Kidney Pie- Part II

I figured this'd make just a funny one-shot, but I'm going to keep it up a while, since it sounds like me and you folks both had a little too much fun with it. Ha ha ha! It's not as good as the first part, I have to say, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.

-"Dear Boss"-

"Excuse me!" Jack cursed as an oily voice called out behind him. Devil take it! He turned, putting on as innocent an air as he could muster. "Didn't you hear, this is a crime scene! I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave."

"A crime scene?" You don't say? Dolt! The speaker was a short and rather portly specimen, with greasy blonde hair hanging from under a fine velvet hat. He looked as though he was too fond of rich foods and the company of the sort of ladies Jack had his fun with. "I do hope it's nothing serious."

"Oh, yes, I'm afraid." The fat man leaned in conspiratorially. "There's been another murder." A grin split his bloated cheeks. It seemed he enjoyed playing the man in the know as well.

"In Fleet Street!?" Feigning the good citizen's horror, the Ripper shook his head, wide-eyed. "The city's not safe, sir." He eyed the dandy with a sly smile. "But I'm sure the ladies of the locality will appreciate the police interest in the case…"

"Well…" The man shrugged with practiced modesty. "I try to do my best for my friends and neighbors."

"Quite." Jack let his smile go cold. "And who shall I say, sir, when the subject comes up, is the brave gentleman ensuring their safety?"

"William Bamford." He tipped his hat slightly, a stylish retractable came dangling from his wrist. "Beadle to the honorable Judge Turpin."

"Ah." Send a beadle as investigator? No wonder they haven't caught me yet. "I'm sure they'll have every confidence." Nodding, he turned and walked away. Beadle Bamford. The Ripper smiled, turning up the collar of his worn coat to hide his grin. Try not to disappoint the darlings when you get my letter.

-"God, that's good!"-

Mrs. Lovett had never checked on a batch of pies so often in her entire baking career. She was determined that they should be perfect, worried every instant that they would burn. What if the kidneys didn't cook right? Or if she hadn't seasoned them properly? It had been more than seventeen years since she had tried to cook a steak and kidney pie, before her dear Albert died, and the long years of baking the worst pies in London haunted her memories. What would he do if he didn't like them?

Then again, what would he do if he did?

This was a situation Nellie did not want to be in. Sweeney Todd- angry, brooding, manageable Sweeney – was one thing. Jack the Ripper was quite another. He tore whores apart for fun, taunted the police. He was wild, violent, dangerous…

And he liked her cooking.

She shook the thought out of her head as she dashed back to the oven to check the all-important pies. Four of them sat on a clean tray, the crust golden and glazed with a somewhat modified gravy bubbling in the slits in their lovely tops. They looked perfect as she finally pulled them out of the heat.

She had been afraid the one kidney he'd given her from Lucy – how grateful she was to have that one worry taken care of – wouldn't be enough for a pie, so she pulled some from Sweeney's victims. He wouldn't be able to taste the difference, would he?

She felt a little twist of guilt as she thought of the barber upstairs. Their only intimacy was the cold kind between partners in crime, and it suddenly seems shameful, a violation of that precious bond, to cook another man's kills. But it was only this one time. Or wasn't it?

Jack the Ripper… What would he do once he had his pies? Would he take them and go, or would he want to try another job like Lucy's? Mrs. Lovett shuddered. Maybe she could ask Sweeney to stay with her when…

No. The less Mr. Todd knew, the better. But she had to at least know that they tasted good.

"Toby!"

-"There was another man who saw…"-

They said Jack the Ripper cut his little whores' throats so deep that there was nothing left intact but the bone. So Sweeney cut deeper. Standing behind the man in the chair, he snatched the fellow's neatly combed hair and tore his head back, burying his razor's thirsty blade up to the shaft as he dragged it from ear to ear. Blood shot then gushed as the heart slowed quickly to a stop, but his screaming blade, as angry as its master, wanted more. He twisted his fingers tighter in the corpse's hair, and, bracing his razor hand against its shoulder, tugged and snapped until the spine broke and the head came, twisting, free. Take that, Jack!

He stomped on the lever and let the broken remains slide down to the bakehouse, hurling the head down after it. It bounced and rolled across the brick below, leaping towards where Mrs. Lovett must be working, and he waited to hear her to speak, to gasp or cry out, to do anything to let him know she'd seen what he had done. Nothing. Snarling, he released the lever.

Witch. Did she think he wouldn't see here whispering to the stranger, that he couldn't guess who that stranger was? He scowled as he attacked the scarlet pools with a mop. What did he care what he murmured in her blasted, beautiful ear…

Damn her!

How many had this bloody Jack fellow killed, five? And all his victims were cheap tramps and whoring beggars. He might as well have been a charity worker, putting that lot out of their misery. And he wasn't anything but a filthy glory hound, with his letters to the police and his fancy mutilations.

If sluts were his thing, he could go ahead and have Mrs. Lovett, and take her and her low-cut bodices and her gorgeous chest, her constant chatter and relentless care, somewhere out of his sight. Sweeney wouldn't mind. Bloody water sloshed out as he proved his point by thrusting the mop too hard into the bucket.

No, he wouldn't mind at all.

Cleaning his razor, he stepped again on the lever of the empty chair, listening through the trapdoor for any sound of Nellie noticing the head. He bit his lip as he let it swing close in silence.

Whore.