[center][b]A FISTFUL OF KETCHUP[/b][/center]

I am Batman’s arch nemesis.

[i]Me[/i] -- Mitchell Mayo. Don’t let the [i]clowns[/i] or the [i]birds[/i] or [i]owls[/i] tell you any different. There’s only one game in Gotham that isn’t a crock of tartar sauce, and I’m through waiting for the rest of the city’s pest-o’s to ketchup.

Criminals in this city will a-salt the Bat with everything they got: pepper him with bullets, try to barbecue that pointy-eared head; someone even mustard the courage to get in there and [i]break[/i] his [i]back[/i]. But the Bat always ends up on top. These galooks are in a jam, if you ask me. New guy thinks he has a big dill plan and gets his goons into the same pickle, and then they get to spend the next few months chili-ing out in Arkham.

Not me. Now, you’re a-dressing The Condiment King, the man that knows Batman’s true [i]weakness[/i]! Superman has [i]kryptonite[/i]. Martian Manhunter can’t soy-vive a [i]fire[/i] -- and [i]Batman[/i]? Really, it’s as simple as yum yum sauce.

He’s [i]weak[/i] to [i]sauce[/i]. They tell me I’m crazy -- too much honey in my mustard, or something -- but I’ve [i]seen[/i] it. Bat leaves the mask open at the bottom so you can’t miso what he’s feeling. He wants you to see that grim, square, serious jaw right before he sends you to the hospital with all manner of aioli-ments.

I can tell from the way he mayo-ntains focus on my condiment applicators. The horrible way his mouth curls, like he’s just taken a spoonful of vegemite. He knows I’m getting [i]close[/i], that [i]soon[/i] I will unlock the [i]special sauce[/i] that he fears most. The corners of his mouth struggle as I bring out the curry-worst weapons in my delectable depot of destruction. The tang of tabasco and the cutting chutney, as soon as I reach the right combination he’ll be sleeping with the fish sauces. Each time we have done battle, I see it on his face:

A haunting smile -- syrup-titiously trying to hide his fear, the emotion bubbling up inside... I relish it.