The Ripper's Wife by Brandy Purdy

Author:Brandy Purdy [Purdy, Brandy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-09-29T16:00:00+00:00

Take it and make of it what you will, you damned, bloody fools with all your speculation about doctors, butchers, Jews, and Yids! You’ll stop and scratch your confounded heads and beat them bloody against the wall trying to figure it out, and I’ll be on to the next whore and then the next while you’re still trying to make sense of it.

If the fools have wits enough to realize it really is a message from me, I hope it will free the Jews from suspicion. They’re hated enough as it is and I’ve nothing against them.

When I was an apprentice lad, so hot for Sarah but unable to have her, I used to notice the Jewesses walking through Whitechapel in their black wigs. Their religion decrees that they must shave their heads after marriage and let no man but their husbands see them uncovered.

There was one young, shapely wench I always admired. A young bride with a face as pretty as a cameo beneath her black wig. One day, when I was burning with pulsing, mad lust for Sarah and sure I would go mad if I did not soon possess her, the beautiful young Jewess crossed my path. Acting on a sweet, mad impulse, I snatched the wig from her head and ran up an alley. Of course, she followed me.

Weeping with shame and trying to shield her naked head with her shawl, poor thing, she begged me to give back her wig. I backed her against the wall and hoisted her skirts. Tears ran down her face and she wouldn’t even look at me as I filled her. When I tried to caress her face, she jerked her trembling little chin away, still refusing to look at me. That only excited me more! I pushed her to her knees and spent all over her sacred bald scalp.

She never let me catch her alone after that; I never saw her again except in a gaggle of Jewesses. I’ve always remembered her fondly.

“For the fair Jewess,” I saluted my scrawl. I wouldn’t want one of her relatives to be molested or hanged for my naughty deeds. My soul is still kind, after all! It’s only whores I’m down upon.

I flung the scrap of bloody-shitty apron I’d used to wipe my knife down beneath it, another calling card from Jack the Ripper.

I heard the church clock strike three. Maybe they had bloodhounds after me? I’d read some such speculation in the newspapers. But I was like a bloodhound myself, relentlessly drawn to the scent of sex. Mary Jane was near. I was so close, I fancied I could almost smell her cunt. I thought of my succulent ginger tart—my spicy, ribald Mary Jane lying in her bed with her gin bottle, a song on her lips, her stained and sweaty shift hiked up to her hips, and her fingers fiddling away like mad. It was a most amusing habit she had; some women fidget with a lock of hair, a piece of jewelry, or the trimmings on their gown, but Mary Jane plays with herself.

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