Welcome, friend.

Have a seat by the fire.

Make yourself comfortable.

When I'm mad at hearts, this flower has given me joy.

But while life does remain, in memoriam I'll retain.

This small violet I plucked from mother's girl.

The streets remember.

Those words murmured like a ghostly echo, a forgotten voice carried aloft on London's crisp October chill. A woman's voice, faint on the wind, cold and withered, spoke of that grisly, unrepented act,

carved with the blade's edge in flesh, stone and time for all posterity.

The streets do remember, and with a tone light as a feather, the dead woman's

voice whispered across the ages, so soon shall you. You're listening to Camp Fire Radio Theatre.

Our tale for all Hallows Eve is a continuation of the dark tone crafted by writer-director

Blaine Hickland, a modern penny dreadful, if you will.

So walk with us along the streets of Old Whitechapel, if you dare,

and listen closely.

For on a cool autumn night such as this,

there's no telling what tales one might hear.

The play is called Rip.

Because many a sane man have lost their way down the path we set foot upon now.

Another pint, barkeep.

3 pounds 60.

Not on the house this time.

...