London's Calling

London 1888- Then

A serial killer somewhere in the streets of London terrorized the city, killing and brutally tearing apart five prostitutes. He went by many names back then, but one stuck: Jack the Ripper. He was never caught.

London 2013- Now

I'm sure we've found a direct descendant of the Ripper and she's continuing his work. But let me back up a bit.

Philly 2013- Like ten days ago.

I decided that it was time for a vacation. I've been working and going through the daily routine for years now and I figured I needed a break. Things were starting to get to me. Little things. My temper was starting to get out of hand. I needed to recharge my batteries. If not something bad was going to happen. To who or what I didn't know.

When I boarded my plane all seemed great. Or as great as one can feel being jammed into a giant metal bird, like sardines in a massive death trap with wings.

The passenger next to me was perfect, a middle aged British woman who said next to nothing, wasn't a sweaty behemoth and she smelled like a grandmother; a wonderful mix of cough drops and whatever fucking magic product keeps their hair so puffed up for days on end. We were in it together for eight hours.

At about hour three however, a horrible feeling started to hit at the bottom of my stomach. A bubbling began like the beginnings of a witch's brew. A fart the likes of which this British grandma had never experienced. I clenched me cheeks together so tight it felt like they would invert and my asshole would swallow my lower half.

I looked to my left. She was asleep. I'd never seen a human being sleep this way. She was bent with her head just hovering above her knees, hands at her side and her mouth slightly open. It looked like a manipulator got tired of playing with his marionette and just dropped it in a seat. I thought about putting a finger under her nose to make sure my flight mate hadn't become a corpse, but any movement would result in the escaping of gas. I had to keep it in. If I let fly with this green cloud of death I could envision mass panic. Oxygen masks dangling above passengers heads, the screaming and praying, the captain shouting over the intercom for people to relax and return to their seats. The engine's hum was too loud to hear the noise, but once the smell hit it would've been pandemonium.

I held that fucking fart in for five more hours.

Touching down in Heathrow airport was the happiest moment of my life. After the short shuttle bus and getting through customs I found a bathroom and entered the last stall. I didn't even have to push.
It came out of me with a low growl slowly building to a triumphant crescendo. The stall doors rattled as the sonic boom reached it's peak. My gaseous baby had finally been borne. I left that bathroom in a flash. It smelled like an open grave in there and I didn't want to be around for the repercussions.

Once I collected my bags I came through the main doors and met my lovely girlfriend. It was like something out of a Cameron Crowe movie.We made our way to her flat and proceeded to plan our tourist adventures.

Stonehenge? Check.
London Bridge? Check.
Camden town? Ghost tour of London? Double check.
And the star attraction: The Jack the Ripper tour.

London 2013- Last night

We met our tour guide and other blood lusting fans under the lamplights and the gentle rain of East London.

Rae, my girlfriend and adventure mate, walked up to the tour guide, Lindsay, and proclaimed, "We are here to slay some prostitutes." We both giggled as Lindsay smiled with complete disdain and responded,"Pardon?" Rae being the good sport repeated her funny yet classless line. Lindsay's smile never faltered as she replied,"Show some respect for the victims." It was almost as awkward as walking in on your parents mid thrust.

Something unnerved us about Lindsay's demeanor. That smile was off. Her stare was cold. She was like a shark in a goldfish's clothing.

Needless to say, the rest of the tour we tried to show respect for the victims, as Lindsay, our fearless guide and intrepid researcher, took us to each spot the Ripper murdered his victims, parading pictures of their mutilated bodies before our eyes; and for only 10 pounds a piece. Respect was in high demand this night after all.

At the site of Annie Chapman's death something strange happened. Lindsay began to tell us about her murder. Then Lindsay revealed how Chapman had one surviving relative. A granddaughter of 102. She sought her out and asked if she could use her testimonials in her research. The relative declined. This is where things got a bit strange. The granddaughter died very gruesomely and in a manner strangely reminiscent of her grandmother.

Rae looked up her name on her iPhone and there it was clear as day. (NAME REDACTED) was found murdered with her throat severely slit to the spinal column, innards extracted and left next to her. We exchanged worried glances. Had no one else pieced this together? Lindsay knew way too much about this case and apparently had a lot of evidence and information that was newly found. We decided it was best to follow this woman after the tour was through.

When the tour was over we followed Lindsay onto the London Underground eventually alighting at Brixton Station, far from the comfort and safety of the city's bright lights. We followed her a few blocks, the streets becoming darker, more ominous. Eventually she came to a huge alley and ducked into it. Rae and I waited a few moments, looked at each other and followed her in. The shadows ate us up then spat us back out under a single street light. We could see Lindsay up ahead talking to a hooker.

We followed them into a rundown building. It looked as if someone went to the facade with a wire brush. We could hear the sounds of coitus above us. Rae and I slinked up the steps, watching Lindsay and the prostitute make their way up to their room. They slipped into the room and we watched the door close.

Rae looked at me and asked,"Now what?"

"We wait I guess."

With our ears to the door we could hear muffled speaking. Soft and measured at first, it became shrill and then we could hear the calm tone of Lindsay's voice. I could almost see that emotionless grin upon her lips. She continued to coo something and I could hear a gurgling as well. That's when Rae said,"Kick it down."

I, of course, being the muscle, complied. Two swift kicks and the ancient door's hinges gave way. Lindsay had the woman's throat in one hand and a long straight razor in the other. She looked genuinely startled except for that smile pasted on her face; a reminder to all that she was still human.

"Oh hello," she muttered as Rae tackled her, the razor smacking into the wall. The hooker crumpled to the ground like a sack of dirty laundry, gasping for air. Her mascara running down her cheeks.

"Get out of here," I instructed her.

Without even looking at me she got up and ran from the room, banging the door on the way out. It hit the wall and then swung back slowly, finally clicking shut.

I stared at the door, but heard a thumping rhythm that if I stood there long enough might lull me off to sleep. I turned around and saw the source of the noise; an unconscious Lindsay and a crazed Rae punching her face over and over again, her head pancaked between the floor and Rae's fist. I pulled Rae off. Her breathing finally subsided and she asked,"What now?"

We pulled the sheets off the bed and threw Lindsay on the mattress. Rae tore the sheets into strips and we tied Lindsay's wrists and ankles to the bedposts. She looked like she was ready to be quartered like William Wallace. After a few minutes she started to come to.

Her eyes blinked a few times and then focused, first on me and then Rae. Immediately that grin spread across her face.

"You," she said. The anger dripped from her voice like spilled syrup.

"What are you up to? We should report you to the police you sick bitch," Rae spat.

"And yet, here I lie. Tied like a hog ready for slaughter."

That fucking smile never faltering.

I was nervous. My eyes were darting between Lindsay and the door. Lindsay and Rae. Rae looked calm as could be.

"I can tell I'm not getting out of here, so I might as well let it be known. I'm the only living relative of The Ripper. And it wasn't Jack. Oh no dear, it was Annabell Skelly, my great grandmother. No one ever suspects a woman. Not even in a place flooded with them. Everyone said they saw men with the victims, but that was all bollocks. I had all of her journals. Burned them up years ago. Just because she was wearing men's clothes doesn't mean she was a man."

Rae and I listened and although we can't prove it we're sure its the truth.

"I can see it in you. The same thing inside me. You just haven't let it out yet, yeah? Come on. Do it. Make me the first."

We stood for a few seconds and stared at the woman we tied to the bed in the dingy flat in Southeast London. Rae walked over and picked up the razor, its blade glinting momentarily in the dull light. Lindsay's black emotionless eyes bore into mine. They were like a doll's eyes.

"Do you want to or should I?" Rae asked.

Before I could respond Rae slashed the razor across Lindsay's throat. A crimson splash painted the floorboards, those dead eyes never left mine.

And the smile remained.

London 2013- Now

So like I said, I'm pretty sure we've found the last living descendant of the Ripper. But she's dead now, her body left tied and hacked inside that flat. She deserved it though. She was a killer. A menace to society. A sick individual not safe around sane human beings.

In Brixton, while I sit here with Rae my loving mate and willing accomplice, I think about all the things we can do before my time here is through. All the tourist attractions and shows and sights. None of them could compare to the fun we had in that room with our fearless guide. And although I felt disgust at first, something changed. That's why we're sitting here waiting for some lonely prostitute to walk by and offer herself to us.

Speak of the devil. Here comes a willing contestant now. Shes stumbling around and her drunken smile is inviting.

"Hello there. Up for a bit of fun?"

Rae looks at me and I see the beginnings of a grin start to creep at the corners of her mouth.

"Do you want this one or should I?"

I take the blade from her back pocket and kiss her on the head.

"Let's just see where the night takes us, shall we?"

God, I love London.

The El, The White Smoke and The End of Days.

At 2:07 pm white smoke billowed from the Sistine Chapel. A decision had been made. The wait was finally over.  And I, dearest reader, have not been this excited by a decision since season two of The Bachelor.

Although it was working hours for me, I kindly told my boss I would have to leave the jobsite. He then laid me off. Heathen.

I collected my tools and lunchbox and walked the four blocks to the El. Some of you may not know what this contraption is. It is basically a place for working people, students and the criminally insane to travel to different stops in the city.

As the doors to the train hissed open and I walked inside, my senses were assaulted.

First, smell. There was the aroma of cheese. Not a nice cheddar or an aged provolone, but the kind that resides in the crevice of an obese persons thigh. Also, mold and piss, two things I never imagined together until my nostrils were bombarded. It was like if after three months of not showering someone decided to piss their pants and then dry them off under the heat lamps at the local Arby's.

Next, hearing. I heard a guttural growl followed by the distinct sound of the dislodging of phlegm and unintelligible babbling.

And finally, sight. Thank Jesus my sense of taste was spared. The hocking and mumbling brought me face to face with a nightmare pulled from some evil dreamland. "She" (I cannot be certain this creature was indeed female, but it definitely had tits) had on a tattered jean jacket with a stained white t shirt and black jeans. She opted to go without shoes. Her hair looked as if she had combed it with the shit encrusted sole of a boot. Her bare stomach refused to stay under her shirt. Her chapped and red lips parted wide to reveal four suprisingly white teeth jutting out of gums ravaged by gingivitis and late night dumpster snacking minus the brushing. She hocked loudly and put her thumb to her nostril, pushing with all her might the largest fucking
snot rocket I'd ever seen. It hit the floor with a loud, wet SPLAT.

She fidgeted in her seat and thats when I noticed it wasn't only her stomach I was looking at. Her pants were actually around her knees and her vagina was out for all to see. It looked like a spoiled roast beef sandwich that had somehow sprouted a greasy beard.  I could now narrow down the source of the cheese smell.

Noone seemed to notice this was happening. Kids looked at their phones. People slept. I looked to be the only one who was watching this horror show. When she started to strain I knew what was coming. I'd seen that look many of times in my own eyes, shortly after a McChicken sandwich on a Sunday afternoon. I decided it was in my best interest to exit the train and walk the next few blocks.

Scurrying out of the doors before "her" turd joined the snot rocket on the floor I immediately noticed a man staring at me. It was that quizzical dog look, mouth tightly lipped, head slanted to the side. He was wearing work boots, a short sleeve flannel and the tightest acid wash jeans I'd ever seen. He had on what looked like knock off Rayban sunglasses. He slowly peeled them off his face and continued to stare at me. The train shot by, the wind moving his mullet back and to the right.

"Put these on," he said.

Like I do when most vagrants speak to me, I ignored him and walked away.

The steps led up to a busy street and I knew a shortcut through an alley up ahead. I had already had too many stops and starts. The announcement would be here soon.

Halfway down the alley I heard heavy footsteps behind me. Turning quickly I immediately recognized who it was; the homeless sunglasses guy. Again he held the sunglasses out for me to take.
"I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. Put. These. On." He paused after each word for effect.
"Hey listen pal, I don't wanna wear your glasses. I don't want to contract pink eye or whatever other weird disease you have. So if you'll excuse me, Best Buy is right around the corner and I'd like to see the new pope announced."

As soon as I finished the sentence the rowdy son of a bitch threw a quick right that dropped me to my knees.

"Those people picking that pope, they're not human. A bunch of old men sitting around wearing dresses choosing a new spiritual leader. Does that sound human to you? I don't know how, but these glasses, they let you see the real picture. They let you see whats really going on. They let you see THEM. I can see you're not one of them. So please, just put them on." He extendended the glasses to me. He meant everything he said. He'd fuckin lost it.

I nodded my head and began to get up then swiftly tossed a haymaker directly into his balls. I think I felt one pop. What ensued was the longest fist fight of my life. I hit him as many times as he hit me. Each time he got the upper hand he tried to force those shitty glasses on my face. Finally after smashing his head through a car window, he picked me up and body slammed the shit out of me. He drug me to the Best Buy and plopped me in front of the rows and rows of TVs.

But it seemed my luck had changed. I could barely see through my swollen eyelids, but there on the screen was Pope Francis waving to the crowds.

I had been waiting all week for this. With one hand my mulleted attacker had me by my collar and with the other he slapped the glasses over my eyes.

"Now look at that ugly son of a bitch," he said. I looked to the screen and I knew what I was seeing was real.

"There are more things like this?" I asked him, slackjawed.

 "See for yourself," he replied calmly.

I heard gasps from the people in the store, most likely because of the two beat-to-shit men bleeding in the electronics aisle. When I turned to the sounds I saw more of those ugly fucks mixed in with some regular looking humans. One of them talked into its watch. It knew we couldsee them. Mullet and I decided it might be best to leave.

I'm not trying to scare you all. I'm simply trying to warn you. Mullet head tried to warn me and I got a mashed nose and two black eyes for fighting the truth. His holiness is not of this Earth.These things weren't picking our next Pope. They need someone to lead the attack. They live with us. They work with us. They police our streets and teach our children. They lead the Sunday sermon and serve our food. They know we're ignorant. Distracted, so willing to obey.

The End of Days are upon us. Don't believe me? Here, put these glasses on.

See for yourself.

Happy Birthday To Us

Twenty eight years ago, at 4:04 PM, I was spat from betwixt my mother's legs, regurgitated into the mid 80's slimey and crying. I was a pain in the ass to my parents even before I was born. I defecated inside my mother. I know this because my parents told my brother and he just happened to tell anyone who would
listen that I was born with shit in my mouth (he has quite an imagination).

Anyway from a young age I knew I was special. I felt somehow different from the other children. I could look at them and see in their eyes that I was on a different level intellectually, spiritually and physically. I was walking at 6 months. Composing full sentences at 8 months. I could even do simple math before my first birthday. And my physical attributes were what my physician called "Startlingly advanced. I have never seen a child like this in all my years of practicing medicine." I started shaving at the ripe old age of 7.

So where am I going with this, you may be asking yourself? The plot does indeed thicken...

My mom called me today, like she does every birthday, to wish me a Happy day and to tell me she loves me. Only today her voice sounded strange. I could tell something else was weighing on her mind.

"What is it mom?", I asked her. And what she told me changed my world forever.

"Son, I haven't been honest with you all these years. Your father isn't your biological father. I wanted to tell you sooner, but I didn't know how."

I sat there with the phone to my ear not speaking, but not hearing much more of the conversation. Until the last part.

You see, my mom used to do a lot of work on movies before I was born. She catered the sets and made a lot of friends in the business. Her last job was on a little movie called Code of Silence. Heres a sampling of that films brilliance.....

You're back? Good. Rousing stuff, I know.

Thats where she met and fell in love with Chuck Norris or, as he's now known to me, Dad. She admitted to me this morning that there was a short romance. Chuck never had children and he was on the lookout to bring a true heir into this world. He impregnated my mother on set, but something strange happened.

The fetus (me) grew at a greatly accelerated pace. And when I was born I had all of his strengths, yet none of his weaknesses. I was like a white Blade, but instead of a thirst for blood that drove me it was a thirst for justice.

He made it so that the birth would coincide with his own day of birth. Now it all made sense.  Lets look at the similarities, shall we?

1. The beard

As I've stated before I had quite a flock of facial hair at age 7.

Chuck is known for his trademark beard. There are claims that state behind his glorious facial fur lies another fist. Claims that have neither been confirmed nor denied by Chuck himself.

2. We are both masters of Karate

Chucks black belt status is known throughout most of the world. He defeated Bruce Lee one on one in the 60's when Bruce was in his Prime. I only reached white belt status through The Police Athletic League karate classes. However, I broke my first cinderblock on my 5th birthday and my forms and kata are outstanding. Belts mean nothing to me.

I could go on all day about the things we have in common, but I don't know if there are enough pages on this blog my friends.

Chuck forbid my mother to speak of what occurred that fateful day. How ironic then that I was conceived on the set of Code Of Silence?

I don't know if we'll ever meet, Dad, but thank you for bestowing your powers upon me. Like you did for so many years, I will try and change this world for the better, one furious roundhouse kick at a time.

A great man has gone home...

They say God created man in His own image.
Therefore this, my fellow humans, is the face of God Himself.

How can one live in a world where Paul Bearer is gone, yet The Mouth from The South is still alive and well? Tonight I'll put on my white facepaint, dust off the black hair dye, trim my stache to somewhere between Dali and child fondler and rub my Grannies urn for the power to go on.

You will be missed kind sir. OOOOOH YES you will be missed.