1888
East End, White Chapel District, London, England

Nine dead.

The paper were calling him Jack the Ripper, or the Ripper. Didn’t matter reall,  he wasn't even jack. He was Billy Claiborne.

After leaving Arizona he’d hit the east coast and then London. He’d settled down for a little bit before he’d gotten the itch again. Billy was really into it, shooting people and such was a turn on for him.

After they’d arrived here he’d fucked ever whore he could convince that American’s were better. To bad Kalan was taking names and addresses. 

And lately Kalan had been going through the whores in the same order as Billy, jut a year after him. To the day. Even the ‘double homicide’ Billy had been horny that night.

Now the city was in fear, the cops had their heads up their asses, and Kalan had already booked passage to France.

The door on the apartment blow open under the pressure of a celestial boot, the man following through with a sureness of motion as Kalen/Billy fell backwards, the tip of the blade missing his face by a measurement one day called a millimeter. But for this time it was called the breathe of a butterfly’s wings. Scrabbling across the floor he evaded the sword, barely, several times he was so lucky and took some light cuts. FUCK!

Kicking a chair he knocked into the man’s legs long enough for Billy/Kalan to stand and access the situation. Who was this fucking fuck?!

“You’re easy to follow,” The man said, his sword barely moving.

“EARP?!” Billy shouted.

“True Enough, Billy Claiborne. True enough.”

“Shit!” Billy said as he ran for a window and dived through it, not even looking to see if it was safe first. Sword or brick, either killed the same. And he’d rather take a brick. That sword was permanent.

Hitting the ground bad Kalan/Billy limped as fast as he could, getting to the crowded area’s as fast as he could and avoiding death. Earp was just another name that son of a bitch had gone by. And the asshole didn’t have the decency to die!