If you could be any ice cream flavor, which would you be and why?

The ice cream truck in my neighborhood peddles death.  Not even hiding it.  The music is out of tune and changes pitch and rhythm.  It sings, "Here he comes, the ice cream man, he's come to scoop your brains out."  And yet, they run.  The tinny tinkling and the footsteps thunder taking them all one by one.  Not just the children, but the adults who should know better, too.  The darkest days, with lowering clouds, rumbles of thunder, ominous and low, you can feel it in your chest before you realize what you hear.  The streets shadowed in the light grey of dusk, the time of day you're most likely to be hit by a vehicle.  Leaves and dried things scurry and hide, but the customers, the customers always come running.