#murderer

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I was in my high school, but it was more like college dorm and there was a murderer about and when the cop, who was also my old music teacher, caught him I called the killer cringe.

[rejectingrepublicans]

[s3curitybotvess]

knife privileges taken away

sadyisuuiasisuyd hah

[mihhkael]

⚠️ warning: _gore_ ⚠️

hmmm...Who wrote this letter?

[grilladrago]

Go ahead, take his hand and join him.

Bobby lad sketch galore, I might render the others at a later date

Requests are open!

[usagi-best-boy]

Don't... make me a murderer.

Tokyo Ghoul

[khujoor]

STRIPTEASE / YAN! THERAPIST! KAMISATO AYATO

updates weekly ( a lie. probably. ) COMMENT / ASK TO BE ADDED TO TAGLIST wattpad ver. ao3 ver.

cw: yandere, death, past abuse, manipulation, stalking.

"He's fucking creepy. All he says is that he'd be perfect for me."

"Have you told anyone at your work?"

"Told the fuckin' boss, but he didn't care. Says he's an important client or whatever," you scoffed, crossing your arms as you leaned back on the sofa.

You couldn't see it, but there was a small smirk on his face.

His plan was working.

CHAPTERS:

( 1 ) the boy who claimed he loved me. (NOT OUT)

( 2 ) silent voices that stay in my mind. (NOT OUT)

TBA...

[eretzyisrael]

Source

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I killed someone and had to act like everything was ok and chill in the group I was in while I disposed of the body. At one point I had to act like one of my fish had ended up in the neighbors yard because I accidentally threw the head in there.

[nightmaretales]

Red Riding Hood Page 11

[First] - [Last] -[Next]

[rejectingrepublicans]

Russian/Republican propagandist and his double murderer NRA protege.

[bexdrey]

Oops. Still down the rabbit hole. Here's a jeff.

[punk-in-docs]

‼️YOU (don’t) KNOW I’M NO GOOD‼️

Detective (Killer) Quinn x Reader

3.6k words - Sequel to Tainted Love -

Inspired by *that* photo shoot - this is for @ceriseheaven 💋

Summary: Danger is apparently closer than you realise. ‼️ TW dark themes within: graphic descriptions of death/murder, and some mild stalking ‼️ porn coming up hot in the next one folks (I forever wish I could be one of those writers who just hops right on into writing smut - you’ll have to hear me waffle a little bit first Kay?)

A Hooker is found dead off Sunset Boulevard. Throat slit.

Her lanky limbs, stuffed into a horrible stinking dumpster behind the Whisky a Go-Go.

A blue dime store high heel lays in the alley. There’s blood spattered on it

You were there like a flash. Still tripping into your heels and zipping up your skirt, pulling on panty hose. Doing up your pussy bow blouse as you waited at the bus stop. No food or coffee in your belly. You’d no time.

Just sheer gut adrenaline and deep throbbing hunger for this continuing nightmare. Your story is here and you’ll hunt it out.

The bucking up bootstrap talk you give to yourself every morning. Shaking off shallow sleep. Finding that well of your elbow grease and getting the bit tight between your teeth. Grabbing your lipstick and your voice recorder as you run out the door.

Forever hauling ass to and from the corner of Clinton and Larchmont at the Chronicle office. Whenever you’re needed; have pen and gumption, will travel.

Sleeping at your desk with a deadly knotted crick in your neck. Back and fucking forth, from your baby pink and slowly rotting Las Palmas apartment building.

You exist from ends to end of cigarettes and chucking back shots of bourbon at night after a steamy shower. You scrounged your way by on half snatched lunches on the go, mustard hotdogs or everything bagels, black coffee, two sugars, no creamer. Gin with ice and lemon on Friday nights, and little to no sleep at all.

News never sleeps. Why should you-

You’d scrape to the bottom of this hellscape crime if it killed you.

Oh Birdie, Birdie, Birdie.

Another girl mangled dead. Another bloodstain soaking into the very same stretch of tarmac that’s laid with the gold star walk of fame.

A house way up in the Hollywood hills with two male roommates. And now a Hooker dead a stones throw off the boulevard. It’s random. There’s no pattern there. No food-chain event to yet glimpse a rhythm in.

You’d managed to elbow your way past the male reporters. Balding fat Murray’s and Brad’s, who came flocking from the Times and the Glendale Press.

With their cheap brown suits and oily moustaches. Ketchup blobbed on their polyester shirts and sweat pit stains, and usual brand of misogynistic bullshit. The way they talk about the dead hooker is like she was vermin.

You struck gold. You found the girls. You shamelessly shove your nose, and your cheap Jet Rag heels, all up into the business of the deceased’s friends.

Gathered around the cordon with you, tear streaked. Wiping weepy mascara trails. Last nights make up still caked on and very high heels. Hickies around their necks and up fingertip marks cobwebbed up their thighs.

You don’t take shit from them. No male reporter thinks their input is valuable? You do. You carve out time for them in this callous fast paced city that sees them as unwanted features.

You learn her name. Skinny Tina. So called because of her love of smack. Junkie to it. Liked leopard print dresses and her blue denim jacket. Smoked lucky’s. Came from Nashville. Old fixture on this block. Older than the stars she trod over.

You learn how she kept her corner. Worked her patch solid, from Bob Hope, all the way up to Ella Fitzgerald. That was her turf.

They tell you about the John she got off with last night when they last saw her. You cling to that morsel like it’s your lifeline. Root out as much as you can.

Scribble furiously. White male. Mid forties. Red Thatcherite braces, whiff of Wall Street about him. Prick from a lawyers office or some shit like that.

You nod. You ask. You write. Pulling meat off the bones of this case

You’ve no idea you’re being watched.

From behind the shiny windscreen of a Porsche no less. He sips his shitty weak coffee. Slips his eyes all over you as you stand there with the hookers. Unswerving determination behind those glasses lenses of yours.

You give each of them your card. You tell them to get in touch if another girl goes missing. Or if anything happens. Catch anyone skulking around. Ring you. Day or night.

Like you care toots. You just want your name in the paper right? They stand there with one hip cocked. Eyeing you with spiky pessimism.

You’re punchy. You meet eyes and you don’t shrivel away. “I care.”

You scribble your personal number on the back in red biro and hand it over. Shove it at them with hard core stoicism. You take the time to stand here and give a shit about these women.

You stand behind the yellow tape and write endlessly on your pad, the girls drift away from you. Heels clicking sharp on tarmac. Back into the filthy streets. Back to brutality and drugs and trying to make a living.

The cops buzz around the scene like the very same flies that drift off the trash. Shooing people off from the alleyway. Overflowing garbage trampled all over the sticky greasy puddles in the concrete.

Poor girl. No place to die.

You feel your heart sink low, dragging deeper down like sediment as you consider how it must have been to have it all end like that, in a place like this.

This shining golden city of angels and hope and promise, and this is the worst part of its seedy underbelly. Rock clubs of legendary name and girls selling themselves outside of it. Dying out in the back alley, being left to rot like trash.

Worst of all, is that no one gives a shit. Another hooker dead.

That’s LA’s normal beat baby.

Out the corner of your eye you catch that car again. Flash of it. Hot rod red. Waxed shiny. You know he’d be here somewhere.

He strides into the crime scene past you. Time of no concern. Dunkin’ coffee cup in hand. Licking sugar glaze off his lips. Box of six glazed his other hand. Like this is some sort of brunch date, and not the scene of a homicide.

The big boots are still a fixture. Bell bottom black trousers like he’s on the set of Starsky & Hutch. Sitting on that trim slutty waist. Sways with his hips as he walks. A satin black button up with a too big collar, undone to his sternum. Wearing a gold medallion chain with a saint, but he sure as hell ain’t one.

His neck swims in sainted things but his hands have committed all manner of sins.

Peers at you across those ray bans. Brown eyes swimming up your legs. Licks his lips. Sweet sugar.

That prim little blouse he swears he can see your bra poking through. Dainty lace cups holding your tits. Skirt grazing good big sexy handfuls of your hips.

Fuck you look heavenly.

“Well well. If it ain’t my little Birdie.” He calls across to you as the tape is lifted for him by a stony faced cop. Macabre grin.

You look up from your pad. Meet those swallowing chocolate eyes. He’s leering over his shades at you.

“Quinn.” You swallow.

Try to ignore the way the blaze of morning sun slips like liquid amber down his skin. Slipping between his pecs and collarbones like he’s bathed in mandarin orange oil. Glimmering off that necklace. Ocean cold blue neon from buzzing sign shot through those dark curls from behind. Bleeding out the alley.

You don’t know what it is about him that you like. He looks so wildly slutty that it’s making your mouth water. He’s definitely anything but boring, and your mind absolutely runs to a filthy place with that insinuation

He’s got you trying to recall the last instance you carved out time for some sex in your life. It had been months. The clench in your gut made you aware.

“Are we making a habit of this?” He checks. Narrows eyes at you all playfully.

You, me, the yellow crime scene tape. Mangled bodies. Sirens shrieking. Yeah. Romantic as hell-

“Let’s hope not. Detective. Hardly the stuff of foreplay.” You counter. “Can I get a quote for tomorrows edition.”

“Wouldn’t that be neat of me.” He teases.

You bite back annoyance. He sees it in the scrunched set of your jaw.

He brings up another doughnut to his lips and takes a huge untamed bite. Smirking at you.

He swaggers away and up to the dumpster. Prances around the evidence. Not that the killer left much- blood spattered shoe. The cut throat. Same old same old. Blah blah blah.

You sigh as you make ready to leave. Blood out of a stone. You won’t get anything else here.

Only a small scrap of what you’d hoped for clutched in your pocket. That will get you shunted back to your usual place on page six.

You turn away and begin to head up the Boulevard. Maybe you’d find a place for some breakfast. Your feet are aching. Head sour for lack of caffeine.

“Miss.” Comes a bark from a gruff cop. Who steps under the tape and towards you.

“Chronicle. I was just leaving.” You flash him your staff badge and back away thinking you’re gonna get chewed out for being nosy. You’re a girl reporter, the axe blows tend to fall heavier on you from grumpy cops. Sexist fuckers.

“Quinn asked me to give you this.”

He hands you an empty cigarette packet. Lucky Strikes. The paper is worn thin. Perfumed like it’s been in a purse. Not a pocket.

Skinny Tina smoked Lucky’s.

You look at the cop. He just rolls one shoulder up in a shrug. Not his job to care. Plods away.

You open the well thumbed crimson cigarette packet and inside is a line of scrawled text. Slanted spidery scrawl. Pin nib stabbing into the paper.

This is the work of a serial killer.

Your world grows cold. Sudden and terrible like someone’s sucked out all the dry choke of that LA heat. You thumb the packet in your hands. When you peer up and spin back to the cordon-

Quinn locks his eyes on you. And smiles. Those eyes glow at you.

There’s your story, Birdie.

~

Rain is LA is vanishingly rare. But when it comes, it comes fucking furiously.

It’s spitting down your windows so hard it’s like it will do anything in its power to shatter the glass.

Palm fronds from the stumpy trees outside your windows skate and scrape the glass and cast long fingers of spindly shadows. A faded essence of tropical paradise about this shabby place. The pink walls, palm trees. The empty pit of a mouldy swimming pool out back, filled with graffiti, crumbling tiles and trash.

The air walking home was so thick and smooth you could sip it. Full up of rain clouds and chasing away the humidity.

You turn home and show your back to this water-logged night. Your shoulders and hair damp from running from the station.

You draw your thin drapes but the red light soaking into the room through the shitty pink things. The light stains them up like they’ve been left bloodied.

Your bedside lamp glows in the corner. Peachy pink from the rosy shade. Your room is entirely bathed in lapping tongue red and rose pink.

You cranked your pathetic shower up high and stood under the warm spray until it drained to cold. Your scrubbed your hair from dripping to damp, and slipped on an old white t shirt that slipped off one shoulder. Black lace panties.

Hair still wet as you padded through to your bedroom. Empty glass of bourbon on the nightstand. Half full bottle. You’ll be dipping well into it tonight.

Today was long. Endlessly so. Dragging you down like you’ve got concrete blocks tied on your heels. Cutting into skin as it drags you down.

There’d been another one. Found tonight way out past skid row, under the 6th street bridge.

Stabbed in the back and left to bleed. A kid. A stupid punk teenager, with his apple green spiky hair, belt chains and ripped spray painted anarchist shirt. Bruises on his knuckles showed he put up a fight.

A bag of weed and ketamine in his pocket. Track marks up his arms. All tangled and fired up in fiery self-rebellion. And it led him to dying under a bridge like some junkie.

There was such a clamour at the crime scene cordon that you got physically shoved aside, and ended up skinning your knees in the process. Tearing your pantie hose. Walking home with blood peeling down your calves. Stuck with muck and grit.

You felt miserable. You were miserable. Another day designed to sink you. All teeth and stomping jaws clamping on your pride and happiness.

You hounded as much as you could squeeze out the cops on scene with bleeding knees burning. Hands scraped from your fall. Not much at all.

Your mood was as far in the gutter as it could get. The shower helped. You swiped stinging betadine across your broken skin and chucked back Bourbon to ignore the grating pain.

You drunkenly shuffle to your small strip of a kitchen. Aqua blue and white tiled lino. Cheap but clean. Your whole place was really. Pink drapes and thick blue carpets bleached and matted with age.

Bathed briefly in the blue light and puff of cold from the fridge. You reach and chuck more ice in your used glass and fill it up with even more brown liquor. Mind swirling away and you let it. Close your clunking fridge door with a sloppy hand.

The booze helped. You were ignoring the irony that after a hard day you were crawling into the bottom of an Old Taylor bottle.

You were supposed to be a man about all this. Man up. Well. You’re a woman and you have to do this job twice as hard and relentless and with double the scrutiny from men. And in heels. So you decided long ago;

Fuck that.

You laid on your bed and thought about having dinner. A sad tin of soup or some box of ramen you’d forgotten about in your cupboard.

But instead you just lay there on your sheets and let the bourbon take you away.

And then your phone rings. Shrills to attention on your bedside.

You twist your head back to look at it. Past your cheap peach satin sheets. Your crappy cracked pink telephone won’t shut the hell up.

You launch over the bed and sit up to answer it. If it’s another call out to a murder site, you swear you’ll quit. “Yes?”

There’s a second or two of huffing crackling static the other end. And then,

“Nasty night isn’t it?”

That voice makes your whirling head sit up and pay attention. Oh that voice. He hears the way skin grazes on your covers. The pull of your lungs seeking breath. That makes him outwardly think of your tits too and he can’t help his mind wandering off into filthy plains.

“Quinn?” You check. Your mind is curling and blurry. But by now you’d know his tone when you hear it.

He bites his lip cause it gets him hard. Rubs his fingertips into the square box of the telephone he’s curled against. Sweat on his fingers chafes against the black plastic.

“Hey Birdie.”

“How did you get this number?” Your drunk mouth blurts out. Your tongue feels all fat and clumsy with drink. Loose- even.

He chuckles. It’s breathy and it’s beautiful. Slips like melted chocolate into your ear through the receiver. It may be a smooth sound but it does something sharp and twisting to your gut. A tug.

“I have my ways.” You can hear his stupid big grin.

“Cop ways I’m guessing?” You counter. He detects a tone levelled at him. Flash a badge and he can own this town. Walk in anywhere.

You reach over and bring the phone onto the bed. The cord of it trailing behind as you wrap the coiled wire around your finger. You sit up and cradle the phone between your ear and shoulder.

Eyes flicking over for a second to that well thumbed Lucky Strike’s packet. The one he wrote in and gave to you.

“I don’t need to go flashing my badge as much as you’d think. I can be very persuasive.” He charms. Like he could pluck down all the hanging stars and set them at your feet.

You don’t doubt that. Silver tongues and doe brown eyes seldom mix.

“You weren’t at the scene today. Worried me a little.” He adds.

“I worried you? You hardly know me.” You state.

“I personally-“ There’s a clink as he presses his hand flat to his collarbone. Clink of a chain. “Think we should change that.”

You sigh in confusion because you just can’t think of what else to do. Is he asking you out? Is he hitting on you? Is that what’s happening here?

“I was at the 6th street bridge today. Up until I got knocked down by the clamouring TV and camera crews and skinned my knees. And then it started to rain, I was getting nowhere so I called it a day.” You offered up.

The blazes up something in him. Sparks churning friction against the liquid gunpowder of his temper. All it takes is a spark. He has to take a deep breath at the thought of you bleeding.

“You alright?”

No not really.

I saw a kid brutally mangled and stabbed today. Skin ripped where someone tore him open with a knife.

I’m fucking lonely in this city and I have no friends for miles.

My job is the fucking pits of Tartarus some days.

“Ask me after my hangover tomorrow. When I don’t feel like a failure. And I didn’t see a dead kid torn to strips. And I’m- sober.” You curse under your breath.

Bulldog tone of yours all snappy and treading the borders of your patience. Bone weary.

“That sounds like a lot on your plate.” He offers. He sounds tender. The tenderest thing you’ve heard in a while.

“It sure as shit is. But I’m not sure I should be venting to a cop about it.” You admit gruffly. Standing up and holding the phone to your ear. Idly gazing at the rain outside. Coming down in sheets, hammering cold at your window ledges.

You pour yourself out more bourbon. Cause fuck it.

Oh, you play spiky and icy and he likes it. He’ll play you into his hands. You’ll be worth the wait.

“What if I’m one of the good ones.” He grins. Licks his lips. Outright lies.

“Don’t play games with me, Quinn.” You warn.

Funny; that was his line. Usually with a knife in his hand edged against a fragile throat.

“What if I can help you out with some private information on these cases.” He leans right in and purrs into the phone. It makes you feel squirmy. Like you’re under his gaze again. That flirty one that gets peered over his ray bans.

“And why on earth would you be doing that for me?” You keep your head screwed on straight. What little sense there is left that Bourbon didn’t steal.

“Mutually beneficial arrangement.” He drawls.

“Listen Detective, if you think you’re gonna get your dick wet just cause you toss me some scraps, you’ve got another thing coming, and it’ll be my heel stabbed in your eye.” You promise with punch.

He chuckles. He can’t deny the threat of that and the thought of fucking you had him harder than he’d care to admit. The glimpse of you he had in his head on your back and taking it. Indecent. Glorious.

“I’m no idiot, Birdie.”

His dark eyes graze through the glazed rain walls of the phone booth. Glass striped with wriggling rain and haloed car lights burst through in reds and searing white. The Porsche sits waiting behind him. Dotted in silver.

He can see you through your window.

He’s across the parking lot in the phone booth. One arm braced against the metal wall. Eyes pinned on the slice of that tongue pink room and the vague shape of you he can see through the thin drapes.

White shirt. No bra. Lace panties. Sat on your bed in that entirely pink-red washed room. Light kissing and wrapping your skin. And you’ve no clue he can see you.

You’ve no idea how bad he truly is for you. It’s delicious that.

“Why did you give me that cigarette packet, Quinn?”

He’s quick to answer. He’s thought about this answer. “Leverage.”

“Leverage?” You repeat like you can’t comprehend the word.

“Over those assholes at your paper who think that you don’t deserve your spot alongside them. Scraping together your sanity for every shot at the front page.” He says.

He cut to the quick. Like he’s torn your skin away to see in. Your dimly lit life with your bottles of booze and your struggles. Somehow he pieced you together so well it was like he had your blueprints.

“You don’t know me.” You gasp out. It’s incredulous. He’s making your head spin.

“I know a lot more than you’d think. It’s my job, after all. I like to think I’m good at it.”

“That sounds like a lot of ego talking.”

“In that case you should let me take you out for lunch tomorrow and see for yourself. Buy you something to soothe that little Bourbon hangover.”

Your spine flashes clammy.

“How the hell do you know what I’m drinking?”

Your head is thumping. Dread curling horrid up in your stomach like dead burnt leaves come fall. Crunching and crushing.

“Like I told you. Birdie. I’m just that good.” He chuckles.

Oh but he isn’t.

There’s a click and he promptly hangs up.

You’re left there watching the rain skate furiously down your windows. Listening to the dead tone on the other end blare. Thunder grazes the valley.

It feels more sinister than it should.

~

My Taglist for my JQ babes: (if I’ve missed anyone out I’m so sorry !) if anyone would like to be added drop me a comment on here babes !

@indouloureux @stiegasaw @munsonquinns @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @ceriseheaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @starbxcks @morganamoonstone @ramona-thorns @gvtosbith @poppy-metal @munsonswhore86 @munsonlov3r @lunatictardis @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-tittie @anaisweird @cerinthussulpicia @cinnamoncunt

[republicansaredomesticterrorists]

[scotianostra]

Up the close and doon the stair,

But and ben' wi' Burke and Hare.

Burke's the butcher, Hare's the thief,

Knox the boy that buys the beef.

A 19th century Edinburgh rhyme about the serial killers Burke and Hare.

William Burke was executed on 28th January 1829

I'll start this post as I always do for all the newer readers and let you know the main big fat fact about Burke and Hare, as the auld Edinburgh rhyme says, they did NOT rob graves!!! The pair were serial killers, but not in the true sense of the words as they killed their victims for financial gain.

Grave robbing was fashionable at the time many cemeteries even built watchtowers and employed people to guard the last resting places of their loved ones, there was a shortage of bodies for the Universities and Edinburgh was one of the leading cities in the world for teaching medicine, so people sold bodies to the schools, no questions asked.

William Burke and William Hare certainly did this but they were never known to get their hands dirty by digging up a corpse, this was too much like hard work for these two Irish Immigrants so they cut out the labouring part and decided to start their own wee industry, killing people and selling the bodies, the practice became known as Burking.

It all started when a lodger died at Hare's girlfriends house on the West Port not far from the Grassmarket in Edinburgh, he still owed his rent and the enterprising duo decided to fill his coffin with rocks and sell the body to pay this debt, they took the body to a Professor Robert Knox at Surgeon Square and were paid 7 pounds and 10 shillings for it, this is the nearest they got to stealing a body as their "trade" took a more sinister turn.

I wont go through all 16 murders I will just recite to you the one that was their undoing........

Fittingly it was Halloween 1828 and there was a party in Log's Lodgings in Tanner's Close where the duo lived, the following morning guests became suspicious at the disappearance of an old lady who had been very merry the night before. They discovered her corpse — stripped and ready for packing — in Burke's bedstraw. Mary Docherty had come to Edinburgh from Donegal in search of a long-lost son. She had chanced to beg at a gin-shop where Burke had befriended her. Like all the other victims, she was poor, hungry, and alone. Street folk were not missed immediately as more settled people would have been, and dissection ensured disposal of the evidence.

The mode of death was designed to leave no marks. Since only this last body was available to the authorities nothing could have been proven, despite strong suspicion, had not Hare agreed to give evidence for the prosecution in return for legal immunity.

His partner in crime was hanged on January 28th 1829, an event celebrated with carnival by the Edinburgh populace. His corpse, appropriately enough, was delivered up for public dissection at Surgeons' Hall. Hare left the city incognito, and his fate is unknown.

Burke's execution was witnessed by the novelist Sir Walter Scott, who sympathized with the general opinion that both men's wives had served as accomplices, and that the anatomists had been accessories to the murders. Burke's confessions were published after the execution, and they suggest that this view of the anatomists may not have been altogether misplaced. Burke and Hare were commended by Knox himself on the freshness of a corpse; they were never asked any questions about the derivation of the bodies they delivered to the school, were paid immediately, and were always urged to get more.

A pamphlet, later attributed to a doorkeeper at Knox's school, implicated both the anatomist and his staff in the crimes. According to this witness more than one of the bodies had blood at the mouth, nose, or ears. In at least one instance — that of a well-known Edinburgh beggar, Daft Jamie — identifying features were deliberately obliterated in the dissection room: when it became known that he was missing from the streets, his head and distinctive club feet were severed from his body and dissection was hastened.

Dr Knox was never charged with any crime, nor was he called to give evidence at the trial. He remained silent throughout the furore over the murders. He was burnt in effigy in the streets, ostracized by Edinburgh's medical community, and eventually left the city. He seems to have believed that murder could have been uncovered at any anatomy school, and the fact that it had happened to be his school was simply bad luck. Whether this belief had any objective basis will probably never be known.

The Burke and Hare murders are critically significant to the history of anatomy in Britain. They represent the apotheosis of the market in human flesh. The murders reveal that by the late 1820s, the poor were worth more dead than alive. A further 60 murders by the ‘London Burkers’ Bishop and Williams, in 1831 occurred before the Anatomy Act of 1832 provided the anatomists with a free supply of corpses requisitioned from Poor Law workhouses.

The photos include a contemporary drawing of Burke, a cast of how he might have looked, with a pocket book made from his skin, another card holder also made from his skin and his skeleton, still on display in Surgeons Hall 192 years after he took "The Last Drop"

The transcript of the Broadsheet below can be found here http://digital.nls.uk/.../broadside.../id/15228/transcript/1