There were a few things Killer Queen always took note of about Yoshikage Kira, and it was that he always seemed to smell of straight black coffee - he had learned the name of that drink only a short while ago - and that his fancy dress coats and fancy dress shirts and fancy dress pants always folded and creased with the way he sank into his swivel chair as he talked, his head tilted back in empty-minded bliss as he went on about what Jane Doe or Peggy Sue he had met that day. And somehow that was absolutely magnificent. Sometimes she was blonde or brunette, sometimes she was pale or dark-skinned, tall or short, with bright red lips which always laughed and smiled or modest pink lips she hid behind frosty off-pink manicured nails.
What all these women had in common, though, was their immaculately smooth-looking hands.
Of course, he never said anything - a stand born to help its user go unnoticed and keep hidden from others was never really one to speak its mind anyway - but he noticed and he took note again and again, of the fact that these meetings always gravitated to the fact that this lady in question had some really nice hands.
Most of the time, Killer Queen would sit cross-legged on the floor as he listened to these stories, sometimes he would stand, leaning against the wall, but almost always without a sound. Occasionally he would give a short chirp of approval as if to say, "Yes, I'm listening, now go on if that's what you want to do."
It wasn't that he was impatient or disinterested of course, he had no other option than to attach to every little thing Kira said and that was that. Disinterested wasn't at all the right word, but impatient was a bit closer to what he was looking for.
After so long of hearing about such varied women with many, many different stories and points of beauty, he learned to expect the catch sooner rather than later. Such beauties weren't really appreciated for their hair color or skin color or lip color, but rather the common denominator between them, their hands.
Though he never really had to understand it, obedient as he was, the point of all that always seemed to escape Killer Queen - what was so great about hands anyway? He had them and Kira never really seemed to notice. Or rather, Kira had them and not even Kira really noticed that. That's what he meant to say. But what was the point of going around, murdering beautiful women just because he wanted their hands? Wasn't it so much easier to create fake hands that never decay, or even take better care of his own?
Again, Killer Queen supposed his understanding was almost completely irrelevant so he never gave it quite so much thought, but it was just that the more and more Kira talked about these women, the more and more Killer Queen began realizing that he had completely lost his mind. Killer Queen. Or Kira. Both of them had probably lost their minds by now, but Killer Queen was only aware of the slipping of his own mind into some strange dark depths he had no idea existed. So no matter how redundant these stories became - "Find pretty girl, decide to kill pretty girl, pretty girl dies, rinse and repeat" - Killer Queen was filled with an odd, rising terror starting in his gut and filling his chest at a breathtaking pace. It was like falling. No matter how boring it all got to be sometimes, and no matter how peeved he became with Kira's odd cycle of functioning, the stories just seemed to get better and better the more of them were told. It had nothing to do with the women - Killer Queen had no attachment to any woman or man that was human. With one exception anyway, being the man with a bee's drone of a voice that trembled like a cello as he recalled the various hands of women he had seen that day, and with the eyes that became hypnotizing every time they caught his own, and who smelled like straight black coffee, whatever awful, bitter sort of drink that had to have been.