured off to a secluded spot to complete the activities Arthur had paid good coin for. Neither of then spoke one minuscule word to either individual. However, that hadn't meant that no conversations were occurring within their grey brain space. Annie, as gentleman would say 'ladies first', simply had her mind focused on the money the man escorting her had presented her with, for her scandalous services. After all this, she was to pay off her rent for her dumpy lodging and perhaps knit something spectacular to barter off at the crack of dawn. Now for Arthur. What was he conjuring up in that skull of his? When was he to halt their trek together and go forth with the murder? Would he partake in those sinful services before his bloodlust controlled his mind; and like a puppet he did his bidding. How would he skillfully wield and dance with his knife that very evening. So many questions bouncing around, yet, so little time.
Who, where, what, why, when and how. The fundamental basics to relaying a question in the English language-some concept Arthur knew all too well, considering his status as the... That isn't all too important concerning the events of this tale. My condolences for the digression.
The who was all ready answered and spelled out as clear as day. Miss Annie Chapman of the Whitechapel borough of London, casual prostitute at night, and current possession of Mister Arthur Kirkland.
The when? Oh well, why stall on this particularly splendid night? Why not now! Why be the tortoise instead of the hare!
The where? If the appropriate time is now, the location housing his collection of art would be Handbury street. In some blighted backyard by a revolting-rotting-doorway.
The what? Isn't this the tricky sort. The knife? The killer, the victim! Who was the what? And what was the who?
The why? The response 'Why not' may be applicable to this sort of question; but that is quite the full response, is it not? Was it to redefine the study of the arts? Was it to set fresh, soaring, expectations for a new wave of murderous fiends? Was it for the delightful sense of a cheap thrill? Was it all for nothing, souls of innocent women being lost for absolutely bloody nothing?
The how? Well, why explain such a thing when we can see it for ourselves! So you better pay attention.
Arthur threw his left arm up in the air, in a quick swing, in order to detach Annie from his forearm. The prostitute presented the Englishman with a perplexed look-was his wife carrying a basket of flowers nearby, was it simply and utterly an arm spasm, what is blazes had to occur for this bizarre behavior to surface! With a smirk tugging at his beautiful lips, Arthur released a chuckle while curling his fingers around the opening to his overcoat. Showcasing his impressively large knife to a now petrified Annie.
Her face dropped, the blood cascading down her veins to leave behind one single color. A ghastly shade of white-yet green was beginning to pop up around her lips. Her lips were parted in an "O" shape as she began to back off; her feet lightly paddling against the cobblestone.
Arthur loved the petty act.
The Englishman oh so slowly released his knife from his holster. (He wasn't in any particular hurry after all, the victims tend to draw out their reactions to the point of it being an hilarious spectacle.) He pointed it's tip at her throat, slowly pressing at her throat so she would back into a wall. "Now, dearest pet, why don't you do what you do best? Lie down and beg."
All that pathetic BITCH did was stare. Stare as if that would immediately solve her complication here. Nothing bore Arthur more than a sad sack of human depravity NOT playing the game of life! "Would you look at you." Arthur's voice was lower than his normal tone, his accent having grown thick from his anger swelling within his chest. "You pathetic little whore." He growled, switching his knife to his left hand, and making use of his right by harshly grabbing Annie's shoulder; and throwing her to the ground. "The last girl at least screamed for her life!" He planted both his feet on the ground besides her hips, before lowering himself to straddle her waist. "AND TO THINK You would be something like her-no! Better than her!" He raised his dominant hand well above his pretty little head, bringing it back down with enough momentum to leave a painful sting to Annie's cheek.
And she still held that dumbfounded look upon her stupid face.
The Englishman growled, bringing up his palm again for another slap to her cheek-a satisfying skin-on-skin contact noise echoing through the area. He wrapped his hand around her delicate throat, catching the noises of her finally whining, and seeing the crystal tears forming at the edge of her eyes. Now she was prepped for the game. Yet, her incredibly weak flailing of her limbs underneath the very miniscule amount of Arthur's body weight, was only making the animal inside of him crave her blood more and more.
"Tell her I said hello." Arthur grunted, as he returned the knife to his dominant hand. He slowly dug the knife into her throat, him watching with hungry eyes as blood bubbled up through the incision-and Miss Chapman gurgling as her form only of communication.
Arthur laughed to himself quietly-being mindful of the occupants nearby-licking his delicate lips as he did his signature move to her. Swiping his knife clear through her throat left to right, the sound of flesh tearing and blood pouring out onto the street. "You simply look ravishing, my dear."
Victim number two, Annie Chapman, can now be checked off. Arthur sure had his fun with her.