He was walking slowly, hunched over himself, without making any noise… The fog hid his walk under the shadows of Parliament’s building. The Thames’ scent always caused him to smile … specially in the few last sheltered-by-shadows months. Tonight he will satisfy his hunger again; he will do it one more time.
He licked his lips. For many years ago, he couldn’t sense a feeling similar to taking a walk before doing a murder. He picked up the scalpel from between the tucks of his cape and observed it with delight. It was funny no one could suspect a common peasant, with just a few notions about veterinarian surgery, was the most wanted killer of London’s history. There were some people who even tried to thief his identity, although he liked it the most was when the papers made up details of his life, attributing him reasons and causes he never thought about.
He laughed in silence, picturing that some years in the future maybe someone will give him the role of a gentleman, being him actually a simple butcher assistant.
Absorbed as he was, couldn’t see the leftovers dropped by a sloppy horse, not much worried about the cleanliness of London. He slipped, having the bad luck of slicing his own throat with the shiny scalpel. Choking in his blood, he fell down into the river, being dragged by the current. His corpse never was found, and the butcher only needed to hire a new assistant skilful chopping.
Famous Jack the Ripper had just died in the most stupid possible way anyone could imagine and, therefore, it bore one of the immortal legends in the world.
The moral is “Maybe it’s not so bad that, occasionally, pet owners don't clean”.