Old Writing: Jack - Part One

My name is not important.  That is to say, it is irrelevant to the nature of my message.  You may call me Jack.  I am not, as they would have you believe, a monster.  I kill only out of necessity.  The brutality of my crimes is at the strict behest of my victims, those brave souls who have chosen to die that others may live.  I envy their sacrifice and see them not as victims, but rather as martyrs, choosing to end their lives for the sole purpose of aiding others.  Their names will not be remembered any more than mine, except by historians and collectors of the twisted and macabre.  They are divinity in its truest sense, no more, no less.

I do what I can to ease the suffering.  There is a long history in my native land of anesthetizing the sacrificial lamb.  The Druids before me, when they proffered to their pagan gods the burnt flesh of prisoners of war, made certain that the men felt no pain.  The images of the screaming, thrashing prisoner burning alive are nothing more than the petty remnants of the proponents of an ideology which could not tolerate those of others.

That being said, they are chosen because their lives have already been made forfeit, shallowly by the various venereal diseases which ravage their sad population, and more deeply by the rotted, disgusting inhumanity that has forced them into the life which made contraction of their plagues possible.  It is to draw attention to the darkness, the depravity of the rise and maintenance of the bitter aristocracy, that they come to me, choosing to end their lives so that the curtain may be pulled from the eyes of those who would otherwise remain blissfully unaware of their condition.