EDWARD: Anonymous asks: Fuck, marry, kill: The Gotham City Sirens. Which one is which? and Anonymous asks: Kill, fuck, marry: The Gotham City Sirens?

Oh, good grief. You do know that I recently died, correct? Wherefore then are you so
interested in my bloody demise? Do I not even merit the grace with which to enjoy one
moment to pass by without tempting, nay, inviting cruel fate to knock at my door with a
welcome wagon of unforgiving death once again? I mean – honestly. What a Golden Apple of Discord you have tossed into my unguarded lap, fair Eris – I truly cannot thank you enough for this opportunity. Where is my Paris to whom I could pawn off such a task, I ask you? I’ve often wondered what it must be like to be blown up by a rocket launcher, mashed to a pulp with a giant hammer or ripped to shreds by wild hyenas. Not to mention the risk of provoking the ire of a usually blasé suitor known to turn his moods on a dime, nimble as a show pony. Or, perhaps, I could have all my worldly goods, be they so depleted, taken from me with the tender kiss of a knife at my throat as a final rejoinder? Or, better yet, I could be immobilized, manipulated and left to the whims of a maddened spice garden.

I ask you – what answer could one hope to give without a cavalcade of grief descending
upon Yours Truly? Let us analyse this proposition. To use the indelicate word you all seem to utilise with such relish – I do not fuck. This puerile activity squats as a repugnant cloud over the efficient operation of an adequately functioning brain; the Tesla method is a lifestyle to which I aspire. This strikes through the first part of your proposition with little difficulty. As for this talk of marriage, this is an extension of the first part. One such as I, marry? A laughable hypothesis; that such a person could exist that I could stand for more than five minutes at a stretch without my desiring to gouge out their idiotic eyes? I, spend my life with another who surely could never measure up to myself? Impossible. Do not insult me with fanciful tales of love, either. Love is an affliction cured by marriage, so I hear, but a simpler solution is immunity. Without the disease, there is no need for a cure. To pair with my previous conclusion, I do not marry. Killing – oh yes, I know a little about killing. But do I desire any one of these three women dead? Not particularly. Of late none of them have been a thorn in my side, nor I in theirs. I have no reason to kill any of them; pardon me if that makes me a purist rather than some common rogue. I believe you require from me some kind of salacious answer to this question; as loath as I am to comply with any such demand, I will concede that Gotham would be a great deal less interesting without the former Dr. Quinzel, Ms. Kyle or Dr. Isley.

However, have the utmost faith in this – if, as a result of this ill-advised query, they bring
down their wrath upon me, so too shall I upon you.