AN: Title from the Mudvayne song of the same name. Mudvayne always seems to trigger ideas-either angst of some kind or WHAT-THE-FUCK-IS-WRONG-WITH-ME ideas.

SwordStitcher-Oh, I'll give you a book. I'll give you a book with poisoned pages, so that when you get a papercut, your demise will be slow and agonizing.

Gotham was just one of those towns that had a ghoulish streak. It couldn't be helped, really-with nuts like the Joker running around, it was a defense mechanism.

A side effect of that ghoulish streak was the influx of 'Rogues Biographies' (all unauthorized, of course) that had been hitting the bookshelves. These ranged from erotic novels with a few half-truths sprinkled throughout, complete lies, or actual, researched biographies.

Most of the authors, unsurprisingly, met with painful demises. A few didn't-the ones that did the researching, mostly-but people still spoke (in hushed tones, naturally) of the poor soul that had written some sort of bondage erotica starring the Riddler.

Jolene Day had read every single one of these, taken note of which authors were dead and which had moved to a safer town, and decided to write her own. And she wanted to try something new. Everybody and their mother had written something about the Joker, or Harley Quinn, or even the Penguin, but there weren't too many things about the Scarecrow.

There was a reason for that-everybody else's records were public. Well, the Joker's weren't, but nobody knew what had caused that. Writing about him was just a leap of faith and hope he approved.

But the Scarecrow…

Once, three years ago, his records had been public. Unfortunately, everybody that might have told her what was in them was either dead or insane. Funny how that kind of thing happened, really.

Nowadays those records were tucked safely away and any request for them got the standard response: "Are you fucking crazy?"

But Jolene was determined to find out, by hook or by crook.

What could possibly go wrong?

She was at home one night when the power went out. Okay, nothing to worry about. Cheap apartment, nothing to be frightened of. Perfectly normal. She'd just sit here for a few minutes and wait it out. She had candles somewhere if it didn't come back right away.

Nothing to be scared of. Nothing at all.

Why weren't the lights coming back on?

Oh, god, what was going on out there?

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and she blinked. It was nothing. She was just paranoid because it was dark, that was all. She was fine. There was nothing to worry about. The lights would come back on any second…

Something long and sharp and thin brushed against her cheek.

Just a bug. Some kind of…large insect…had to be…

The object tapped her on the shoulder and this time she screamed and tightened her grip on her book, intending to hit the intruder with it.

Warm fingers grasped her wrist and bent it backwards until the book fell to the floor, its pages squashed under the heavy spine.

"Shh, shh. No reason to struggle."

The voice was soft, belaying the bruising grip on her wrist. She tried to pull back, only wanting to free her wrist, and he yanked her over the sofa and pulled her up against him, the sharp object pressed against her neck.

She froze at once.

"Good girl." he breathed, his voice muffled by the mask. "Now…do I have your promise that you won't make this difficult?"

She nodded, biting her lip hard enough to make it bleed.

"Very good."

He shoved her away from him. She fell over the back of the couch and hit her head on the coffee table.

Despite the darkness and her now-fuzzy vision, she could make him out a little. She could see his outline-tall and thin-and she could see what he'd been holding against her neck-some sort of glove with needles on it. But the mask was what really unnerved her.

It was nothing but a burlap sack with (and she only knew this from seeing pictures of him) haphazard stitches on it. But the eyes…he'd done something to give the eyes an eerie yellow glow.

He crossed the room without a sound and settled into a chair across from her, resting the needle-clad hand on the arm. The needles made a gentle clicking as they brushed together.

She didn't want to look at him, but she didn't want to let him out of her sight, either. Who knew what he'd do then?

"You can make yourself comfortable, dear." he said. "I don't want you passing out just yet."

She blushed despite it all and pulled herself onto the couch and off the coffee table. There was a low laugh-more of a hissing noise-from the monster across from her. His head lolled to the side and now he looked like a puppet

scarecrow

that had been tossed aside.

"Well, well. Jolene Day, twenty-six, graduate of Gotham Community College, works at…dear me, The Daily Gossip. Tell me, Miss Day, does the Gossip have interest in me? Or have you developed a,"-he spat the word out like a piece of rotten fruit-"crush?"

"N-no." she whispered. Her throat was dry and her words came out cracked. "I-I was writing a book, that's all…"

He did not move, but she had the nasty feeling that he was looking at her, looking inside her head.

"A book?" He sounded a little more awake this time. "What about?"

"Y-your early life."

"Stop stammering, it's very irritating. I haven't even done anything to you yet."

That was the problem. If he'd just get it over with, that would be better.

"Sorry."

"Better. See what you can do if you try?" There was that hissing laugh again. "My early life? Whatever for?"

She had no answer to that.

"I don't know…"

Wrong answer.

Before she could prepare herself, he'd stood up, folded his fingers around the neck of her shirt, and dragged her over the coffee table.

"There are things man was not meant to know." he rasped. "You have no right to go digging."

She choked and risked trying to push his hand away. That only got her jerked across the room and slammed against the wall. A picture cracked and she felt the shards of glass cutting through her shirt and into her skin.

"What do you think gives you the right?"

"I'm sorry…"

He pushed her against the shattered picture, driving at least one piece of glass into her back.

"I've heard that one before."

"Please…"

He let her drop in a sobbing heap and turned away from her, his hand clenching and unclenching by his side.

"Forgive me." he said, his voice hoarse but quiet once again. "Sometimes I…lose control."

She had nothing to say to that.

"So. You thought you'd dig up my childhood, did you?" He settled back into the armchair and let his head fall back. "What a horrible idea."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't."

She shut up. She could feel sticky blood oozing against her shirt, gluing her to the wall. There was no pain. She was too scared to feel pain.

"I could feed you one of the stories I tell my doctors." he mused. He seemed to have forgotten how angry he was at her. "But I don't think that would work with you."

She said nothing.

"I don't think it would do any harm…it isn't as though you'll be repeating it…"

She moved, peeling herself from the wall, and felt a stinging sensation in her lower back.

"Oh, very well." He made himself comfortable. "Once upon a time, a child was born out of wedlock in Georgia. The mother left the child in the care of its great-grandmother, never to see it again. The great-grandmother-let's call her Granny, for ease of storytelling-wasn't very pleased with this turn of events."

She didn't want to know, she didn't want to know, if she didn't know he couldn't kill her please somebody…

"Granny was a creative old dear, like most grandmothers. But most grandmothers are only moderately creative-cookies and crafts and what-have-you. Granny went above and beyond all that."

"She whipped him and she slashed him, she rode him through the mire…"*

"Shut up, Scarecrow."

What was that?

"Ignore him. He's upset that he's not allowed to strangle you."

He? What he? Who else was here? Oh god, what was going on?

"Where was I…ah. Granny's creativity. One of her more interesting achievements was training a flock of crows. Quite impressive, even I must admit that. Time-consuming, too."

"Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie…"**

"Shut up!"

Who else was in here? Why weren't the lights coming back on?

"She had a method of punishment that involved dressing the little boy in his Sunday clothes and sending him to a dilapidated chapel to think about what he'd done. Nothing particularly scarring-an improvement on the old 'go to your room'." He turned his head to look at her. "Are you following?"

She nodded, somehow certain that he could see her.

"Good. Now, that chapel was home to a flock of crows. And for whatever reason, those crows took a strong disliking to the little boy. Every time he went inside, they would down in a shower of feathers and caws and stabbing beaks and grasping claws."

She shuddered at the rasping voice.

"Those are the important bits, the ones your readers would surely enjoy." He chuckled. "Such a shame they won't ever know."

"I won't write it."

"I can't trust you." He seemed to rouse himself a bit, unfolding himself from the chair and coming towards her. "Shame, that. This has been a very therapeutic evening. We should do this again sometime."

She swallowed a sob and hid her face against her knees. Somebody…please help…

"Shh, shh. There's no reason to cry. Deep breaths, I don't want you having a panic attack."

He stood her up and she fell against him, horrified to be close like this but unable to move away.

"Quid pro quo, my dear." he murmured. "I have answered your question. Now you need to answer mine." One of the needles slipped into her jugular vein. "What are you afraid of?"

THE END

* From 'I Had a Little Pony'

** From '4&20 Blackbirds'. Obviously.