Do you know jack and Oliver?
Growing up in London, Mister Ripper and Doctor Twist were my only real beneficiaries in my academic pursuits. Of course, every so often I would have to offer up something small to them- pieces of jade stolen from necklaces were always the Doctor’s favourite, but I think Mister Ripper just liked the wine I’d bring home from the Oxford parties. I never thought nothin’ of what happened to the people the items belonged to: people went missing all the time in those parts, so nobody batted an eye. It was only when I mistakenly gave Mister Ripper one of Doctor Twist’s old coins that I saw what I’d done. His study was entombed in the thickest stench of rotting meat the next day, getting worse as I ran to his lab…
And there I saw him, Oliver, rotting on an operating table as Jack, my lifelong friend- close even to a father figure to me, sat and ate his feast. He turned around to look me in the eye, and told me to get out. I resigned from my courses the next day, as without anyone to pay the bills I would be unable to continue. Perhaps it’s for the best, especially since I’ve gotten more careful with what I give out to strangers on the street nowadays. Except my stories, of course.
You could never give a story as an offering, could you?
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