Whitechapel, London, 1888. The papers now say a man named Jack walks the streets of London in search of blood. This circus started with just a girl, one stupid little girl. Well stupid enough to walk around Whitechapel all alone and drunk. This Jack character saw her and knew exactly what to do with her. He saw her pale skin, her chapped lips, her mad hair, her beating heart, her veins and her bones. He saw her as a joke, he would show London that the so called police were not so honorable and capable, and that he was the only one who could perform the perfect crime. He would make the police corps the laughing stock of London, yes; he liked jokes. He was a tall man, young, disturbed, warped, had been in a fight when he was a lad and so had something quite peculiar out of it. A Chelsea grin. He liked jokes. Jokes like the monarchy, the socialites, these whores!
He had a reputation in the underworld of London. But to all who knew him and hired him for his services he was not Jack, this name he only knew it himself, he was The Joker.
Nobody knew this Mr.J was the Jack fellow, after all he had only used his real name twice. One time, when he was younger and naïve to try to get out of trouble with some opium dealers and that, as his features showed, didn't end up well. And second on that funny letter he had sent to the police chief, yes you know the one, the one signed "from Hell"…