A/N: Hahaha...ha...ha... I don't fucking know. I've been wanting to write something for foreverly and this is just the first one that worked. Nameless character, but not one of my Nameless Boys (tm) because that's just an entirely different jar of pickles. I might make this into a series... type... thing. We'll see.

Warnings: Murder, language, twistedness. That's pretty much it.

Batter Up

by Kat-chan

The first time was just a week after my thirteenth birthday. It was snowing, I was walking home from school, cutting through back alleys to get out of the cold quicker. He cornered me about a block away from my apartment building, backed me into a dumpster with a knife to my throat and a sneer on his ugly face.

He couldn't have been more than two years older than me, only just enough bigger to think he could be intimidating. He wanted my wallet, calling me 'rich boy' and stupid shit like that. I suppose I could have just kneed him in the balls and ran...

I didn't.

I remembered the pocket knife I'd gotten for my birthday. The one Mom had protested and pouted about for hours until Father assured her I wouldn't do anything stupid. Ha. I guess stupid is in the eye of the beholder.

I moved quicker than I thought I could. The pocket knife was in my right hand- open with a quick flick of my thumb- and the blade of his knife was slicing into the palm of my left. For a split second, surprise washed over his face... then anger. And finally, my personal favourite, fear.

And then he was lying at my feet, his gut gashed open, staining the snow red. I just stared at him for a while, watching him not breathing, not moving. It seemed way too easy, but that was the fun of it. All I could do was laugh.

I laughed and I wiped the blade of my knife off on his jacket and slipped it back into my pocket. And then I kicked his ugly face in, just for good measure, and went on my cheerful way. The newspapers the next day called it a 'gang fight casuality'. Again, all I could do was laugh.

I started making sport of it after that. Never killed anyone who didn't deserve it. Just the scum of the earth. The bullies, the biggots, the racists and homophobes. No real losses to society. The police never made much of an effort for it. Nine times out of ten, they called it a gang fight and left it at that, and that just made it easier for me.

It was about a year later that my parents started getting suspicious. I'm a little disappointed in them for that. Any parent who gave two flying fucks about their child would notice the overt amounts of blood on my shoes and clothing. Any parent would notice the growing collection of knives and baseball bats and lead pipes and whatever else I could get my hands on that would make for an interesting kill. And when they did- finally- notice, they were too concerned with their reputation to let me get caught, as I'd pretty much counted on, anyway. They were influential enough, rich enough, that if anyone else ever realized it, nothing would be said to the police. Nothing to tarnish their precious fucking reputation.

I was sixteen the first time I got paid to take someone out. It wasn't much but what did I care, when I was getting cash to do my favourite thing?

That was also the first time I got to play with my very own gun.

I practiced a little. Hit his left knee, let him scream and bitch a bit, and then gave him the old stigmata look. Once in each hand, once in each foot. I thought it suited him. And when I got tired of listening to him, I put a bullet between his eyes. And then I torched the entire building, destroying any evidence that might have happened to be laying around. There wasn't even a body left for them to pull out.

After that, the money got better. The hits got more interesting. I worked my way up, juggling that and high school like it was any other part time job. My grades never slipped, my friends never suspected- and even if they did, they were too afraid to say anything. Mommy and Daddy dearest kept after me, diligently cleaning up any blood I might track in, burning any clothes that they couldn't bleach the stains out of. Bribing anyone stupid enough to take notice of the coincidences.

And now, six years later, I keep going.

I get a call. I grab a bat. I walk out the door.

I keep my head down and my eyes on the sidewalk, letting my hair shadow my face, but I just can't stop the smile that plays over my lips.

I get there and I kick the door in, and out of the corner of my eye, I see him run up the stairs to my right. I take the steps two at a time, not in any hurry. I whistle a cheerful tune as I stroll down the hall, my bat slung over one shoulder. I can hear him crying and swearing under his breath, fumbing with... a drawer?

Stupid man.

I kick this door in, too. BANG! A bullet knicks my ear and this fucker's in tears, tripping over himself to get away. I guess he knew I was coming. He's shaking so hard he can barely hold his prissy little gun, and he's begging me not to hurt him. Not to kill him.

Batter up. I take a step and there's another gunshot. His aim sucks and now he's backed himself into a corner, four bullets left. He won't get the chance to waste them. Another step and he's pleading with me again, telling me that he's got a wife and kids and I just can't do this...

I flash a grin. And for a moment, he seems to relax.

And then I swing.

fin

Hmm... yup. Constructive critisism is appreciated... :smiles sweetly: