"Quite the list," Scarecrow said, licking his lips, picturing each delicious detail Hannibal described. "And how long did this take?"
It hadn't taken long for Jonathan to accomplish his revenge, for the most part. One night. And it hadn't even been that bloody, a fact Scarecrow weeped for. It had been a few years later that he found the true pleasures of fear, the richness of the terror in someone's eyes, the beautify of their screams, their begging.
Of blood washing over his hands as he watched the life die from their eyes.