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The Streetcleaner - 1
This is an ongoing project detailing the events that unfolded during the Yorkshire ripper's reign of terror - These take a lot of time to write as I try to keep it real. Reader discretion advised and comments are appreciated! Enjoy if you can - J0k3
#truecrime #TheStreetcleaner
Chapter 1
Sonia was a lovely girl; so he thought. Till his brother Mick saw her and that Italian ice-cream bloke. Doing as any sod would, he approached her and went to pick a bone but she was having none of it. ‘Fuck that bint’ he thought and his delivery of vengeance was via a lady of the evening. He drove past the Royal Standard pub, and laid eyes on a lass at the petrol station. She'll do. How went over to confirm his suspicions and bartered him a lovely price of a fiver. They were driving back to her gaff so they could fulfil their arrangement and so Peter could get his fiver change she owed him from the tenner he gave her, that’s when his disgust of the girl had developed but he felt silly trying to back out now. They got to the house and they were greeted to some slobbering mutt giving a half arsed bark when the latch dropped. I’m sure old boys accustomed to hearing that same latch followed by a crushendo of footsteps leading up the stairs, at least thrice a day.
He squirmed lowering her zip before succumbing to his loathing of the pair and their actions, politely declining the service they had agreed on. She was still to be paid but they had to travel back to the shit'ole of a garage of which he found her. It’ll come as no suprise the young lady should never return from the office to the far side of the forecourt. Not too long later one of the blokes working at the station, her pimp or some other collaborator I'm presuming, approached Peter's car wrench in-hand. Pete started chelping back, to no avail. Soon after the girl and some other goon walked away – laughing.
“I felt a hatred for her and her kind.”
Come September ’69, might have been a week or a month, but anyway they were sitting in Trevor’s minivan, close to Manningham Park. He’d been searching for that bitch that taxed his fiver. Spontaneously he jumped out the van and booted out of sight. He came back around ten minutes later, wheezing and swallowing the air but still managing to choke out the words for Trevor to hit the red-line.
Now nearing Bingley, Peter had regained his breath and told Trevor that He’d hit some old cow with a rock in a sock. How then produced said sock and hurled its contents out the window. Two coppers flew by his house on Cornwall road the next day but to his appeasement was told he was ‘very lucky’ following some hell of a lecture. Due to the nature of her business, the woman wasn’t interested in pressing charges. A very lucky, lucky man.
Later that month, Peter prowled the streets in search of his next victim. Blade and hammer in pocket, at a steady pace in his old Morris Minor, he began his mission. They told him it wasn't good enough. It’s not good enough. Not good enough. He had to kill. However not that night, daft sod left the car engine running and the lights on; a copper walking the beat found him hunched behind a hedge, hammer in hand, and was promptly arrested and charged with being equipped for theft. They never found his blade, which he supposedly stashed between the mudguard cover and the police van which came to take him to town. He was a lucky man indeed.
#truecrime #TheStreetcleaner
Chapter 1
Sonia was a lovely girl; so he thought. Till his brother Mick saw her and that Italian ice-cream bloke. Doing as any sod would, he approached her and went to pick a bone but she was having none of it. ‘Fuck that bint’ he thought and his delivery of vengeance was via a lady of the evening. He drove past the Royal Standard pub, and laid eyes on a lass at the petrol station. She'll do. How went over to confirm his suspicions and bartered him a lovely price of a fiver. They were driving back to her gaff so they could fulfil their arrangement and so Peter could get his fiver change she owed him from the tenner he gave her, that’s when his disgust of the girl had developed but he felt silly trying to back out now. They got to the house and they were greeted to some slobbering mutt giving a half arsed bark when the latch dropped. I’m sure old boys accustomed to hearing that same latch followed by a crushendo of footsteps leading up the stairs, at least thrice a day.
He squirmed lowering her zip before succumbing to his loathing of the pair and their actions, politely declining the service they had agreed on. She was still to be paid but they had to travel back to the shit'ole of a garage of which he found her. It’ll come as no suprise the young lady should never return from the office to the far side of the forecourt. Not too long later one of the blokes working at the station, her pimp or some other collaborator I'm presuming, approached Peter's car wrench in-hand. Pete started chelping back, to no avail. Soon after the girl and some other goon walked away – laughing.
“I felt a hatred for her and her kind.”
Come September ’69, might have been a week or a month, but anyway they were sitting in Trevor’s minivan, close to Manningham Park. He’d been searching for that bitch that taxed his fiver. Spontaneously he jumped out the van and booted out of sight. He came back around ten minutes later, wheezing and swallowing the air but still managing to choke out the words for Trevor to hit the red-line.
Now nearing Bingley, Peter had regained his breath and told Trevor that He’d hit some old cow with a rock in a sock. How then produced said sock and hurled its contents out the window. Two coppers flew by his house on Cornwall road the next day but to his appeasement was told he was ‘very lucky’ following some hell of a lecture. Due to the nature of her business, the woman wasn’t interested in pressing charges. A very lucky, lucky man.
Later that month, Peter prowled the streets in search of his next victim. Blade and hammer in pocket, at a steady pace in his old Morris Minor, he began his mission. They told him it wasn't good enough. It’s not good enough. Not good enough. He had to kill. However not that night, daft sod left the car engine running and the lights on; a copper walking the beat found him hunched behind a hedge, hammer in hand, and was promptly arrested and charged with being equipped for theft. They never found his blade, which he supposedly stashed between the mudguard cover and the police van which came to take him to town. He was a lucky man indeed.
