Bullseye is having the time of his life right now.

I mean-Daredevil let his little attack dog off the leash?

How precious.

He should have thought to keep them closer.

I mean, after Bullseye figured out who Daredevil was, it was all too easy to start a list of targets to track down. Friends, family, or in this case-sidekicks. Fisk wasn’t so convinced with Bullseye’s idea of Matt Murdock, the blind attorney being Daredevil, the source of all his trouble.

Bullseye was convinced though, totally and utterly, he only needed a body as proof then, he figures the little sidekick wouldn’t take long to squeal where he might find that ole devil.

This was just the first stop on that list.

Daredevil’s stupid, insignificant, little runt is all alone. Now they had no backup, no help, no way out this time unless they want to try and run to the streets and involve poor, innocent civilians; which he would be more than happy to do.

He’s fought them before, but only when they had their precious Daredevil as backup in case things got too hot. And he can imagine Daredevil would feel a need to do something if he found his apprentice in a mangled and very dead state come morning.

Maybe he could even get some info out of them before he kills them? It’s a nice thought.

He’s got so much going through his head right now, but ultimately it’s an overwhelming sense of a high.

People don’t get it. Killing people-for him at least-is like a drug. He feels stronger, faster, focused, and overall better. Like right now.

He’s already injured the little brat, they are bleeding and leaving a nice little trail in the snow for him.

Sure, they put up a good fight every time they had to stop and face the music with him, but now the night is winding down, and he’d hate to get bored.

“Awwww, c’mon. What’s with you sidekick’s today?” He goads, following the noise of their distress down alleyways, “No creativity!” He said, picking up a shard of glass off the ground and tossing it at a wall. It ricocheted off and evidently hit its mark, judging by the yelp it elicited from the rascal ahead.

“Uh oh, did I hit something?” He laughed, shaking his head. He’s just wondering how easy it would be to lodge something in that brat’s throat and be done with this.

“You know, I bet ol’ Hornhead will be really upset if he finds out you couldn’t fight me just quite right, huh?” He taunted, his feet crunching against the snow on the ground, “You know how they gut pigs, kid?” He said, taking quicker steps.

“They start at the ribs, and then cut down and under the belly, then the stomach just falls out!” He says, taking a knife off his belt, a malicious look on his face, hands shaking with adrenaline, “Here, I’ll demonstrate for you!” He said, turning the corner with a wild smile.