From Hell Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Tim Marquitz
toward
me. Only about an inch shorter than me, he was easily twice my
width. His eyes narrowed as he approached, giving his features a
severity that loomed larger than the whole of him. It wasn’t the
first time Hans had intimidated someone. He was good at
it.
Too bad he was muscling up to a demon.
Had I been human, he might have had a chance but I woke up every
morning to stare Lucifer in the eyes. My uncle’s poop face was more
fearsome than Hans could ever hope to muster. He wasn’t
intimidating shit.
I reached into my jacket and pulled
the Webley out just enough so Hans could see the grip. He swallowed
hard and froze in place. “Again, I don’t care about your pissing
match.” I let the pistol slip back into my pocket. “I’ve got a job
to do, so stay out of my way, Hans.” I shook my head and started
off down the street. “I’ll leave you gormless pricks to sort it
out. Talk to you soon, George.”
I left them to argue and made my way
through the East End gloom, turning toward the heart of
Whitechapel. The first thing I needed was a coat. After that, it
was time to hit the taverns. The bobbies didn’t have anything on
Jack and it certainly didn’t seem like the committee had very much,
so that left it up to me. And if anyone had their finger on the
pulse of the slums, it would be the folks living in it. What better
place to start than where the poor and unwashed masses
congregate?
Besides, what better way is there to
start an investigation than a stiff drink?
Six
Despite the hour, I had no problem
finding an open bar. In fact, I found a number of them scattered
throughout Whitechapel. In many cases, I could have thrown a stone
from one and hit the door of another, they were that close. It was
a sign of how bad things were in the East End.
Shops all around the area had been
shut down, windows boarded over and doors nailed tight to keep
people from breaking into the buildings, but not the taverns in
Whitechapel. No, they were thriving. While most of the people
living nearby couldn’t afford to buy lamps or furnishing or quality
meals for their kids, those shops desolate and abandoned, there was
always money for booze. That was the economy of the poor. Spirits
were a commodity everyone could afford, or could, at least, afford
to piss off on other responsibilities to satisfy the need for
liquor. It was a sad statement as to the moral depths of English
society, but for me, it was a blessing in disguise.
I had a pocket full of my uncle’s
coins and it didn’t take much of it to start lips flapping on
whatever topic I wanted to talk about. After I’d replaced my coat
and hat, I slipped into the first bar I came across and started
buying drinks. While I found out a good many places to get some
quality quim, there wasn’t anything useful with regards to Jacky
boy. Folks were scared shitless, and since most of the ones I spoke
to were illiterate or poorly read, what I got from them was little
more than a rehash of what they’d heard called out by their pals
and the morning criers spouting off the news.
By the time I’d left the first tavern,
I’d twenty descriptions of the Ripper without a single similarity
between any of them except that everyone believed him to be male
and born from my uncle’s cherry red ass. I got a good chuckle out
of the last bit but didn’t bother to correct folks. It’s hard
enough to get information without drawing suspicion. The last thing
I needed to do admit that the Devil was real and I was his nephew.
It never took much for the humans to pull out their matchsticks and
burn a fella these days. My admission would be more than enough to
rile up a mob of pitchfork wielding peasants to hunt me down. That
would seriously ruin my day.
So rather than worry about
facts, I moved on. Bar after bar I ran into the same thing. There
was no shortage of people to talk to or stories to hear, but by
about the fifth placed I’d stopped, all the descriptions of Jack
had come full
me. Only about an inch shorter than me, he was easily twice my
width. His eyes narrowed as he approached, giving his features a
severity that loomed larger than the whole of him. It wasn’t the
first time Hans had intimidated someone. He was good at
it.
Too bad he was muscling up to a demon.
Had I been human, he might have had a chance but I woke up every
morning to stare Lucifer in the eyes. My uncle’s poop face was more
fearsome than Hans could ever hope to muster. He wasn’t
intimidating shit.
I reached into my jacket and pulled
the Webley out just enough so Hans could see the grip. He swallowed
hard and froze in place. “Again, I don’t care about your pissing
match.” I let the pistol slip back into my pocket. “I’ve got a job
to do, so stay out of my way, Hans.” I shook my head and started
off down the street. “I’ll leave you gormless pricks to sort it
out. Talk to you soon, George.”
I left them to argue and made my way
through the East End gloom, turning toward the heart of
Whitechapel. The first thing I needed was a coat. After that, it
was time to hit the taverns. The bobbies didn’t have anything on
Jack and it certainly didn’t seem like the committee had very much,
so that left it up to me. And if anyone had their finger on the
pulse of the slums, it would be the folks living in it. What better
place to start than where the poor and unwashed masses
congregate?
Besides, what better way is there to
start an investigation than a stiff drink?
Six
Despite the hour, I had no problem
finding an open bar. In fact, I found a number of them scattered
throughout Whitechapel. In many cases, I could have thrown a stone
from one and hit the door of another, they were that close. It was
a sign of how bad things were in the East End.
Shops all around the area had been
shut down, windows boarded over and doors nailed tight to keep
people from breaking into the buildings, but not the taverns in
Whitechapel. No, they were thriving. While most of the people
living nearby couldn’t afford to buy lamps or furnishing or quality
meals for their kids, those shops desolate and abandoned, there was
always money for booze. That was the economy of the poor. Spirits
were a commodity everyone could afford, or could, at least, afford
to piss off on other responsibilities to satisfy the need for
liquor. It was a sad statement as to the moral depths of English
society, but for me, it was a blessing in disguise.
I had a pocket full of my uncle’s
coins and it didn’t take much of it to start lips flapping on
whatever topic I wanted to talk about. After I’d replaced my coat
and hat, I slipped into the first bar I came across and started
buying drinks. While I found out a good many places to get some
quality quim, there wasn’t anything useful with regards to Jacky
boy. Folks were scared shitless, and since most of the ones I spoke
to were illiterate or poorly read, what I got from them was little
more than a rehash of what they’d heard called out by their pals
and the morning criers spouting off the news.
By the time I’d left the first tavern,
I’d twenty descriptions of the Ripper without a single similarity
between any of them except that everyone believed him to be male
and born from my uncle’s cherry red ass. I got a good chuckle out
of the last bit but didn’t bother to correct folks. It’s hard
enough to get information without drawing suspicion. The last thing
I needed to do admit that the Devil was real and I was his nephew.
It never took much for the humans to pull out their matchsticks and
burn a fella these days. My admission would be more than enough to
rile up a mob of pitchfork wielding peasants to hunt me down. That
would seriously ruin my day.
So rather than worry about
facts, I moved on. Bar after bar I ran into the same thing. There
was no shortage of people to talk to or stories to hear, but by
about the fifth placed I’d stopped, all the descriptions of Jack
had come full