A/N: I wrote this in my Biology 30 class. Yes, that class gives me strange ideas ...

Disclaimer: If I owned even a part of the Batman franchise, you would know. It wouldn't even be called Batman if I was in charge. And Batman wouldn't be the main character anymore. Er, yeah. So, simply, I do not own, so don't sue. You won't get anything out of me, I'm broke anyway. Well, I suppose you could get my books, but, really, what would you do with them?


TASTY


The first person to ask was the last person to ask. People with those kinds of questioning minds should me let to live, but once he knew ... I just couldn't let him go.

He would be someone described as, well ... Pretty. He wasn't handsome, too feminine for that, and he wasn't beautiful, just enough masculinity to have that precarious balance – and so, he was just plain-old pretty. I didn't know if he was one of those queer types – queer as in gay, not queer as in strange – because he wasn't overly careful with his appearance but he wasn't sloppy, nor was there any little, uh, rainbows anywhere.

I never got the chance to ask, actually. Well, I might not have anyway, he was too distracting.

He wasn't as ... Afraid as the others, barely flinching when I pinned him to the wall, knife in his face. His eyes told me that he'd been threatened by worse, and I instantly liked the hardened young man. The purpose of my little ... excursion, lets call it that. The purpose was to cause a little panic, let loose a little chaos. He looked like the perfect target, appreciative of chaos. And I'm never wrong.

As I spoke, low enough to inflict fear, soft enough to keep him from screaming, he trembled, icy-blue eyes watching my every motion with a morbid fascination. He knew that he would die that night, and he accepted that simple fact – oh how that angered me!

But, see, he asked me a question, when I paused to collect my thoughts – trying to get a reaction out of him was harder than bringing back the dead!

"Why do you do that?" he'd asked in simple curiosity.

"Why do I do ... What?" He'd interrupted me – an unforgivable act, I assure you – and that had thrown me for a loop. "Kill people? Because it's fun."

"No," he'd replied. An intriguing answer. "Why do you lick your lips like that?"

I paused to contemplate that. Did I really lick my lips so much? I asked myself. Then I answered. "Chap stick." Simple, to-the-point. And very true. One of the few truths about myself that ever passed my lips. "The dry air, here in Gotham City, it, uh ... bugs me."

"Oh," he had replied. I waited for more, but none came.

"Out of questions?" I asked, genuinely interested. He shook his head, and that disappointed me. "That's a shame. See, I'm a real chatterbox if you get me on the right topic." I paused, grinning at the young man. When I leaned in, he flinched, the meaty slap of his head bouncing off the cement echoing in the deserted alley I'd trapped him in. "Wanna know how I got these scars?"

Yes," he's whispered, trembling.

And that's where it ended. I didn't want to talk to him, share anything else. I'd already told him too much. What if he'd gone and told someone who told someone else? I'd be a laughing stock! Not that I wasn't already, but still.

Curious about what flavour I wear?

If I told you that, I'd have to kill you!