He picked out one particular family as they moved through the line, making the slow migration up to the ticket window with quiet, reserved patience. Only the child, a dark-haired little boy of nine or ten, squirmed slightly, anxious to get a good seat. The father, a tall, imposing man with a carefully-groomed mustache, patted the little boy�s head, calming him wordlessly. The mother, a striking woman in a tasteful fur coat and pearls, shared an unspoken glance with the father, a look which managed to communicate both affection and humor. In the shadows, the man smiled, anticipating their reaction to the film, wondering if the woman would grin and finger those pearls, if the father would drape his arm over the small boy�s shoulder to comfort him during the scary parts.

Gradually, the line shortened, the theatre filled and the street outside the movie palace became a deserted wasteland, all the more empty for the life it had so briefly held. This was a bad neighborhood, and he wondered why families still came to the movies all the way down here. There were better places uptown, multiplexes of shining neon and endless concession bars. He would have more success if he prowled those waters himself. Instead, he was drawn here, like them, to take in a show.

He was a consummate professional, gifted at his work. His execution was flawless, his ideas original and vivid. It took a special kind of genius to see the world the way he did; it was a gift. Occasionally things would go wrong, people would get hurt, money would be lost, but for the most part, his career had been a successful one. Tonight would be another jewel in his crown, another night of triumph. Careful planning and the proper selection of his subjects made that possible; he was a fastidious man who believed in the value of preparation.

The night grew darker, and his mind drifted pleasantly, focusing on places and the faces of the people he�d known, an ebb and flow of time and perception. He watched as the lights in the lobby dimmed and the concession closed, and for the first time in a long time he ached to be inside with the happy moviegoers, laughing along with them at carefully-constructed jokes, marveling at action sequences and sighing as celluloid romance blossomed and faded with the end credits. But it was a sequel, and he had an innate dislike of sequels.

Finally, the endless, throbbing rumble of the soundtrack died away, the house lights came up, and a trickle of people began to file out. He scrutinized each face, noting with a sick feeling of disappointment that the first people out of the screening were dull, subdued, shell-shocked. He had never anticipated this reaction.

A wave of people broke over him, and their dissatisfaction was palpable. Some were annoyed, angry, the happy children he�d noticed in the line earlier were no longer bouncing with excitement but seemed quiet, sad. He overheard a group of teenagers arguing with an usher, demanding their money be returned. Finally, the couple he�d been so taken with earlier, the small family who wore expensive clothes and loved each other so, exited the theatre. He followed them out into the night, pacing his footsteps to match theirs, trying to blend in to the background bustle of the late-night theatre crowd.

�What did you think, kiddo?� the father asked, taking the small boy�s hand. The mother slipped her own slender white palm protectively over the child�s other hand.

�I�it wasn�t very good, was it, Dad?� the boy responded, his face pulled into a grimace.

The mother and father looked at each other over the boy�s head, smiled in agreement, and laughed a little. �No, it wasn�t,� the father agreed. �Could you believe that dialogue?� he asked his wife.

She shook her head, grinning. �And who could believe a man of that age would require a legal guardian anyway�I thought it was some kind of joke on the audience�s intelligence.�

�Those puns!� the man smirked. �All those �cold� and �ice� jokes! What a waste of time.�

�We�ll pick something better next Tuesday,� the mother promised. �Maybe that boat movie everyone�s so taken with.�

The man who followed in shadows hung on every word, his face twisting in frustration. They hadn�t liked it?

The little boy piped up. �I thought the car was cool,� he offered, swinging himself up, relying on his parent�s strength to hold his momentum. �But dad�why did everyone like that plant lady so much?�

The parents shared another look of mutual amusement. �I�ll explain when you�re older,� the father promised. They moved off down the street, ducking into an alley, and the man followed at a quickened pace, wanting to hear their final reaction, fingering the object in his pocket.

�I think�I think they killed Batman,� the little boy whispered in the darkness of the alleyway. �It was so�dumb.�

Joel Schumacher turned away before the parents could respond, his hands shaking, his throat dry. He took out the hankie he�d buried in his pocket, wiping his eyes. �I�I killed Batman,� he said to the night.

THE END