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A personal, and tragic, story

I know this is a kind of a "WTF" thing. But as a personal fact linked to myself, and my distant family. I thinks it educating, enlightening to tell this story.

If you guys don't know, in the mid 1970s to 1980s here in the U.K. A man by the name of Peter Sutcliffe, AKA: The Yorkshire Ripper happened.

A copy cat of Jack The Ripper who, back in the 1800s, preyed on female prostitutes and then proceeded to murder them, and then not long after, removed parts of their organs

Fucked up I know.

The fact that we got another one less than 18 decades later is disturbing.

Though as a fact, the Yorkshire Ripper passed away a few months ago from COVID-19. After refusing treatment.

Now you might be wondering why I'm explaining all of this? And why I care enough to address it.

Well it's quite simply. One of the victims from his killings, was actually a distant relative of mine. My cousin's grandmother: Wilma McCann. The Ripper's first victim.

Despite never having met her, I hope she's at peace.

Again, it's messed up. You know I don't openly encourage murder, or killing of people.

But the Yorkshire Ripper?

I'm glad he's gone.

I don't care if he was sick, mentally challenged or just misunderstood.

I sincerely hope that Peter Sutcliffe is rotting in the deepest of hells.

(Sorry, I know it's bad to speak ill of the dead, but I just only found out he died, so yeah. Fuck him)