The Journal of Richard Grayson, a Slayer

Friday 31st October, 1845

Today, as I have been before, I was asked why I do what I do.

Why I might wish to endanger myself each and every day, when I could lead a safer and more respectable lifestyle.

My reply was, as it always is, that someone must do this job; someone must fight those forces that prey on our kind.

These unholy apparitions which slay the innocent and devastate lives untold.

If I can fight; if I have the knowledge, the skill, the equipment, then surely it would be less becoming of me not to fight these demons? For that is what they are; creatures of the unknown, taken from stories for children.

And yet they walk among us.

Most cannot fight them, and so they live in terror, immersing themselves in prayer and superstition.

I myself have always found that more firepower is needed when dealing with such things.

As it happens, I have noticed the increase in supernatural activity of late; I am constantly on the move from town to town, city to city. I was never required to move around this much before, but these past few months have given rise to the numbers of them. One might assume this is connected with climate change or population increases.

For now, I cannot be sure.

In this world, I know of only one thing; my time on this earth may be limited, but before the Reaper comes for me, he will be kept busy with the sands of those monsters and specters I will dispatch to a world beyond this.

To the fellow today, I maintained that my personal reasons for my particular occupation were my own; and as for my partial answer that someone must do this, he replied that he would rather me than him.

I could not agree more, sir.

For sometimes, I admit that I even partly enjoy what I do.

This evening I finally cornered and slayed the foul beast that had prowled the city for weeks now – the city in which I for now reside. It has the peculiar name of "Metropolis"; as of yet I cannot discern why it may be called this name. I am sharing my temporary quarters with a journalist named Mr Clark Kent, whom has stated that he finds my journals fascinating.

He in fact congratulated me tonight on my destruction of the thing; and thanked me. Both notions have perhaps been the most sincere I have heard so far.

In all of the cities I have been to, I find myself dealing with the same kinds of folk; there are those in a minority, like Mr Kent, who have called me a hero.

Most call me a fool.

Opinions matter nothing to me; it is a case of needing to make a living. I have been trained to fight and if people are willing to pay me to rid them of "problems", why shirk their offers?

Tonight, I have rid Metropolis of its fearsome prowling being; and tomorrow I bid this city and my acquaintance Mr Kent farewell.

This evening's paper featured an article on something that seems to be another calling for me; and so tomorrow, another city.

A city called Gotham.