The streets were overcrowded with the clutter of filthy street traders amidst the sickening disease of midnight sewage rats , whilst drunkard fools clamored and behaved obscenely with a devious intent to cause alarm to the innocent in the London street crowd . The evening sky began to crumble with misery , and the breathless echoes of scavenging animals conquering their existence for the desirable delicacy of flesh filled the air .
London , during the latter part of the Second World War , became nothing more than a cesspit of depression and social decline . It was an open wound of a city with minimal hope of healing and survival . Only the wealthiest typically survived such ordeals , but even the rich had their own nightmares approaching . The swollen streets of London were once a haven for fine dining and show business , but one venue stood out from the decaying crowd . The ‘ Satyr Music Hall ’ presented some of the best classical music acts in the world in the lavish building . During its prime season , on a Saturday night at six o ’ clock , the Rolls Royce Chauffeur-driven cars would arrive in droves for a spectacular evening of upper class entertainment .
Across the street from the venue was a former private residential building in the name of ‘ Westbourne Lodge .’ It was a notorious hangout for vice . The strictest of taboos forced the Lodge to be shut down by the local constabulary . Much scandal appeared withdrawn and forgotten ; especially the sordid affairs of Royalty and movie stars that could easily have ruined many lives and careers . Only one resident occupied the derelict solitary confinement .
The present day Satyr Music Hall was about to open its doors for one last time before the government was to demolish it . It was one hour before show time . The smog began to rise and the sound of clapping rain could be heard as it streamed down the rooftop of Westbourne Lodge and into the gutter on street level . Shuffling knives echoed through the entire building of Westbourne while the shadowed figure of a man , clad in a long grey overcoat , stood over the banister of the three story block .
“ Ha-ha !” a sadistic laugh erupted and echoed along the nearby rooftops .
The towering figure , his smile felt in the darkness , observed two ladies sitting perched like timid mice upright upon a rusted , stained mattress . They were local street traders , but they sold their souls rather than edible fruits . The trembling expressions on their faces melted into a look of turmoil that spiralled its way into an dreadful anguish .
“ Please Mister , don ’ t hurt us . What ’ ll you do to us ?” one of the prostitutes cried out , her voice quaking . She glanced up at him , her eyes large and doe-like .
The shadowed man held his hands behind his back , initiating a salutation to the devil . He swiftly drew two long , pristine blades from behind his back and interlocked them in an impressive manoeuvre . The melody of ‘ Moonlight Sonata ’ began to emerge from his lips , though his face was nothing but shadow . The prostitutes began to cry . Silence soon followed with the heavy sound of a zip and an aggravated cutting . The man stood his ground in a pose of great showmanship ; a conductor of death . Still humming to the beautiful melody of the music , he lifted a worn briefcase .
Opening the case , he examined the inside . It contained treasures of medicinal operations , glowing within the flickering light of the deserted room . He took out a unique pair of scissors , certainly not intended for a haircut , but for cutting deep . The girls were barely alive and breathing through clots of thickened blood .
“ Thank you for your hospitality , girls ,” whispered the shadowed man . “ Now I need a spectacular performance of pain from the chorus .”