Jack the Ripper: A Modern-Day Twist on a Murderous Rampage
Book # 2 of The Black Magic Gang
June 12, 1863.
Dear Sir—The bearer of this, Francis Tumblety, M.D., an esteemed friend of mine, is about to visit London for the first time, and will consequently be a stranger in your metropolis. Any attention which you may extend to him will be greatly appreciated by
Your friend and humble servant,
“P.S.”-- A brilliant battlefield surgeon whose anatomical knowledge and facility with a scalpel is without equal.
“It’s like jumping into a time machine with a broken clock! It is historical fiction, I think, but there is little evidence [none] of the meticulous research I am accustomed to in the books I normally read. What an imagination Ray has. I didn’t know which way to turn the page and I haven’t been that dizzy since that [bleeping] bee stung me on the lip. I loved it. I am looking forward to getting my free copy of the next one.”
— Ken “The Lip” Peters (One of the founding fathers) Happy Hooker Fishing Club
“It’s a roller coaster ride. I enjoy crime fiction, the suspense of it all and Ray certainly delivers that in his Black Magic Gang saga; an excellent job of storytelling. I can hardly wait to read his follow-up.”
— John “Knotty Cast” Parker (Senior member) Happy Hooker Fishing Club
My baby teeth first made their pearly-white appearance in late June of 1948, in the tiny fishing village of Greenspond, Newfoundland-Bonavista North. It was there on Canada’s Atlantic coast that I spent the first six months of my wondrous life.
I whiled away those midsummer months in blissful slumber, on a make-do mattress that had been lovingly fashioned from the nesting-down of the wild ducks and geese that co-inhabited our coastal homestead.
The mattress cover was tanned seal skin, softened, then stretched and dried over a massive sun-bleached driftwood log.
My crib was skilfully crafted by my Uncle Frank, from the storm-damaged remains of a wooden lobster pot. Every afternoon my trendsetting cradle was taken outside and placed under a canopy of drying cod fish. The fish-flake umbrella shielded me from the swooping gulls and provided shelter against the damp chill of the ever-present, Bonavista fog.
The soothing touch of my patchwork comforter; the flavorful taste of sea salt that permeating the air; the delightful aromatic blend of rotting fish heads, lobster shells, blueberries and wild roses; along with the sight and sounds of the squawking gulls, I am convinced, instilled in me a lifelong appreciation of nature . . . and a burning desire to live, forever by the sea.
Ray was almost an international citizen at birth. His mom Peggy, a “War Bride” and his father Max, a “Merchant Marine” from Newfoundland, sailed from England to Eastern Canada via trans-Atlantic liner, landing at Pier 21 in Halifax.
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