“Looks like butter wouldn’t melt, but it was a pleasant surprise watching you to see what a little sex freak he is. Tonight, too. Found him at Alpha Sigma Delta about to be fucked by Walters and his ilk, and, look, pubescent boys aren’t my thing, but to each his own. If I hadn’t intervened, Timothy Drake-Wayne would be spit-roasted in a basement by now. Kinky.”
“So, this is gonna be kink gone wrong?”
You know, Jason found it vaguely insulting that in this scenario, he had to be stupid enough to kill Tim by accident. Or psychotic enough to snap. Either one would besmirch his character, his skill in the press. Fuck this guy.
But also: this guy was fucked. Because he had no clue who Jason actually was. If his gambit worked—which it wouldn’t; Jason was going to murder the shit out of him shortly—the story wouldn’t be Crime Alley escort murders Tim Drake-Wayne then kills himself in seedy sex den. No, it would be Wayne scions fuck nasty, then murder-suicide out of dirty, incestuous guilt. Or something. And Jason would not give Minski the satisfaction of such a good story.