"So," he says.

I shouldn't have taken the job.

"So," he repeats, smacking his lips. "So!"

My palms begin to sweat, and not for the first time, I find my throat dry and unresponsive. I press my sweaty hands together, hearing the clang of handcuffs against a rusty pipe. The noise doesn't distract him.

"You're the nasty little reporter who's been writing all those, ah, things about me!"

"N-no," I stutter, scrambling for something to mollify him. "I didn't--"

"No? No?!" He pulls the Gotham Times out of his ugly purple jacket and waves it in my face. It smacks my nose a couple of times, like punishing an untrained puppy. "But I have the paper! Look here!" He flings it open, licking his scars obsessively as he thumbs through the stained pages. "Ah! Here it is! Page 5A, third article down, by Mr. George Carlson. And I quote: 'The Joker is a menace to Gotham, cut from the same cloth as the likes of Batman and the now notorious Scarecrow.'" He giggles uncontrollably, flinging the newspaper into the air. The pages fly like leaves through the air. "The notorious Scarecrow!"

I really shouldn't have taken the job.

His giddy demeanor changes quite suddenly. He bends down so he's eye level and grabs my face. I wince and avoid his gaze. His eyes are like black pools; empty and disconnected from anything human. "What makes you think the Scarecrow is anywhere near my level?" He shakes me roughly. "Hmm? Do I look like some two-bit loony?"

"It was just a story," I gasp out. I squeeze my eyes shut. "Please, don't--"

"Don't what?" His clothes rustle. I feel something cool and sharp press against my cheek. "Don't do this?"

I feel an increasing pressure, and a gush of something warm, and before the pain hits I know that he's sliced my face wide open. I scream, unable to do anything else, feeling the flesh rip wider. I can barely hear him speak beyond the sounds of my own agony, but his laughter - hideous, inhuman laughter - rings in my ears.

"You should really, eheh, lighten up, Mr. Carlson!" he shrieks. "Now you have a nice new smile for that paper photo of yours." His voice drops to an excited whisper. "Now, your readers won't take you so seriously."

I would respond, but my mouth is filled with blood. I try to squirm away from him to no avail. He cackles, brandishing his shiny little knife, coated in my blood, waving it in front of my face like a tasty treat.

"Oh, Georgie," he coos. "We're going to have fun. Just you wait."

I know in this moment that I am going to die. I am going to die slowly, to the sound of his laughter. It's sobering to understand exactly how you're going to leave the world.

I feel my bladder give way, and very, very quietly, I begin to weep.

I shouldn't have taken the job.