Like any good doctor, Jack wears a white lab coat, the uniform all of the healing profession wear. The irony of this is lost on Jack, as he sees himself as a healer of himself, as his Ripping is the only sustenance he knows, the fuel for his jagged existence. Scotland Yard's Ripper files suggest that Jack had some kind of surgical or butchery training, so completely did Jack disembowel, gut, and mutilate his victims. The Surgeon. The Butcher. The Barber. These are all Jack. Jack is all these. He wears all of these masks, and he wears none. He needs none. He is the Jack-of-all- trades. He is Janus. He is the Ripper, the Mangler, the Masher, the Joker. He is Jack.
Jack's skin is pale green, the color of mucous, the color of pus, of putrescence. The green skin is mottled with brown and black spots, which fester, turgid and angry, like Jack himself. And hungry. Always hungry. Never satisfied, even while Feeding. Insatiable. Scylla. Charybdis. Dr. Jackal. Jack. His skin is stretched taut over his bones; Jack is skeletal, gaunt, and this shames Jack, so he wraps his white coat tightly around his putrid body, shuffling from shadow to shadow, from streetlamp to streetlamp, from heart to hearth.
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