My interest in Jack the Ripper and commedia dell'arte seems to have combined during the night into me dreaming a scenario, which I could only call "Harlequin Ripper." London, 1888: Harlequin writes Columbine a love letter in red ink, full of such poor spelling and crazy metaphors, it gets intercepted and mistaken for one of those "From Hell" letters from Jack the Ripper; and Harlequin's strange dress and foreign accent make him all the more suspicious.
Didn't quite dream and ending to this but didn't really need to, commedias all have exactly the same ending every time.
Didn't quite dream and ending to this but didn't really need to, commedias all have exactly the same ending every time.
Oh, Saucy Jack, youre a haughty one.