Sunny Side From Hell

To: Marie Eloise Godchaux née Debois of Ottawa, Canada

From: Léon Maximillian Godchaux of Northampton, England  

Dearest Mother,

Shall I already beg your forgiveness? This cunning baby boy of yours is up to his ne’er-do-well shenanigans again. “Takes after his late great father!”, you might say. Léon, the great dishonor to his maiden sister! (Oh please do not mention sister’s maidenhood to your bridge club lest you incur the wrath of their jesting laughter. Such humor might disrupt their lunch digestations. Ha-ha, ho—ho!)

I write to you, mother, not to incriminate myself but rather share great news! It seems I have solved the riddle of the ripper! Jack, that is!

I dreamt about the killer. Before Leon & I ever discovered the identity of Jack the Ripper, I dreamt of the asshole. In my dream, I was running late for the train and there the ripper was: shadowy figure, top-hat & all. There was also a ballerina in the scene. I recognized her. Ewa: blushing Prussian with ribbon laced up her calves like climbing vines. The two didn’t belong in the same century, let alone on the same train platform, but dreams can be fucking weird. Knowing now what Leon & I would later learn, the pairing of dancer & ripper in my dream may have been one hell of a premonition. Or just a coincidence. If you are one to believe in coincidences. 

Allow me to explain…

I was napping in an English countryside field like some asshole out of a Jane Austen novel when my fitful dreams of Jack & Ewa were interrupted by Leon’s goattish yodel. Vic, old sport!, Leon hallooed. What say you/me learn our future by divining pig intestines?, he asked. I’ll wait for the movie, I told Leon and rolled over to return to sleep. Good sir!, Leon bellowed, I am inviting you to the pub for bangers & mash. I’ll even allow you the grace of shouting me a pint of ale. The future is now. Thirst waits for no man, he said. 

With a groan, I sought the sun and saw it was low. Leon was right. A pint was in order. And if we were heading to Sunnyside, there was a chance we would run into Ewa. The thought of her presence filled me equally with dread, hope and a desire to use the loo. Onward, I said to Leon. To the pub. 

This particular pub’s magnetic draw was due to its proximity to campus. Over the summer, Sunnyside had been overrun by international students & academics. Including Leon the Canadian. He is a good kid: 20 years old, a promising musician and screenwriter. At 6’5”, his appearance is that of a shaved juvenile Sasquatch with baby-fat cheeks easily flushed when women of all ages throw themselves at him. And they do. Women. Throw themselves at him. Like he’s an oak asking to be climbed. Despite his unintended charms, Leon is desperately uncool. Though he has promise. Someday he will be a rock star. Or a parlor intellectual. In the very least, a trivia-night emcee. For now, he’s an under-ripe bassist looking for the wrong mentors in the all the worst places. Wrong mentors like Vic Neverman. Or John Gospel.

Northampton is an ancient town. When King Henry III dissolved the university charter in the year 1265, the college was third in stature to Oxford & Cambridge. 659 years later, Northampton University reopened. In the meantime, during the industrial age, Northampton went from being a cobbler’s village to a shoe factory town. Today, the city resembles the American rust belt where former fortunes have slipped away, leaving a shell of what once was. Much of Northampton is busted brick, pigeon-shat, church bell clanged, and dusty the moment it stops raining. Sunnyside Pub, however, is uncannily fantastical by contrast. Atop a perfectly manicured green grass hill, the pub sits like a gingerbread cottage out of a children’s story. A contrast against the gloom of Northampton. 

Tainting the idyllic image with their air pollution was an American three-of-a-kind smoking & loitering on picnic benches outside the pub entrance. J.G.!, Leon hollered at John Gospel. John Gospel was devilish in his dark attire and wicked beard, cigarette smoke drifting from the nostrils of his stone face. J.G.!, what up, dog?, Leon asked. John Gospel regarded the man-child with little enthusiasm. Leon…, John Gospel said with his gravelly weather-man voice, Leon, you sick-fuck Canuck, what’s going on? 

John Gospel is Philadelphian. On either side of him is a lady yinzer from Pittsburgh. The two women are scholars lecturing at the school. Carlotta in art history. Francine in law. John Gospel is an associate professor of meteorology. All three are a part of an academic cross-contamination between Northampton University and Penn State. 

Everyone knows Vic, right?, Leon asked as way of introduction. I know Vic, Carlotta said as she dispassionately expelled vape smoke over her shoulder. She repositioned the question to Leon, do you know Vic? Ha!, Leon guffawed. Like the back of my hand!, he claimed. John Gospel shook his head while stubbing out his cigarette, saying, Leon, what have I told you about giving handjobs to strange men? Ha!, Leon laughed. Good one!, J.G. What are you drinking, J.G.?, Leon asked. Let me shout you one. John Gospel looked at his half-empty glass and said, a pint of the numbers. Cool, cool, Leon said, be back in two shakes of mutton tail!

Before following Leon into the building, I acknowledged Francine – who smiled back in her semi-bemused way, and Carlotta – who raised a suspicious eyebrow in reply. Ladies, I said with a pair of nods before departing. 

The interior of Sunnyside is classic English pub, straying from it’s gingerbread fairy-tale exterior. I approached the long oak bar where I was recognized. Guinness Vic?, Sally asked from behind the Strongbow draught. I gave her an affirming smile. Leon said, Sally, it will be two pints of the numbers for me and my dear friend John Gospel! Sally poured two pints of Kronenbourg 1664 for Leon as she let the first half of my Guinness settle.

From out of his messenger bag, Leon withdrew a manuscript with manic scribblings on crumpled typed pages. It was a war-torn landscape, mangled fonts in a battlefield of opposing highlighters. Vic, allow me a question, he said. Shoot, I said. How…?, Leon asked, how would an incorrigible lowlife of your depths describe Ewa’s breasts? What?, I asked with such knee-jerk intensity I kicked the bar. Oh!, Leon held up the palms of his hands and explained, I am not speaking of your Ewa, but the other Ewa. Not ballerina Ewa, I am referring of the blonde cabaret singer Ewa. 

Ah, alright…, I said with a slightly less offense taken. Leon had long been smitten with the Polish blonde bombshell, Ewa. Blonde Ewa was the best friend & fellow University of Warsaw law student to the other Ewa, the the dark haired ballerina who dwelt as much in my subconscious as she did in this pub.

I will give you two boob descriptions, Leon continued. Tell me what you think. First is my favorite: “pertinent tits”. What?, why…?, I asked, why “pertinent”? Because, Leon said, they are relevant and topical and make good points. Jesus, I said. What’s the other option? Option two, Leon said, is poignant bosoms. Poignant in that they are bittersweet; they’re wonderful but they do not bounce for me. Jesus, I said again and began to chuckle. I suppose it depends on your audience, Leon. What do you hope to convey? What are you writing anyway?, I asked. 

Oh this…, Leon said, picking up his manuscript, it’s letters home to mother. 

Oof. Can’t help you there, bud. I don’t know your mom as well as I’d like.   

Indubitably, Leon said. Perchance I might one day persuade you to take your editorial prowess to my letters, Leon said as he grabbed the two pints of Kronenburg and pivoted to leave. My return shall be imminent, he said. I believe these go on Victor’s tab!, he hollered at Sally. Sure, I nodded to Sally. I’ll pay for the kid. I consider myself the Gandalf to Leon’s Bilbo. If Bilbo were a giant hobbit. 

In Leon’s absence, I cornered Sally’s attention, asking her which Northampton bars the local celebrity author Alan Moore frequented. She laughed at me. I’d tell you, Vic, she said, if I thought you were remotely worthy of his company.  

Fine.

Whose company?, Leon asked as he plopped down on the barstool beside me. Alan Moore, I told him. Author of The Watchmen, V For Vendetta and From Hell, which is the graphic novel about Jack the Ripper. Leon repeated the name, saying, Jack the Ripper? Did they ever figure out who did all the ripping?, Leon asked. Not yet, I said. But Alan Moore’s theories are the juiciest, I told Leon. I went on to give a quick synopsis. It’s the royal conspiracy theory. Prince Albert Victor, the grandson of Queen Victoria, knocked-up a shop girl in White Chapel. Annie Crook. Allegedly, the Queen had Annie taken away and locked-up in an insane asylum. The baby was never seen again. But Annie was friends with a gaggle of White Chapel prostitutes. Those ladies of the night decided to blackmail the royal family using as middle-man the painter who went whoring with Prince Albert Victor in the first place, Walter Sickert. The Queen asked her royal surgeon, who previously saw to Annie Crook’s incarceration, to similarly get rid of the prostitutes. However he saw fit. That surgeon, Sir William Gull, decided to kill two birds with one stone and murder the prostitutes in a ritual style suiting his warped masonic beliefs. In this theory, Queen Victoria’s royal surgeon was Jack the Ripper. It’s all detailed in the novel From Hell. There was a movie made and the best parts of the film were taken directly from the book. The rest was Johnny Depp doing Johnny Depp things.

Vic!, Sally scolded as she handed me a fresh pint. What’s this I hear about you discussing Jack the Ripper? I shrugged. Sally pointed to a sign behind bar stating “strictly no tolerance for Jack the Ripper hypothesizing”. Quickest way to get in a pub row, Sally said, is spouting off theories on the Ripper. Take it outside, Vic. 

Dismissed from the bar, Leon and I took our beers to the picnic tables out front. Carlotta was alone with her vape pen and thousand-yard glare. Hey Carl!, Leon said. Where’s Frank & J.G.?, he asked. Her dark eyes calculated our worthiness before admitting to us John Gospel had a lead on Amsterdamned hashish. Francine went along as Gospel’s legal advisor to ensure he didn’t fall for the old sticky trombone trick again.

Dang it!, Leon said. Vic & I were just kicked-out of Sunnyside because of a heated academic debate! I was hoping to lure J.G.’s great intellect into our conversation. 

Jesus, kid… Carlotta rolled her eyes. Your panties get so wet around Gospel, they could drown a toddler, she said. Leon, you’re a sweet baby. You really are. But you need to find better role models. Gospel is no saint, just a douchebag from Philly. No, that’s unfair. He’s not a douchebag, just a gentle scumbag. And Vic. Jesus. Vic’s no intellectual. He just has good non-regional diction. 

Hey, thanks!, I said. 

What were you two dummies debating about so academically anyway?, Carlotta asked. Jack the Ripper!, Leon said. Ohh!, she said. Tell me more. 

Carlotta, the art historian, listened intently as I laid out the conspiracy. Once I was finished, she said, you mentioned William Sickert… He wasn’t just a whoremonger, he was a respected artist in the post-impressionist movement to modernism. While I do not think he was the killer, he was obsessed with the killings. Just look at his work, Jack the Ripper’s Bedroom. Provocative to say the least. While we are on the subject of ripper-as-artist theory, I have some gossip from Pittsburgh, Carlotta told us. 

Okay!, I said. Tell us more. 

The impressionist Mary Cassatt is from Pittsburgh where she’s naturally idolized. When she was in Paris, she intermingled with some of the greatest artists of her day. Artists like Sickert and Whistler. Artists like Edgar Degas. Degas, a real misogynistic asshole, & Cassatt were long-time friends and even collaborators. She was one of the few women Degas actually respected. In fact, Degas was in love with Mary Cassatt, but she consistently spurned his advances. We can only imagine why because she would later destroy his correspondence. But there are rumors which have persisted in Pittsburgh…

Pittsburgh is a far cry from White Chapel…, Leon pointed out.

Patience, kid!, Carlotta hissed at him. At the time of the murders, Edgar Degas would frequently visit his buddy impressionists in London. Degas was going blind and had become bitter, Carlotta said to us. Especially bitter towards women…

Are you implying Edgar Degas was Jack the Ripper?

Carlotta continued, saying, wasn’t there a message drawn in chalk at one of the crime scenes? Yes!, I said, a weird double-negative statement about “Juwes” which Alan Moore imagined as a reference to Freemason mythology. Carlotta nodded along and said, or it is less cryptic and more obvious anti-semitism. During the Dreyfus Affair, Degas would join ranks with the anti-semites while Cassatt was clearly pro-Dreyfus. But back to the chalk… artists in those days would always carry chalk on them. Coincidental so far, right… but what is Degas known for? His ballerinas. Ballerinas in France of that period  were often working class women who also worked as prostitutes. And who did Jack the Ripper kill? Prostitutes. Let’s consider the common details in Degas’ portraits of ballerinas: 1, they wore ribbons around their neck. Why? Perhaps as an allusion to having their throats slashed. 2, they hold flowers around their abdomen. Why? Perhaps symbolizing disembowelment. 3, off stage, you can see dark figures of men – johns – leering at the young ballerinas, awaiting their turn. It is as if Degas is recreating the scene of the crime through his pastels. 

Good heavens!, Leon exclaimed. Are you saying Edgar Degas is confessing to the murders in his paintings?

Maybe. Concealing his confession within his art, Carlotta nodded along. And while we lacked forensic technology to bring to the crime scene back in the 19th Century, we have a lot of new tech at our disposal now. 

And what’s been found?, I asked. Is there anything under the layers of paint?

Hold-on to your dunce cap, Vic, Carlotta said to me. It’s going to get wild. In addition to his pastels, Degas had a number of sculptures. The only one to be shown publicly in his lifetime was Little Dancer of Fourteen Years. The sculpture was of his muse – mind you, an actual fourteen year old – in the nude. The gallery clothed the statue in a tutu for modesty as it was not met with great reception at its unveiling. 

Gross, Leon frowned. 

The model, Carlotta went on, would pose for many of Degas’ works. She was often found in the local taverns, which doubled as Parisienne brothels, but a year later she disappeared. There is no record of her death. 

Well, I reasoned, in the very least, I think we can say Edgar Degas was a piece of shit. 

In the very least, Carlotta agreed, we can say that. The sculpture Little Dancer of Fourteen Years was carved out of wax. As were the rest of his sculptures, which was a very atypical medium. Fast forward to modern day technological advances and x-rays of the sculpture have revealed what’s within the wax. The ⅓ scale figure was built with armature made of paint brushes, wire, clay, rope and “unidentified organic materials”. 

Shit!, I said. Maybe not literal shit, Carlotta corrected me, but organic just the same. 

If Degas was the killer…, Carlotta said, the freak in me wants to believe Degas was taking bits of prostitute to save as souvenirs to use within his art itself. Whether that’s true, I can’t say. But Edgar Degas was definitely an asshole.

Back inside the pub, Sally was forgiving enough to pull me three new pints. I dared not tell her the Edgar Degas discovery, but she could tell I was hiding something. You look like the cat who swallowed the canary, Vic, the bartender said. Nothing to see here, I said burping into my fist. 

Carefully grabbing the three pints to return out the front door of the pub, I crossed paths with Ewa. Both of them. The Warsaw girls. Blonde Ewa, Leon’s muse, absently gave me a slight smile & slighter wave. Brunette Ewa, however, refused to look my way. She wore her father’s Italian leather jacket, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, high heels on the wooden floor. Gracefully, effortlessly, determinedly, the ballet dancer walked right through me as if I no longer existed. 

She was also wearing a choker around her neck. A black ribbon. Hell of a coincidence. If you are one to believe in coincidences.

READ MORE

Vic Neverman & John Gospel journey to Scotland

Go Back, Jack, Do It Again