Abyss Express

The British "Sun" is the notorious RED·TOPS [red letter super eye-catching title party] - for the convenience of understanding, you can regard it as the ultimate gold enhanced version of UC browser.

Thirty-one-year-old Mr. Wilson is an independent writer, but he prefers to call himself a [writer] or a [literary hero] rather than a writer. To be more exaggerated, he is [the darling of the times] Or [Jester with a pen as a gun], this kind of title can be used as an announcer on the big stage of the Royal Theater in England next door if you change your costume.

He wrote articles for the Sun, and what he wrote was not true, or at least false.

He regards Conan Doyle as an idol and Shakespeare as his life goal.

In addition to these lofty artistic pursuits, there is another author who he never forgets, keeps in mind all the time, and talks about it——

"—David Victor."

Under the dim light, Wilson stroked his black hair, with a little scarlet emerging from the roots.

He has a pair of very beautiful eyes, dark red pupils like enstatite, with a golden flame radiating from the pupils. These eyes cost 600,000 Euros, which is the top medical and aesthetic surgery in the human world, to create such beautiful artificial eyes.

"David Victor" Wilson fiddled with the pen, like a fanatical groupie, whispering in front of the workbench, "If it were you, how would you write?"

Years ago, Mr. Wilson met David once. From then on, he made love at first glance, and he could never forget this enchanting and coquettish writer again.

At this point, Wilson had a problem.

He was the head star of The Sun, and the boss of the newspaper took a new job and asked him to publish a new story on the two main pages of the newspaper, which was about the murder in St. James' Park.

There were more than 200 dead, all of them blood.

To write this story into a short story——

——I can’t write too much detail, because this is a documentary story.

——I can’t write too clearly, because I have to write it for the children of the Rosary Church.

——You can’t write bad things about Mistress Mary, but you should praise Mistress Mary’s wisdom, and write clearly about her chicness after breaking the appointment and the luck of saving her life.

One point is particularly important.

That is to write clearly that the real culprit is a forty-six-year-old former pigeon breeder at James Park.

What should we do?

what can we do about it?

After lip augmentation, Wilson mused, his face was like a sculpture of marble.

"David Victor, what would you do?"

"You are a realist writer. If you were to write this story, I'm afraid you would find the culprit yourself, ask a good question, take the material from his brain, and then send the murderer to hell, right?"

The pen turns from the tail finger to the thumb, gripping tightly.

"I'm not the same. I make a living by writing. I write whatever the rich and powerful want me to write—even if it's unfounded, even if it's FAKE NEWS (fake news). When it's time to show your skills."

There are two prosthetics in the straight bridge of the nose. This artificially shaped face looks very much like Mr. Victor.

"I miss you, I miss you all the time, I love you! More than I love myself."

"Victor Victor."

"Give me your inspiration."

"Give me all your essence."

A title appeared on the page.

The name is [Bury the Light·Burying Light]——it is a bizarre story about ancient legends of gods and monsters.

It's not real at all, very magical.

It is too difficult to shirk the cause of death of more than 200 dead people in the cemetery to a pigeon breeder. Mr. Wilson changed his perspective and writing style--putting the identity of the established culprit , into the legendary Jack the Ripper.

As for why this Winston Spencer turned into Jack?

Why Jack wanted to kill these great nobles had to be considered in the long run.

"Damn it"

Wilson was cursing, his eyes getting colder and colder. He took the coffee cup from the table and brought a cup of fresh hot drink to the flesh juicer.

Even the mixed drink of caffeine and human blood could not relieve the distress in his heart.

Every time before he picks up a pen, he feels a great desolation in his soul, as if it has been hollowed out, and there are no more fresh jokes.

People in this business must not rely on inspiration. David Victor also needs to travel around, communicate with countless people, and collect materials on the spot.

It is a pity that Wilson did not have this opportunity.

His daily output is 12,000 words, and he also needs to go to the printing office and newspaper office to proofread the manuscript repeatedly. Morphine and methamphetamine are the panacea for him to stimulate his spiritual essence to create.

But at this moment, he must stay awake.

Because the assignment this time is the top priority——

——It is related to the innocence of Madam Mary, and the future of the entire blood family.

He must use highly directional and purposeful word order, use harsh words, and use vicious sentences—to sort out all the contradictions and pull them off to Winston Spencer.

Then, Winston, the real murderer, was led to other places by the background of his life experience, and this black pot was put on the head of a certain unlucky sect, or directly killed on the head of the boss of the Abyss Railway.

This matter is very difficult, much more difficult than Weibo essays or Zhihu shaking cleverness.

Therefore, Wilson thought of the person he admired so much——

"—If it were you, David Victor. Surely this should not trouble you?"

He is very envious of Mr. Victor's creative method, like printing or engraving, writing vivid characters one by one, just picking flowers and grass on the side of the road, and presenting these characters and events completely in front of readers.

But what about Wilson?

He needs to start from scratch and try his best to fulfill each lie from the empty falsehood.

It's like a new question sent by the boss today——

—he could hardly comprehend how this happened.

in London!

Under the nose of the fucking Queen of England.

It's only a kilometer away from Downing Street.

In front of the heroic spirits of the British dynasties.

There are more than two hundred fucking non-human monsters, killed by a forty-six-year-old ugly man who looks like a bad old man.

No one escaped.

According to the police officer's description, the scene was very clean, and even the bullet casings could not be seen, only the metal slivers left in the humanoid body, indicating that someone had shot and killed the enemy here.

All traces left by the murderer at the scene have been erased.

The location of the original footprints was dug up by the engineer shovel, and even the size of the shoes or height could not be calculated.

When the anti-drug dog smelled the strong gunpowder smoke and the nicotine solvent to drive away the beasts, it was frightened and ran with its tail between its legs, and the police officer couldn't stop it.

After a heavy rain, nothing remains.

Wilson is just a writer, he's not a detective.

It is impossible for him to deduce the real culprit from these clues——

—but blame the murder on Winston Spencer.

He can only use the legends of gods and monsters combined with pseudoscience to explain, to tell the people and the blood race a statement.

The first is to follow David Victor's word order and write the most critical subtitles.

It's called [Gene Mutation: 314.1C] - this gene mutation is very common in European races, and it was also reported in the "Independent" in 2014, the DNA sample verification of Jack the Ripper 160 years ago result.

According to anecdotal reports, Wilson learned - Winston Spencer liked widows.

So tell me a bittersweet story?

Let’s talk about this perverted and ugly murderer, who secretly committed adultery with the Red Queen’s godmother, Barbara.

The murderer has been dormant in St. James's Park in London for many years, secretly engaged in murder and robbing, and eliminated competitors for the politicians in Downing Street.

He has committed countless bloody crimes, and the blood on his hands can dye the entire Thames River red.

Because of his curious and perverted taste, when he meets beautiful women, he will turn them into widows.

But this time, Barbara's godmother just refused the request to murder her husband, and Jack wanted all the guests at the funeral to be buried with him.

"Well—the outline is finished." Wilson's expression became cold, and he added some details to the main thread of the article.

"Barbara is a slut who covets the money and status of the godfather of Leon and the strong and healthy body of Jack the Ripper. I know, women like this, they like a polite and strong husband, and they like A wild wolf with supernatural powers as a lover."

"Jack conspired with Barbara many times to kill Leon's godfather. Barbara agreed, but secretly used tricks to help the godfather avoid assassination many times. She is loyal and passionate, a woman of the new era. Ah ha!~"

"When she was confused and sleepy, she met Dr. Wang Chenggui from the East, and in Barbara's psychotherapy class, the two of them fought fiercely, and they got together that night."

"They went to the Cafe Royal Hotel and had a drunken carnival on the highest point of the building. Barbara felt inexplicable remorse in her heart, because she could directly see her husband's workplace hundreds of meters away. Readers' hearts are clenched and choked by their throats - Victor! That's what you do! Right? To choke them without killing them!"

"But Barbara can't hide from Jack, she can't hide from the eyes of the Ripper."

"After learning all this, Jack, an unfamiliar white-eyed wolf, was so jealous that he went crazy, so there was a tragedy at the Royal Free Hospital and a tragedy at St. James's Park."

"In the end, this delicate flower withered in the cemetery, and died with the doctor who saved people from the fire and water, and died with the husband who loved her all his life and was still willing to be a foil after learning of her cheating. The other two hundred Funeral goods are all counted as Jack's morbid love for her."

"Looking at this article from a female perspective, it is romantic and exciting, full of elements of unrequited love and horror and fantasy, the kind of self-movement after violating morality should be able to open their hearts - there are more than two hundred A living sacrifice is a testimony of love, and it is a first-class good material."

"Um"

Wilson bit the penholder with a complicated expression.

"The story is over, it's time to talk about the purpose and direction of this article."

He put on his overcoat, took the manuscript and prepared to leave.

"David Victor, I'm going to try your creative ideas this time, because I really can't think of who to pour this basin of dirty water on, and how to pour it out in a reasonable and convincing way."

He got into the car and rushed to the former park site by the Thames, vaguely remembering several places Winston often visited. It works especially well if you can add a little truth to the lie.

half an hour later—

—The doorman at the Greenwich Hotel looked terrified.

He was kidnapped by Wilson and locked in the dark basement of the hotel.

Mr. Wilson is full of joy, and at this moment he can feel the aesthetics of David Victor.

When faced with fresh materials, he must savor the feeling of dominating other people's lives, overpowering the lives of the weak, and arbitrarily seizing the essence.

With just a swipe, Wilson's pen was like a sharp knife, cutting open the doorman's leg artery.

He crouched beside the doorman's legs, licking the blood on his thigh with his long scarlet tongue——

"—I want to ask you something, and you must answer truthfully, or you will die."

Faced with such a direct threat of death, the doorman nodded vigorously. The wound on the large blood vessel of his thigh did not hurt as much as he imagined, but he could really feel that the vitality was continuously draining from his body.

Wilson said with a cold face: "You only have twenty minutes, boy. After twenty minutes, you will lose blood and die. The only one who can save you is yourself."

The doorman was surprised and frantic, and made a humming sound from the sackcloth in his mouth.

Wilson stuck out his tongue and let out a strange trill.

"I can feel your emotions in my blood. Are you wronged? Confused? Angry? But nature selects the fittest to survive. In my eyes, you are like a piece of meat on the dining table. I will kill you , It's only right and proper—I will save your life unless you bring me great spiritual value, now you have to think hard, boy, you have to think hard, stop using that arrogant and resentful Face me!"

The doorman immediately took care of his facial expressions, and his strong desire to survive forced him to compromise.

Wilson pulled out the rag from the porter's mouth and asked in a low voice.

"You know Winston Spencer, don't you?"

"Yes! Yes, I know!"

"What kind of person is he?"

"Likes to brag! He always says he knows a lot of great people!"

"Who does he know?"

"Commander-in-Chief, Staff Officer and Staff Wife of the Royal Air Force."

"anything else?"

"Prince Charles had tea with him."

"Oh, it's outrageous. What else?"

"Two Chancellors of the Exchequer fought him in sword fights and lost to him."

"Well, besides these people, who else does he know? Isn't there anything dirty? Despicable? Like murderers, kidnappers, terrorists, etc.?"

The doorman thought about it.

"No. He never used these people as talking points, and I'm curious too."

Wilson frowned, and continued to ask: "Then where does he like to move around?"

"Aside from the parks, he likes to see warships, go to the Tower of London Museum, walk along the Thames, cycle around Greenwich and exercise every day."

"Boring." Wilson curled his lips, as if he had heard a very boring story: "It's worthless material."

The doorman's eyes became more and more frightened, and he searched his memory hard to find something useful.

"No no no! No no no no! My lord! Let me think! Let me think carefully!"

Wilson raised his eyebrows coldly, took out his coffee cup and continued drinking, "You'd better hurry up, I'm impatient, in this day and age, many readers only read the first three paragraphs of a book. The girl left immediately—like a high-ranking god, like holding the author's lifeblood in his hand, holding the power of life and death. I don't rarely take a second look at rubbish materials like yours."

"You want to kill me? Just because my life is worthless to you? Is it a story without any new ideas?" The doorman felt incredible.

Wilson was full of disgust: "Put your position right! If you weren't related to Winston Spencer--smelly blood like yours, I wouldn't even take a second sip of it. This blood is full of wind, frost and rain. It tastes bitter and cold! Asking me to taste such a miserable pheromone repeatedly is simply a kind of mental torture! You still dare to yell at me? I will crush you to death just like crushing a bug! Do you understand? ? You! It's a bug!"

The doorman was breathing violently, the corners of his mouth twitched, and he couldn't even shed tears.

Wilson stood up, letting the blood of his prey seep into the masonry of the basement.

"Have you thought about it? Even if it's made up! Make up a wonderful story for me! Who the hell is Spencer Winston—is he really abstaining from pornography, gambling, and drugs? He and Any criminal gangsters have nothing to do with it? You're messing me up! How am I going to write him into another blood faction now?"

"He, he, he, he." The doorman was shaking all over. As time went by, the blood in his body became less and less. Normal human beings would experience dizziness, hemorrhagic shock and other complications after losing about 500 milliliters of blood. Symptoms would take his life.

He felt his body temperature drop, and a great fear overwhelmed all reason.

He just nodded and said yes, and he went crazy.

The hemp rope strangled the arm. At first it was a burning pain, then it was itchy and numb, and finally swollen and cold.

His face was pale and he begged for mercy inarticulately.

"Please, please let me go, this bug. Please...please."

Wilson wanted to take out the manuscript from his clothes, and talk to this ambiguous [material] about how to write a story. Maybe these fictional things can make this sad, poor boy feel more new in his mind.

Just like his right hand, his right arm is as stable as Mount Tai. He uses it to hold the weapon and pull the trigger, and it is also used to write, kill, earn money and kill the moment the arm reaches into the clothes.

A silvery light pierced the darkness.

On the beams of the underground wine cellar, a huge shadow fell.

Wilson's eyes were lost. The low-temperature blood that burst out from his arm splashed on the incandescent lamp, and the entire basement became bright red.

He has almost no chance to resist, the weapon is on his right leg, and he can't even draw a gun with his right hand.

Manuscripts were scattered in all directions, only to see a huge shadow standing in front of it like an iron tower——

——Under the huge wide-brimmed hood, a pair of blood-red eyes and two rows of white teeth lit up, smiling confidently and powerfully.

"I am the looming thunderstorm."

The neat feathers of the overcoat were woven into the villain's cloak.

"I want to break free from the cage and get back my real name."

The gleaming silver meat-sawing knife brought blood foam and sparks, repeatedly steaming the bones of the vampire.

"You are the sacrifice for my new life."

Jack Martin picked up his prey by the collar—

——Wilson exploded into trouble in an instant! The skull instantly deforms!

Like a holy cross, when the four-petal mouth showed its fangs, it bit Jack's shoulder firmly.

"hahahahahahahahahahaha!--"

Wilson heard laughter, the ecstasy of rebirth, the strange and inexplicable mystery.

Soon, all he had left was his mouth.

The bits of meat on the carpet presented a problem for the coroner—

——Jack pulled out his shoulder fangs one by one.

He bent down and cut the rope for the doorman. When he lowered his head and leaned forward, under the blood-red light, he could see a blond man in his early thirties laughing enthusiastically, as if something went wrong with his mind, and he couldn't stop laughing.

In just a few tens of seconds, the doorman woke up from the slight blindness caused by blood loss. Only then did I realize that the thigh had been bandaged, and the blood transfusion syringe was still inserted in the thigh, and half of the needle tube was dangling outside.

Look at the door again——

——Jack held the manuscript and carefully read Wilson's bad work.

Under the big hood, the man just grinned grinningly, and glanced at the doorman, as if he was sure that the unlucky boy was fine and regained his sanity.

He was like a puff of smoke, the black crow feather cloak wrapped tightly around his body, and disappeared into the corridor of the basement like a sharp arrow——

—disappeared in the darkness.