Author Topic: The Journal of Richard Loveridge  (Read 694 times)

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The Journal of Richard Loveridge
« on: October 18, 2018, 10:16:36 AM »
Friday 20th August 2105

Dead cat outside my door this morning, guts spilling out of a fragile little body like an empty scream, clearly universe sending me a message. I took the hint, spent the day in the four-brothers pub, still have a good bit of money left over after performing for the Davis twins private party the other day, and the brothers has the best underground fight pits, I've made a few shillings myself  joining the intricate and graceful ballet of the ring but it was not to be today. I was trying to control those impulses today. Controlling the black gnawing creature, the creeping black thing that was the true master of me. Instead I drank it away in a sordid haze of regret.

Itís been over a month since last time.

And so, I sat with my stale beer in this squalid pit of regret and watch when what I really want to do is get stuck into the fight myself, a few weeks ago I would, it would have helped me contain it, but itís not worth it now. This on edge I could kill them, break the sad little men and cast them down into the abyss, but it's not like theyíre my type. It was a dull fight , one ex circus strongman and one leg breaker for the Davies twins, both were big men but to my trained eye theyíd never learned to really fight, all brute force no finesse. Fighting is like dancing, pure fluid motion. Fighting well is an art form, itís poetry, itís theatre, the truest form of art revealed in blood and twisted mangled bodies. To fight well you need total control of yourself mentally and physically, these lumbering insipid brutes had neither. They were just slugging it out, a good fight reveals intimate truths about the person, a great fight intimate truths about the universe, but this appealed to nothing but my creeping baser urges. Good amount of blood though. I didnít see the end. Lost interest after fifteen minutes and went upstairs to enjoy my drink in my own internal cage, my self-inflicted hell, to know without doubt what kind of man you are and cage that man away is the greatest torture imaginable.

My brooding was short lived, a gentleman from the unions caught my attention as he made some grand speech to the room, I think he thought in years time great actors would be playing him on stage, heíd be lucky to get a short play in the music halls, these people are all the same. Impassioned pleas for everyone to come together but no real follow through. Theyíll strike and whine but when things get dirty and nasty they flinch. Iíve been involved with them on and off, Iím always hoping Iíll meet one with the guts to kill a high-profile target but nothing yet. Some of the fringe cells talk to me but it never materialises into anything, I think they can sense the lack of faith. Fanatics are idiots, from what I can see all belief does is destroy a man, regardless of how righteous he believes himself to be, the only excuse I have for occasionally working with them is that it's led to some good punch ups.

I sat watching the union man make his grand sweeping speech, I saw the fire burning in his eyes, this man deluded himself into thinking he could change the world with his force of will alone, would that he was blessed in that way. Only Jack is, and when Jack walks free of his cage the world trembles. I wanted in that moment to reach into my bag and put on the mask. To be Jack unleash my true pure spirit and destroy the residents of this pathetic dingy den, to feel how god feels. I watched the man, I was an emaciated beast watching its prey. I thought of a thousand ways to kill him, a thousand works of giggling manic art, art that would make me a creature of pure myth a legend to scare the children with when the bell tolls for midnight. But no but no, I did not give in to the demon. I listened to the details of their sad little campaign. A few words got some measure of my attention. A union strike out of control  due to military intervention, big fight expected tomorrow, likely to be carnage unless the people stand together. Same old story. I headed home, there was nothing for me here. But my mind kept returning to the union man, carnage was likely he said, but even after reminding myself of ill omen of the dead cat my mind was racing. I need to fight. I need the blood pumping through me, the roar of the crowd and the sick whirlwind of chaos. And if I did kill some pig it wouldnít matter. To some people I could even be a hero.

(A lengthy paragraph has been hastily scribbled out here)

Yes, yes, Iíve decided I will attend tomorrow. And calm the tempest of my soul.

Friday 21st August 2105

Last night I was the last person alive on this broken ruin of the planet, I walked for years through the carcasses of dead cities, through deserts of crushed bone, wading through rivers of stinking corrosive blood. At last in a hidden jungle I found a black pyramid. I ventured inside and came upon a secret chamber. My real self-greeted me inside, with glee I watched as he peeled off his face and handed it to me. He gave me my true face. I was ecstatic with joy. And then I woke and reality came crashing down upon me.

I buried the cat. I donít know why. Itís eyeís glinted at me with malice as the dirt fell entombing it in itís kingdom of dirt forevermore. Its eyes seemed to scream why at me. Strange that I should feel more for the broken frame of an animal than I do for my own race.

I waded through the fetid rancid streets my brain screaming at me all the way. Rest I assured it, rest, soon I will let you out, just a little to sate you, once that is done I can find the time to find a real target, a target to fall deliriously in love with, to know better than I know myself, one has to love someone to kill them. I received no looks on my way to the strike, I was just one more nameless faceless statistic in a sea of them, I could watch you all day and youíd never even notice, weaponized blandness, people only remember my true face, and not for long. The factory was near the docks, I arrived a few hours before the chaos. The factory is in its own way a work of art a twisted, industrial, monochrome monument to our society, a scar upon the face of our dear city dripping weeping poisoned pus into the gullet of the working class, a bitter reminder of who owns us. Well they donít own me and they could never own Jack. I mingled with the people, I stood at the edge of impassioned conversation and absorbed the information. The police are coming today they are sure, The union had been reaching out to anyone, apparently even the hardcore anarchist nutters.Iíd quite like to meet these nutters. I again considered wearing my face but no, it would drawn too much attention,. I found a quiet corner and prepared myself, a simple ritual of donning my armour and checking my weapons, with my knuckle dusters attached I felt comforted. I could fear the fear and tension build. I savoured it.

Then the whistles cut through the air as loud as any gunshot, and for a second the world was quiet.

It was the appointed moment, I moved forward dodging and weaving through the crowd, I pass an ugly little dwarf with a gun almost as big as him, I despise guns, loud and impersonal, the weapon of choice for a coward. No, I knew where I was needed, the front lines called to me. Reaching the front was no trouble, these people didnít have the stomach for real cruelty, I would enjoy the meat grinder of the industrial age. The whistles continue to echo around the looming buildings on either side creating a huge echo chamber. The pigs were fucking with peopleís heads, it was a clever strategy. I saw the fear in peopleís eyes, I thought back to the lessons my father taught me, in the end everything show-business. The people needed cheer and morale. Bland I may be but I am a born performer, I started to chant, looking back I donít quite remember what it even was but it was successful, the people joined in behind me, we came together. The line was ready for the coming storm.

And then we heard the sounds, a wave crashing upon us, first from a distance and then louder and louder, bang, bang, bang mixed with the marching of feet, it was the sound of a boot upon a mans face forever kicking down, the sound of skulls cracked open and widows wailing. Truncheon on shield. It was a message. The message said run. I felt the fear, the anticipation, but no, if I died at least I would die satisfied.Then we saw them, rows and rows of the boys in blue, these lads were not from round here, this would be a bloodbath. They marched up slowly, disciplined, it took everything I had not to scream and run forward into the jaws of oblivion. Then suddenly the wall split into two, and behind it came the mounted division, I saw a pale riders and their name was death, They would charge and break our line so they could pick us off at will. I saw cowards turn and leave, as if this wasnít what they signed up for. We waited, still chanting, still ready.

With speed the horses leapt forward, gleaming in the mid-day sun, armoured and dangerous, a shot rang out far behind me, a horse fell taking its rider with him, another shot and another rider falls, the police adapted slowing down and avoiding the mess. The crowd is in a frenzy now, I continue chanting ready for the reaping and the crowd roared in approval with me. I hear some panicked fool calling out for hostages like that would have been any use ,more shots ring out and another horse falls, his rider was flung forward a scant few metres in front of me. It was my time

I saw the malice in the copís eyes, desperate to wound us he went straight for his gun, seconds before he could point it at an innocent young boy, who had ended up stuck in the front lines due to the actions of craven men, I rushed out of the line making myself the only possible target, he sneered and pulled the trigger but, in his panic he must have missed for I felt nothing, I jumped on top of him and smashed his smug face in, his nose broke and blood spurted out of his mouth. I laughed in the ecstasy of combat, I was alive and powerful but, in my joy, I had forgotten the bigger picture. The horses had continued to charge and in that moment the charge hit and I had mere seconds to dodge out of the way. The horseís were cutting through the crowd like a knife through flesh. It was a pandemonium of madness and glory. I stood my ground, fighting off any who came near me. I showed them my art, before they died choking on their own blood they caught a glimpse of Jack.After disposing of a man with a quick thrown knife in his skull I turned around ready to deal with the next threat to see a horse charging towards me, I felt the world slow around me, I laughed as it it bore down on me let loose  with a haymaker blow to the horseís head. I heard a crack on the horse fell upon the ground, I was victorious. I took care of the rider struggling to escape the horses body with another quickly thrown knife.

Despite my herculean efforts this was a losing battle, shouts and whistles rung out but I saw the union crowd were making a retreat, I joined with the crowd to get out of the front lines and to make good my escape.
« Last Edit: September 02, 2019, 06:30:30 AM by Secretly a doom bot »

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Re: The Journal of Richard Loveridge
« Reply #1 on: October 18, 2018, 03:12:14 PM »
(Hack all the personal logs!) Good Grudd! If you think guns are for cowards you clearly haven't seen Sully with a Lasblaster. Mind, you sound like you have barely two creds to rub together - no wonder your equipment is a pile of stromm.

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Re: The Journal of Richard Loveridge
« Reply #2 on: October 18, 2018, 03:47:02 PM »
Additional entry scribbled in the margins

Dreams very strange lately. Must find and kill this Sully

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Re: The Journal of Richard Loveridge
« Reply #3 on: October 29, 2018, 09:19:11 PM »
Friday 21st August 2105 Continued

Once I had the crowd to provide cover I fled the scene, like a limber Spider I crawled up the building, up high I had the urge to just sit and watch the remnants of the carnage below, truncheons cracking open skulls, truncheons caked in what looked like a sticky red jam, bones splinted and shattered into dust and all manner of deviancy from the pigs. The carnage had a strangle hold on me, to go back would have been to court death, but is not this strange macabre dance that is my life preparation for that final momentÖ perhaps but I am not yet ready to visit her ebony halls and take my final rest. I stayed moving and thus I stayed alive.

Like an eerie phantom of the abyss I followed the crowd of baying antís that believed themselves to be revolutionaries below, since the mess had started the heavens had opened and blessed us with the water of Eden, it smelt like copper and smoke and in it I was baptised anew as I moved across the rooftops watching the helpless creatures below. Sometimes I jumped between rooftops taking my life into my own hands, even after all this time I feel the rush in my stomach at the thought of being simply a stain on the pavement, one step out of place and I would fall.

After a few minutes we came to the district gates, I would have struggled to continue across the rooftops and so I slithered down to join the crawling ants below and to see what would happen, the ugly man I had seen before crept forward to the guards on the gate, he had a fascinating shadow, with a few magic words suddenly the gates were opened to the thronged masses and we surged forward like beautiful dreamers seeking a new world, the gates closed behind us, locking us into our fate.

So we came to the district of Saint Cornelius, Iíve been here before the odd time, it is a working class hellhole, weeping, bleeding, pus filled, rat invested, vomit strewn, faeces smelling, damp squib pit from which there is no escape, it is infested with gangís but not like the professionals I put on shows for, a bunch of gaudily dressed amateurs constantly murdering and fucking each other in a never ending carousel of despair, nice place to watch from afar bad place to be. If tomorrow I walked in and started a harvest of flesh, killing all the young, the old, the sick, the well, the innocent and the guilty, Iíd simply be improving the place, corpses and all. Mind Mother always did say I was a terrible snob.

Through the twisting labyrinth of roads that makes up the district we go, on and on, a maze set out like a snake eating its tail, I wonder sometimes if this blood and steam infused city was designed to send its inhabitants mad, itís difficult being the only sane person in London

At last we came to our destination and were ferried inside what appeared to be a pub that catered exclusively to sexual deviants, at the least that decor was not traditional, inside the pub we stood a large crowd of reprobates hurting but still ready to fight, I quickly made myself anonymous as medics rushed out to heal the injured I feel sorry for healers, why heal people when instead you could make them into grotesque masterworks, healing is spiting venom Gods face, In my corner I watching with disgust at the misused arts of healing, one of the injured quickly caught my eye.

His name is Peter, he has the face of a devil, a fanatic, I  can always tell, but his wound, his wound is a glory,, he was fated to die today, heís not my type but I felt the pull, the pull to  stand forward and take his neck, one quick snap and I would ferry him beyond, these people did not comprehend the gift they took away from Peter, to be on that line between life and death is the only time one can be alive, I always feel that when I kill what I see in my victims eyeís is a simple thank you. Peter handled himself well, only one scream of ecstasy left his lips, were that me Iíd have never stopped. Eventually the nurse stepped away, oddly I can only remember her cursed hands and not her face. The twisted gaunt mouth-less face proclaimed that Peter would live. Oh child, I would have never committed such a sin upon you.

After a while I realise an old man I barely even noticed when I came in is talking, his name is Alexander Cohen, what he says is drivel but itís not the drivel Iíd except from a gang boss even if he does want to frame himself as a civic leader, suddenly Alexander Cohen was pointing at me telling everyone what a hero I was in the battle. It is good that people respect me, to do otherwise could lead to all sorts of mischief from Jack, sadly the talk went on for a long time after that, I head the important points, payment for work attacking the bourgeoise, I might not like the man but the idea of my boot heel smashing in the face of some toff was very appealing. I decided I had to get in with this crowd.

The rest of evening contains little of note, I helped take Peterís body upstairs and I made myself known to Alexander, I spun a story about my poor dead family that the idiot ate up, the man knows I am primed and ready. Drinking and feasting continued into the early hours and Peter even managed to join us. I spent some time talking to him, if I can understand these rebels perhaps I could mimic them better, I like Peter, he feels like a man changed since he was shot, perhaps the bullet will push him to great and monstrous extremes. I must keep watch.

At the end of the night I sat outside with my new friend. But too late I realised I had made a mistake wasting my time on feasting and drinking. My inner monster longer to be fed, my mind called to me, even if it was only for a short bit of mischief I knew. I was time to put on the mask.
« Last Edit: November 07, 2018, 03:26:23 PM by Secretly a doom bot »

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Re: The Journal of Richard Loveridge
« Reply #4 on: November 04, 2018, 07:42:25 PM »
Friday 21st August 2105 Continued
Jack, Jack, Spring-heeled Jack

I was free at last. Free to be the monster I really am

Free and able to dance across the rooftops, a mad sinner of mirth, free to do everything we couldnít as Richard. Free to follow the Hemingway home. Cut out his eyes, crush his bones to powder, sup his blood and dance on his corpse. I sat over him as silent as my previous victims are in their shallow graves, I sat and dreamed of wonders, thought of cutting out his entrails and using them to choke the nearby sleeping guest into a nightmare sleep, debated which parts I would take as trophies, monuments to his fall

But heís not rich.

Heís not anything.

Just another germ this city has bred, another screaming piece of excrement that believes that being strong makes a difference. What is he to me? I am the perfect embodiment of this new millennium, the perfect child of this new city birthed from steam, pain and rust, I walk endlessly in myth, designate man plus, a god perfectly adapted to live in this broken century, I am the forerunner of what is to come. And so, I left him a simple message on his chest and fell giggling out of the window into the urban decay below.

Saturday 22nd August
Itís still Jack.
Today I have satisfied my needs, the below is a list of everything I have destroyed as part of my holy work.
I killed a bat
I killed a rat
I killed a cat
I Killed six little Brats
I killed the Queen and ate her spleen
I killed, cooked and ate this godawful rhyming scheme (Mother always said I had the soul of a Butcher not a poet)
I killed the thing that lives under my bed and pumps nice clean thoughts into my skull whilst I dream, after killing it a hole opened and I again fell into a new day.

Sunday 23rd August
A spider sits in the corner of the room and whispers its black mass to me.

Monday 24th August
Struggled to leave my bed today, my head screams too much. I retched and vomited and cried at what I have become What I let myself do to others for the joy it brings me. Thereís no one who can save me, I thought if I stayed in then no harm could come but I need to leave, make a living, survive. And so, I head out into the ring again, into the arms of the blighted underground fight club and sing with all its fallen devils. I danced again taking pleasure in the ecstasy of flesh. Later after Iím enjoying the meal I earned, trying to ignore the taste of copper in my mouth I notice a letter has been dropped off at the table, seems the enfeebled Cohen has some mettle after all. I am invited to talk about his plans for a new world this afternoon.

The haberdashery is a twisted mirror reflection of its owner, it sits on the road a broken angry blemish upon the neighbourhood, would that Cohen had to survive on his own wits instead of breaking the law like a coward he wouldnít last a day in my world. Inside I am greeted by Mr Meyers, the kind of man who thinks crime is a profession rather than a death wish, I image popping his eyes like grapes and make myself welcome in the shop, in place of customers there is what I assume is the terror cell Iíll be working with. Introduced to me later Iíll list then here for my notes.

Mr Mole- Local infamous fence, ugly bastard with an uglier soul.
Mouse- Stunted Dwarf hit-man, as I am everything godly in this city, he is the embodiment of its sickness.
Peter- My ďFriendĒ
Karl Hemingway- Sniper with no balls, so a typical Sniper really, only a coward takes pleasure in kills where one cannot see the victimís eyes
Magnus Green- Doctor, hiding something, were they at Karlís that night? Regardless I hate his ilk and all they stand for
October- Street thief, could be a good partner for me if I could make her see reality through my mask.

(Ugly scrawled pictures are next to each description)

Cohen sits us all around the table like good little schoolchildren before the lectureís start again, this fool knew how to blather on and on. How could I doubt the sanctity of my mission yesterday, when I constantly have to deal with dullards like this? How could I doubt the world would be a better place with a few people dead?

The big assignment he has for us is to investigate a factory which used to be the site of government experiments on the working class, a real house of horrors apparently, but arenít such things needed to push science along? What are one hundred dead for the benefit of all. Sadly, but Iím too deep now to retreat, and even if this mission isnít what I need later ones will be, Iíll see to that. We were given the location of the factory and I am rightfully made leader, at least Cohen can do that much right.

The group heels to my authority like well trained dogs, perhaps they sense the iron will of my soul. I decide we need to head to the root cause of the issue, the iron grey scar that is this evil factory by the Thames. I took October with me to scout ahead, she shows promise but could learn a lot from me, and I would only be too happy to give private lessons. The only entrance into the factory is through a locked steel door, unfortunately the locals in the area are paying us too much attention. It was simple to deal with, I put on a dazzling show of Acrobatic skill whilst Jack picked the lock to the door with my trademark efficiency. Jaws hanging low the mewling sheep under my leadership followed me inside into the blackness of the evil factory, where grinding behemoths toiled, where toxic neurochemicals squirm and spit and monsters wallow in black pits of tar.
« Last Edit: November 15, 2018, 07:43:33 PM by Secretly a doom bot »

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Re: The Journal of Richard Loveridge
« Reply #5 on: November 07, 2018, 08:20:03 PM »
Monday 24th August Continued

(An entire page has been written and hastily scribbled over, if you were somehow to find and read this journal you may suspect Richard originally wrote a more accurate version of events before deciding it was far too mundane to report in his special book)

I have seen the face of God.

To describe in intricate detail the sights I have seem would be a slight to me and Jack, simply know that what I saw today has only increased my belief in the mission. I know now the true beauty of the monster that I face. And the righteousness of what I am.

We descended into the pit. The others quaked in fear but I did not relent, I cried out, come brothers be one with me and we came together, as a group, as five fingers closing into a fist. Down we crawled into the hole in the heart of the factory, through its ever-spiralling stairs, through the dirt, passing through the veil that is reality to the heart of the evil factory. Where we tread only delusions could follow.

The air burned my lungs, my hairs stood on end and my blood ran like ice, at last we came to the heart of the beast and saw what these modern Prometheans had created upon coal black anvils forged in the depths of Tartarus itself. Here was not the realm of man, this was a realm of Godís and Demons, of living predator metaphors we had ventured beyond what we could comprehend and into a screaming hysterical nightmare.

We saw the three figures that had been forged on the devil anvils in the heart of the earth, the three creatures we had been sent to collect and study from the evil factory. Gabriel, Michael and Raphael, creatures that had been without sleep since their creation, soldier gods of the new world. In them I saw everything Jack was and would be. In them I saw the truth of what I have been doing, why it was necessary, I saw an obsidian devil honour me with three champions. And so, we destroyed them. For only Jack can be like Jack.

The battle raged through rivers of blood, iron and molten magma but in the end, we were victorious, the black messenger angels were cut down and debased, when Gods walk in the world of men, they suffer same as any mortal.
With the information gathered from the factory of evil, the tapestry of reality was restored, we headed back to the light, suddenly it I was in conversation with the group about the chemicals found in the factory and what we could do next. I suggested quite rightly to kidnap and debase a noble with the gas intended for the poor but the idea was rejected for now.

To the rest of the night there is little to note, of the fool Cohen or his plans. He has given us leave to head home and spend the time as we wish. But I know what the monsters I saw mean. The ugly naked screaming men. It seems somehow the government know of my work and wish to replicate me. Well they can certainly try.

(At the bottom of the page a tooth has been stuck to the journal)

(Scrawled in the margins of the text)

October nearly died today, she was bitten by the hideous predator thing and her blood spurted all over the pristine floor. The doctor saved her, acceptable this time but I must keep better track of her behaviour, only I get to decide who lives and dies.
« Last Edit: November 15, 2018, 06:53:50 PM by Secretly a doom bot »

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Re: The Journal of Richard Loveridge
« Reply #6 on: November 15, 2018, 07:42:37 PM »
Monday 24th August

I headed home after the business in the evil factory, but the night was young I thought so why waste it? It was time for me to take to the streets, time to mingle with the cattle and pick which of the fattest most succulent heifers would be my next meal.

(In the margins)

Note to self: I have never tasted long pork, must make sure to correct this grave oversight in future if the chance presents itself without risk to self.

And so I began the ritual preparation for the hunt, perhaps it did not follow the monotony and drabness of true religion, but it was all the faith I have ever needed. Naked and weak I stood in the room I had paid from with the sweat from my brow, the work I engaged in so I could spend time as Jack, the pure expression of myself given name and form, uncontrolled screaming ID. I put on the mask as I dressed myself, suit, cape, shoes, gloves and hat. I felt the power rise in me. It felt better than anything you could imagine. At my desk I sat and looked over the scrawled pictures of possible targets, the doctor, the servant, the orphan and the monster.

But no I thought.

Twas not to be upon this sacred night. Jack demands something new, yes it will take time but the work and sacrifice will be worth it. New blood, new meat as mother always used to tell me before the beatings, before she tanned my hide raw and left me bleeding and broken, fit only to be food for the dogs. And so dressed I took the mask off, let it in its hiding place fathoms under the sea, locked in a casket that has yet to even be dreamed of by its creator never mind made, I headed out to a rather nice bar in a nice part of town that for reasons of my own I will not write the location of here.

(In the Margins)

The brain spiders watch, they watch and know my moves. I cannot give in despite the psychic pain.

Some excellent reconnaissance was done that night, a bar like that was full of excellent potential targets, after all when you work for a rich man youíre already dead inside, Jack simply brings mercy with deaths loving embrace, I enjoyed my power over them, any of them I could take at any time and lead them with love to the after world, mask or no. But I lurked, I watched, the Spider in its web waiting for the innocent twitch that will let it know the sport has begun. 

Tuesday 25th August

I headed back to the George after my work, in the aftermath of the raid on the evil factory I had assigned the rest of my terrorist cell to a number of follow up investigations, itís important to keep close watch on your staff to make sure your word is as law or they get lax, and when they get lax you have to hurt them. What information had they found? I remember thinking and I headed merrily towards the George.

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Re: The Journal of Richard Loveridge
« Reply #7 on: November 26, 2018, 07:49:32 AM »
Tuesday 25th August Continued

(In the book the next page has been torn out. The next few pages are scattered with drawings of the entire party mutilated and images of London burning. Kill the rich is scrawled at the bottom along with indefinable scribbles which seem to be about the trustworthiness of each party member, following this is five whole pages that simply have Peter understands written over and over)

Me and Peter went scouting. But itís so so slow. Where is the release?

Jacks Manifesto

I looked up the definition of politics in the Oxford English Dictionary, I write is here for my records. Politics- Noun- The great game played by murderer, liars and thieves.

In light of current events I felt it was my duty as the caretaker of the lives of both Richard, Jack and the disenfranchised of London to finally commit pen to paper regarding my beliefs and values. The past few days have been difficult for me. I have had to fight bloody tooth and nail simply to justify my own existence. I am surrounded by companions who are mediocre souls at best, and yet we have been thrown into this charnel house together, I am obviously willing to work with them but some among them 

(In the margins written in what you hope is blood red ink is written Magnus)

have done everything in their power to mock and belittle me, now I am a loving god, after all I am the future, hence I let the insubordination happen, but this does not mean it doesnít affect me, it pains me that my children cannot see my glory. And so I come to write my thoughts, my manifesto explaining the revolution and why just now I am allowing it to happen.

Unlike most of these pathetic specimens in this broken attack on societyís values I have no tragic backstory, you will hear no tale of how the nobility robbed me, leaving me beaten and broken on the street, of how I smelt my parents flesh roasting as they burned alive, nor did I hear the sizzle as acid melted my brothers face as his eyeís melted and ran down his face like jelly. That story could never be me, even as I wear it sometimes as a cloak to disguise other intentions. Itís quite funny really to mock these people with my fake story, they could never understand the truth. This rock we call home is broken.

This revelation came to me in divine light at a very young age. I had just received another beating from my brother, weak and afraid I sat broken considering the injustices of the world whilst I pulled the wings off a butterfly. But as I sat and reflected, reflected upon this world that ended two hundred years ago in blood and madness. We were simply the revenants clinging on the edge of forever. I mean what would be the point of armed insurrection against cosmic injustice or worse cosmic indifference? I believe I am Gaiaís next response to our society, an avant-garde predator for the end times. And what better pray is there than the most powerful in our society?

If this spinning dead black rock brings only death then let that be my fate, but let it be a glorious death, bathing in the blood of those who thought they could claw something back. Let me die it whilst letting the powerful know how little power they had, that they are less than nothing. Insects beneath by boot heel. And if the city walls fall and we are consumed I ask you, what really would be lost?

This is my truth. This is my gospel

Go in Peace.
« Last Edit: November 26, 2018, 08:02:39 AM by Secretly a doom bot »

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Re: The Journal of Richard Loveridge
« Reply #8 on: December 10, 2018, 09:15:16 AM »
Friday 28th August

I realize I have not written in my holy book as of late, events have accelerated, I have just escaped the district which contains the Smeddlington household it was a very close call, my true nature nearly had me.

Me and Mouse performed the job, we broke into the house together, I have to say we worked well as a team, Iíd have rather done the job without him but one cannot have everything. Once infiltrated we started searching the house from top to bottom. It was during this time I came upon my prize, and unfortunately for the darling young there was no do gooder to stop me, I performed my holy rites. I performed the act with a pillow, it was precise and easy, people never talk about how easy to is to kill someone, in seconds I had taken her from with world. Removed whatever spark animated her.
I killed a child and I have never felt better, never felt more alive.

Mouse found me in the room but not in the act, he had found the office with the documents we were looking for, I did not even care at this point, I felt like I was in a euphoric haze, I had found my own personal nirvana. Mouse asked me to create a fire, I think it was to cover our tracks, I complied, fire used to give me such pleasure as a child but now it was no longer the centrepiece, it was a minor sideshow.

We fled the house, Mouse had another child with him, I donít know where he found it, I didnít  care, there was a second when we had escaped the house, when his back was turned to me and he did something to the child. I considered killing him there, I wanted to sneak up on him and tear his throat out, coat the garden in pretty red paint. But no, it was not his time, the game continued.

We made our way back to the street, after a few minutes Mouse looked at me strangely, he drew attention to my mask, apparently my true face in all its glory was giving him cause for concern. But it seemed Jack had more work to perform, out of the corner of my eye I saw more targets, heading down the street, getting away. I knew what I had to do, I split from Mouse and followed. Hours later I stood over the two, throats raked apart by nightmare claws, their blood seeping into the pure white cotton sheets. Again I was content

And so, I made my way back home. To drink to the success of a good nightís work, and to dream of nights to come.

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Re: The Journal of Richard Loveridge
« Reply #9 on: January 09, 2019, 09:25:59 AM »
So you think me dead?

You believe that Spring-heeled Jack scourge of the rich is dead, as if you could ever kill divinity, as if you could wipe me from the history books and forget I ever existed. I'll always be present, the monster under your bed, the strange man watching you from the street corner, the fist smashing into your face.

Do you feel safe? Do you not feel watched from the shadows? All of you, the doctor, the soldier, the hit-man, the teacher and the fence. I watch I wait, I laugh at your depravities and hypocrisy. And one day, when you least expect it, when you believe yourself safe, Jack  will be there to show you how wrong you are, how foolish you always were, I will tear down the sky and salt the earth, I will have my debauched black mass on the ruins of your lives.

Shhh now child shh, don't whimper. No prison could have ever held me, what is death but another cage to escape from?

Goodbye for now.

And try not to forget

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Re: The Journal of Richard Loveridge
« Reply #10 on: March 18, 2019, 04:26:59 PM »
Nestled halfway through Richards journal is a listing of killers and his thoughts about them, newspapers articles and ripped out pages from penny dreadfuls have been stuck in the book, a macabre scrapbook to the damned. What follows is a section upon one Rose Brockelsby.

I was seventeen during the trial of this hero, having left home two years ago after poor Thomas had his unfortunate fall, those were early days for me, it was before who I knew I was, knew of Spring heeled Jack and my great destiny. I donít like to think about those times, but for the sake of having it recorded for my eventual biographers they were formative and arduous. Thomasís fall made me feel and understand things I had never felt before and I was desperate to gain that feeling, that power again. However II was homeless and starving with no tools or power. And one day I looked up from the gutter and saw that this common whore, this woman of no real talent or power had personally been responsible for the deaths of twenty six people, better than that even, twenty six nobles. This insignificant waste of a woman was in some ways a shining beacon for everything I wanted to be. Everything I would be.

I was obsessed with her the month of the trial, I spent countless hours outside waiting for any news, I stole papers and penny dreadfuls to gain any news I could find, as usual the penny dreadfuls spoke a more honest story of a women driven to the edge after having her marriage proposal rejected by a lord who had shown her some kindness. An evil witch who plotted to steal any fortune she could grasp. Who sat with her cauldron in the east end brewing toxic substances that would burn out people's eyes and boil their flesh. The papers lied to me claiming that she pleaded her innocence, claimed that the was simply selling poison to those who needed it. A figure like her never would never do this, I understood the pride she really felt.

If I must critique Rose it would be that her method was too impersonal, I cannot understand what joy you can gain when you cannot wrap your own fingers around the throat of your victim, when you cannot look then in the eyes. She killed many but I worry she never felt the real joy. It is said sheís still alive and in prison, I hope one day that she can escape. For if she did I could find her, I could sneak into her house one night. And thank for what she did for me.