10-30-2018, 12:29 PM
The rain came as Boy In A Dress stood at the corner of Brick Lane and watched the fog dissipate under its steady
drenching of the poverty-stricken district known as Whitechapel. Behind him, Ninurta was waiting for the grisly exercise
to be over. But for BIAD, the feelings he was receiving from the little room spoke of the depravity that man can sink to.
There was evil there and the Man-Girl knew it. The problem was that it wasn't as abhorrent to him in the way most humans
would consider normal, it whispered thoughts that he wanted to ignore. Many times in the long existence of Boy In A Dress,
there had been times when such horrors had been witnessed and the taking of life had long ago, left him with the easy
choice of indifference.
But this one was not the same, there was much more behind the Ripper murders, a long-term organised scheme that he
could only catch a whiff of, like a familair scent that brings troubled memories. 'It's the Devil in yer' BIAD heard Muckles
taunt in his musings and shaking his head violently, the thoughts were dispersed along with the raindrops from his bonnet.
Still, the daylight would be here soon and the ghosts of what Tibbs assured him was his destiny, would fade away like the
city's fog.
In the distance, Big Ben chimed 3:00.am and as the clapper struck the great bell for the last time of the hour, a steady
tapping came to Boy In A Dress from the shadows of the street known as Buck's Row. BIAD recalled that this was the
place where the Ripper's first slaying took place and tilting his head, he wondered if the steady tempo was from a leaky
gutter.
"Who's there?" a voice called and into the small illuminated area of a gas-fuelled streetlight, the questioner stepped into
his full reveal. BIAD saw by the small round spectacles and the white cane that the stranger was blind and the real query
should be what was a sightless man doing out at this time of the night.
The Man-Girl in the Victorian finery softly cleared his throat and put on his best lady-like modulation, "Er.. I'm afraid I seem
to be lost" BIAD said in his high tone and quickly chastised himself for creating the impression of a victim.
It wouldn't do to look weak in Jack The Ripper's hunting ground.
"Lost or not wanting to be found?" the blind man sarcastically responded and stopped his stick from its grasshopper tattoo.
The faint light offered no real description of the quality of the person standing in the rain and for a few seconds, Brick Lane
seemed like the only reality in the cosmos.
BIAD stepped from the corner and surveyed the man in the flat-cap and stevedore's coat. The hat's peak succeeded to shadow
his face, but the spectacles glistened with reflection and something the hermaphrodite struggled to contemplate.
"You're a long way from home, dear brother" the typhlotic male murmured and the realisation of who it was struck Boy In A Dress
just like the wrought-iron bar demands London's iconic landmark to clarion the time of day to the Queen's subjects.
It had been awhile, a different time and a different part of the universe. Boy In A Dress had first met the rebus that Earthlings call
'Death' somewhere in the far-future and in the backalleys of New Orleans. Death had told him of of kinship and how his rightful
place was at the terrible essence's side.
Later and in a time closer to the one they both now inhabited, Death had machinated to take the one-thing away from BIAD's
defiance of his supposed eminence and in the town of Tombstone -Arizona, he had killed Ninurta.
The only flaw in Death's plan was he had never taken the time to discover who the gravel-voiced Vandalian actually was and
even now, under the storm-clouded skies of Victorian London, the little old man with the white stick fumed at what Ninurta had
done to him.
When you die, Death takes you and that's it. The only single exception ever -and I mean ever, was when Ninurta beat the shit
out of the entity that cannot be swayed. Tibbs could attest along with the Perfect Nine that no such repudiation has ever existed
and it went against all universal rules in every universe created.
Morally speaking, a neutral would say it was just plain-wrong.
In the Lore written down before time existed, nobody punches Death in the face, rubs his face in the dirt and forces him to say
'Uncle'. Nobody. There are rules, there's a natural order to things and there are those who dispatch and manage such decrees
and those who abide them.
Chaos is tolerated due to the action of creation and even havoc has its place in realities, but these are eternal forces that cannot
be opposed and certainly not by a mean son-of-a-bitch who just doesn't get it.
And it was that self-restraint to live a life of mundane humanity that balked the Chancellors from The Hall Of Owls and the seething
figure beneath the Brick Lane gas-lamp. Ninurta cannot die and that puts him in the elite, the beau-monde and a reveller of ambrosia.
Yet, he courts trouble, lives in the dust of the ordinary and dares to walk alone.
The shape of the old man warped and stretched like taffy and where once a hesitant physique of small stature stood, a tall appearance
in a black robe now stood. And the walls of the Brick Lane houses frosted with the cold of despair. "I am blithesome to see you, my
brother" Death said wickedly.
drenching of the poverty-stricken district known as Whitechapel. Behind him, Ninurta was waiting for the grisly exercise
to be over. But for BIAD, the feelings he was receiving from the little room spoke of the depravity that man can sink to.
There was evil there and the Man-Girl knew it. The problem was that it wasn't as abhorrent to him in the way most humans
would consider normal, it whispered thoughts that he wanted to ignore. Many times in the long existence of Boy In A Dress,
there had been times when such horrors had been witnessed and the taking of life had long ago, left him with the easy
choice of indifference.
But this one was not the same, there was much more behind the Ripper murders, a long-term organised scheme that he
could only catch a whiff of, like a familair scent that brings troubled memories. 'It's the Devil in yer' BIAD heard Muckles
taunt in his musings and shaking his head violently, the thoughts were dispersed along with the raindrops from his bonnet.
Still, the daylight would be here soon and the ghosts of what Tibbs assured him was his destiny, would fade away like the
city's fog.
In the distance, Big Ben chimed 3:00.am and as the clapper struck the great bell for the last time of the hour, a steady
tapping came to Boy In A Dress from the shadows of the street known as Buck's Row. BIAD recalled that this was the
place where the Ripper's first slaying took place and tilting his head, he wondered if the steady tempo was from a leaky
gutter.
"Who's there?" a voice called and into the small illuminated area of a gas-fuelled streetlight, the questioner stepped into
his full reveal. BIAD saw by the small round spectacles and the white cane that the stranger was blind and the real query
should be what was a sightless man doing out at this time of the night.
The Man-Girl in the Victorian finery softly cleared his throat and put on his best lady-like modulation, "Er.. I'm afraid I seem
to be lost" BIAD said in his high tone and quickly chastised himself for creating the impression of a victim.
It wouldn't do to look weak in Jack The Ripper's hunting ground.
"Lost or not wanting to be found?" the blind man sarcastically responded and stopped his stick from its grasshopper tattoo.
The faint light offered no real description of the quality of the person standing in the rain and for a few seconds, Brick Lane
seemed like the only reality in the cosmos.
BIAD stepped from the corner and surveyed the man in the flat-cap and stevedore's coat. The hat's peak succeeded to shadow
his face, but the spectacles glistened with reflection and something the hermaphrodite struggled to contemplate.
"You're a long way from home, dear brother" the typhlotic male murmured and the realisation of who it was struck Boy In A Dress
just like the wrought-iron bar demands London's iconic landmark to clarion the time of day to the Queen's subjects.
It had been awhile, a different time and a different part of the universe. Boy In A Dress had first met the rebus that Earthlings call
'Death' somewhere in the far-future and in the backalleys of New Orleans. Death had told him of of kinship and how his rightful
place was at the terrible essence's side.
Later and in a time closer to the one they both now inhabited, Death had machinated to take the one-thing away from BIAD's
defiance of his supposed eminence and in the town of Tombstone -Arizona, he had killed Ninurta.
The only flaw in Death's plan was he had never taken the time to discover who the gravel-voiced Vandalian actually was and
even now, under the storm-clouded skies of Victorian London, the little old man with the white stick fumed at what Ninurta had
done to him.
When you die, Death takes you and that's it. The only single exception ever -and I mean ever, was when Ninurta beat the shit
out of the entity that cannot be swayed. Tibbs could attest along with the Perfect Nine that no such repudiation has ever existed
and it went against all universal rules in every universe created.
Morally speaking, a neutral would say it was just plain-wrong.
In the Lore written down before time existed, nobody punches Death in the face, rubs his face in the dirt and forces him to say
'Uncle'. Nobody. There are rules, there's a natural order to things and there are those who dispatch and manage such decrees
and those who abide them.
Chaos is tolerated due to the action of creation and even havoc has its place in realities, but these are eternal forces that cannot
be opposed and certainly not by a mean son-of-a-bitch who just doesn't get it.
And it was that self-restraint to live a life of mundane humanity that balked the Chancellors from The Hall Of Owls and the seething
figure beneath the Brick Lane gas-lamp. Ninurta cannot die and that puts him in the elite, the beau-monde and a reveller of ambrosia.
Yet, he courts trouble, lives in the dust of the ordinary and dares to walk alone.
The shape of the old man warped and stretched like taffy and where once a hesitant physique of small stature stood, a tall appearance
in a black robe now stood. And the walls of the Brick Lane houses frosted with the cold of despair. "I am blithesome to see you, my
brother" Death said wickedly.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.