The Grindhouse 42nd Street Killer
Jack the Ripper—a man of mystery and terror. I said, man, but no one knows for sure. The Ripper could have been a woman. Another thing about Saucy Jack, his total kill score is only estimated at five kills. I know the number may be arguable by names and locations, but I am taking the, for sure, known kills.
My name is Jimmy Thomas. I am 76 years old, a retired film projectionist, and a former serial killer. I bet you have never seen that on a resume.
I have always loved the mystery of Jack the Ripper—like I like my movies. That is why I chose to be a projectionist. I love being a projectionist and have always worked in the Grindhouse theaters. The Grindhouse is not only a place to work but is a great hunting ground when my film skills are not required.
I have decided to write my memoirs, older, retired, and never been caught, like Jack the Ripper. Not sure if it will be incriminating, but there is no evidence or witnesses.
Sept 14th, 1976 8:00 P.M.
Projection Booth:
The projection booth is my second home. I try to keep it clean, but I am never good at picking up and throwing away pizza boxes or hamburger wrappers. On the other hand, I have everything categorized (splicing tape, splicer, reels, bulbs, cleaners) and set in perfect locations, so I know where I need to find something in case of a film emergency. There is nothing worse than having a film break or bulb outage and people throwing popcorn and soft drinks at the booth.
I watch the grindhouse films as much as possible while working in the booth, and they are not only entertaining but educational at the same time. I never attended college, but I have a high IQ and found my direction in life.
Unlike Family and Hollywood theaters, Grindhouse theaters are full of drunks and people looking for the extreme on the screen. Rarely will a grindhouse theater show a typical Hollywood movie, and tonight is not one of those nights. These are the nights I enjoy.
Let me explain my protocol and the things that I need to follow to ensure my freedom.
1) Only enter the theater itself when a new 20 or 40-minute reel has just started, for time flexibility in the attack.
2) Make sure there is no patron in the grindhouse sitting behind you, other than passed-out drunks.
3) The louder the movie, the better time for the attack.
4) The most action-packed scenes, the faster bleed-out time (escalated heart rate).
5) The Larger the popcorn bucket (popcorn can absorb blood), the easier it is to dispose of blood.
6) Make sure they are sitting next to or close to the exit door, and it is not locked or blocked.
11:30 P.M.
Grindhouse Theater:
I rigged up a double film reel to have 40 minutes of film spooled onto the reel. This way, I have time on my side, correction, never too much time, but always too little.
The number of patrons in the theater made me thankful I still have a job. New York is shit, and jobs are right on its tail.
I have a flashlight and am shining it face down at a slight angle. No one wants to wake a sleeping bear, or should I say a passed-out drunk, the common prey thinks I am an usher checking the aisles for anything naughty.
The drunks are at a low attendance tonight, which makes things easier for me and my activities.
“What’s that... whose there," says Buddy. He is usually a four-night out-of-the-week bum that sleeps in the theater.
"It's just me, Buddy."
"Oh, hey Jimmy," murmurs Buddy, with a half-cocked smile.
"Go back to sleep, Buddy. I'm just checking the aisles."
Buddy nods his head.
The time is ticking, frame by frame. I am walking back up the center aisle to analyze my options. I calculated four passed-out bums, including Buddy, one paranoid patron who must have mistaken tonight as porn night, and two patrons sitting together resembling underground filmmakers. Hmm! I forgot to go to the confessional this week, so no bums. The two underground filmmakers may make an educated grindhouse film one day, so no underground filmmakers. I guess the mistaken porn patron is the lucky one tonight. He happens to be sitting on the opposite side of the aisle. I could not ask for an easier kill.
I once had a person ask me if I do what I do for money or enjoyment. I happily answered yes, as I slid the blade across his throat. Do you think the union remembers a projectionist they put in a Grindhouse theater? I have to live.
I am rolling the trash can on wheels in front of me as I softly walk down the left aisle—I stop three rows behind my entertainment and leave the trash can secure against the outer seat. The patron’s eyes—glued to the screen—so there is no need for me to be so quiet in my actions. I sat in the chair directly behind him. Looking at the screen, I can now understand why his eyes are frozen. If only he knew he would soon be seeing what he sees but through the eyes of the victim.
From watching the entertaining film so many times, I know what is getting ready to happen. I slide the ice pick from my jacket, followed by sliding the hammer from my sleeve.
Time is ticking frame by frame!
I am waiting for the screams from the screen and the darkness from the victim’s death. I aim the ice pick to just the right location at the base of his neck.
Frame—Frame—Frame—Frame—Frame—
“AHHHHHHHHHH!” The theater is dark as night.
I drive the ice pick deep into my entertainment’s neck. I hear a muffled scream and feel a small temporary squirt of blood that hits me on the bridge of my nose. I allow the ice pick to remain secure.
My time is running out. I have no choice but to leave my entertainment alone, so I can change over the projectors to run the last reel.
Oh, he will remain seated. I am the director of the new show at hand.
By the time I am back in the booth, I wipe my forehead and sweat my hand. I turn off one projector and turn on the other. One frame cues another. I turn off the booth light and rush back to the stage.
I quietly roll the trash can to the star of my film and easily pull him to his new chariot—the trash can. He never fights back. I guess I am getting better with the ice pick because he is paralyzed, except for his eyes and breathing. I need to start picking lighter entertainment—he was heavier than I thought.
The film on the screen is coming to a climax. The few losers left in the theater are not easily interrupted, so I had no problem following my film stars chariot out the front side exit door right into the alley.
*****
Back to what I said earlier, I do not make enough money being a projectionist in a grindhouse theater to live, so I found a new way to help bring in funds.
I take my stars chariot and tip it over; he rolls out on the dirty asphalt in the alley. Seeing how he is almost face down on his side, I roll him over and straighten him out. His eyes are blinking fast. There is no emotion on his face, but his eyes can tell a thousand stories.
I reach behind the trash into a covey hole located in the brick wall. It never gets wet, and there I can store my camera and knives before I start my shift. I have everything I need. I have many contacts acquired from working at the theater and can sell them pictures of my still-frame film massacres. Even I will say, these characters that buy my still-frame film are very shady. Should I care? They pay well.
I take my star and unbutton his shirt. He does not have as much fat on him as I thought, so less cutting time. His eyes are rotating in every direction.
“No need to worry.”
His eyes are moving even faster. They look like fireworks exploding on the 4th of July.
“Action!”
I slowly ran my knife across his stomach—cutting his skin enough to bring blood to the top. I grab my camera and focus on a body shot, including his wide-open eyes. It is hitting me, the vision for my film.
I have the knife even deeper into his skin and deep enough to cut into the muscle. His eyes are looking like New Year's Eve flashing even more. My camera is the catcher of souls—always telling stories never thought of before.
I notice as my star starts getting weaker. My knife gets deeper into his canvas. So before I let him die in fame, I take the ice pick out of his neck and let the fluids start flowing. Able to squirm and crawl but cannot walk. He finds it upon himself to try and leave the set. Only to find the more he crawls on the dirty, infectious alley, his intestines fall out slowly and start following him. Every time he reaches, he only causes the intestine train to get longer.
“That’s it—you are a born star.”
“Uhhhhh, Uhhhhh,” says the star.
“This is my best film yet. No dialogue, please.”
There have been four minutes of the slowly dragged intestine, and I think I have all the pictures possible in that position. I still have three shots left on the roll. What can I do?
“You should win an award for your performance. What can we do to finish with a spectacular ending?”
The star slowly pulls his hands up to his throat, “Uhhhhh… Waaaa…”
“That’s it,” I say with excitement!
I helpfully grab the star by his shoulders, dragging him to the wall and propping him up. I look upward and see a pipe coming out of the wall. I Follow this intestine to the end and grab it. I throw it around the rusty pipe and pull it till it causes tension. I feel like plucking at it to see what note it makes, but pictures are soundless.
“You ready?”
Looking at me, he drags his hands on the asphalt. His eyes are rotating and flashing faster than a siren light on a police car. ”Uhh—Uhh—Uhh—“ I know this will make a perfect ending. I help my star stand up. I reach into his body and tie the intestine to the hip bone. I pull it and feel it tighten. It’s amazing what you can learn from an anatomy book.
I set the camera and say, “Smile.”
The star does not smile. Oh well, a smile is not what my shady clients want. I take the intestine and pull, hoping it will not break. Tonight is my night! The star dangles in the air, and I take the final pictures.
I never have the same star in more than one film.
I turn him around and put the ice pick back in his neck. My stars always exit the alley by the trash dumpster.
As Shitty as New York is—why should they even think to relate the deaths to me?
