The Bear and Barnacle

“There are guns, knives of all sorts, spears, bows and arrows, and of course, your wand,” Rodolphus says, slowly getting to his feet and making his way to the bar. “But I want to remind you that anything, anything! can be used as a weapon, either for offense or defense. Even rocks, though their range and accuracy is limited. This for example.” He picks up a chopstick from the bar and holds it up, examining it. “Even this can be used as a weapon.” He saunters back to his table, where two people are seated, immobile, staring at nothing. “Don’t believe me?” he grins around. “Watch!” And he places the chopstick at the eye of the bushy-haired girl and pushes slowly, with steady pressure. There isn’t an audible sound, but the end of the chopstick disappears. The girl doesn’t react at all; she just continues sitting and staring, a half-centimeter of chopstick embedded in her eye. “You have to be careful not to go too far, too fast,” Rodolphus explains, a professor delivering a lecture. “Or you’ll penetrate the brain case before you’re ready.” He withdraws the chopstick, its end now glistening with eyeball jelly. “There aren’t many things worse than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick,” Rodolphus chuckles. “But there are things just as bad.” And he takes the chopstick and jams it into the ear of the gangly red-headed boy at the table. The chopstick goes in a bit farther this time. Again, there is no reaction to the assault. Rodolphus pulls out the now-sticky chopstick. “Have to see if the Bertie Bott’s people might want this,” he says, appraising the goo. “So you see,” he goes on, propping his elbow on the head of the girl, who now has a shiny trail running down her face. “Just about anything you can put your hands on can be used as a weapon.” He tosses the chopstick on the table. “As for my favourite,” he shrugs, “whatever does the most damage.”

He's sitting on the floor of his dingy little flat, in front of the tiny television, bowl of some sort of riducolously sugary cereal in hand. He lifts another spoonful, chewing messily, as he chuckles at the screen. Milk is dribbled slightly down the front of the purple t-shirt he is wearing as the spoon jiggles when he laughs.

His head suddenly perks up as he hears the sound of someone on the stairs up to the flat. He lowers the bowl slowly, eyes narrowing in the direction of the door. A moment later, a knock is heard.

Growling, he stands, putting his hand around the knife in the pocket of his pajama pants, as his bare feet shuffle him closer to the door. He flings the door open. "You're interuppting my morning cartoons...really not smart."

Although he hits every bench in town (inside and out, and not a single one outside the borders), he doesn't hit every chair. That's a more random spattering. None belonging to anyone he's ever called family; don't draw attention there, and besides, eurgh. So there's just, here and there (and there, and there, and there) a chair that, when sat on, begins to silently rumble and purr pleasantly against its occupant. The shadowing spell will eventually wear off the little stones worked into their legs, but not, he thinks, for a good, long time. Not if the little snatches of astral body (mere grains, replenished every meal, less than is burned off with laughter) they take from their occupants in payment and to fuel their movement keep being renewed with sitting.

So: the innocent pleasure dispersed, the cleansing, pleasing deaths to follow, those without even a trace of his astral scent. This should give the little hell-brat a headache at the very least, drive him to distraction, in the best case, and out. Gadfly was always his role; he can't really hurt the prince of hell, but he can, maybe, annoy him enough to leave him alone.

It's dark when he finishes. He's heard about some winter deity-saint who touches every house in the world (of one faith, anyway) in a night, and spares a moment for admiration. But it's interrupted when he sees a certain store still open. Some temptations aren't worth resisting. With a candle in his pocket, smelling of autumn and spice, and two seals in the form of a fox and a smiley-face, he wends home. After all, he hasn't hit home either, knowing how well that would be received, and that's just not fair.

Val vaguely remembers crawling last night into Jack and Zel's bed, wanting the body heat (or so he would insist). He was expecting to be unceremoniously put out when his guardians decided they wanted their privacy back. This, though ... it's definitely unceremonious to suddenly have a tiny body struggling under his, but not at all expected.

( A YM thread. In which Zel is very small, Jack is very embarrassed, and Val is very wicked. )

Once he's fed his pet rat, Val dresses in Zelgadis's clothes (the jeans are too tight, but they're wearable, and the zippered sweatshirt fits) and walks down to the pub. He imagines Dora will have grown up just as he has. And everyone else ... well, this he ought to see.

He didn’t like this joke. This game was not fun.

On first glance, you would look right over the boy. Just a child, nothing of consequence.
The boy, gangly and awkward as most 11 year olds, sat cross-legged on the sidewalk. On closer inspection one would see the very un-childlike look in his eyes, or the mix of small burns and shallow cuts lining his arms beneath the oversized t-shirt he wore. As if possibly he was not convinced he was real and kept testing the theory. Occasionally he would lift his head to watch the passerby in the street, strands of green dangling over his eyes, before his eyes returned to the ground and his hands to the box of matches he was currently lighting one by one. A pile of ash, burnt items, and spent matches lay in front of him. Every few moments, one small hand would reach up to touch the sides of his face, and the scars there, as if to assure him of their continued presence.

He was small, but anyone assuming he was also helpless would be startled to find themselves spilt from navel to nose in a matter of seconds.

The Joker, oddly enough, is wearing dark slacks and a grey sweatshirt. Despite the fact that the weather is warming, he is wearing a beanie cap and a scarf is pulled up around the lower half of his face. His normal makeup is conspicously missing, instead heavy flesh tones are spread to try to reduce the glaring appearance of the scars. He is uncomfortable like this, visible without the mask, but a man has to eat and maybe if he's less obvious and hides in the shadow and doesn't see Ivonka face to face, she won't throw him out and he can have a warm meal.

He is sliding quietly toward a dark table when the free brownie display catches his eyes. His tongue darts out to lick his lips. How can he resist chocolate and sugar? He takes one and munches, making a contented little noise. Glancing around, he grabs several more brownies before finding a seat.

A short time and several quickly eaten brownies later, he's feeling even more cheerful than usual. The scarf slips off, forgetten, and he begins chuckling to himself at some internal joke. Oh, he knows. He tasted something different right from the start, but couldn't resist them. Maybe he should have stopped himself after 2, rather than the four he's now consumed...

A few more minutes pass, and he's lying across the table, shaking his head, laughing, and muttering under his breath. "She's good, so very good, a worthy advesary..." he should have noticed that the other patrons were acting slightly off when he came in "...hahahahehe...this is a GREAT joke, what a prank...hehahohoho...oh, you are a WONDERFUL woman, you...HAHAHehohohaHAHAHA..."

Jack walks through the pub, back to the toilets, and comes back out a few minutes later down to just his boxer-briefs simply because he can and he hasn't the slightest bit of shame about it. He tosses out a "Maybe don't look, Dora," before he strolls casually over to the board to pin up a paper as if people in underwear do that all the time.

"Bananas are good," he says. "And so's underwear, and so's what underwear covers up. Does that make it like a banana peel? Anyway, here's an easy recipe because bananas are good."

Baked Bananas
1 banana, ripe or not, either works but it's a good way to use them up

For sauce:
1/4 teaspoon cornstarch
1 tablespoon brown sugar (white works, too)
2 tablespoons water
Big ol' shake of ground nutmeg, cinnamon, or allspice, or any combination
Optional spoon of butter or margarine for more flavor

Scale as needed for more bananas.

1. Preheat oven to 175°C/350°F.
2. In a saucepan over medium-high heat, mix together cornstarch and sugar. Gradually stir in water. Bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Remove from heat and stir in spice (and butter/margarine if using). You can also heat it in the microwave just until boiling.
3. Place peeled banana(s) in a casserole dish. Drizzle sauce over the bananas. You might need to turn them over some to get them nice and covered.
4. Bake in the preheated oven for 8-10 minutes and serve warm.

I really don't recommend trying to skip the oven and cook this in the microwave. You'll get a totally different texture on the banana and it's almost creepy— the outside stays about the same but the inside cooks up from within and the banana splits open. The outside still holds it together, so it turns into a sort of dissected banana. Not a very appetizing presentation.

The Joker is idly swirling his mug of coffee in his hands, tilting his chair against the wall of the pub. He chews on one cheek, then the other, and his tongue plays along his lips.

"Do you know", he says out loud to no one in particular, "Do you know what REALLY gets my goat? Yanks my chain? PISSES me off??"

He puts the coffee down and leans forward. "I.Can't.Stand.People.Finishing.My.Jokes. My jokes. Mine. And then they go and steal the punchline. It's...it's RUDE and INNAPROPRIATE."

He picks up his coffee again, and mumbles as he takes a sip. "I mean, really. Learn a little mannners."

It's not a pretty sight.

The Joker is happily humming a tune, bustling around the pub's kitchen in a frilly, lacy, white apron which is already covered in varios food-stuffs. He pauses and looks over to the corner, where Ivonka is bound and gagged. "How are we doing over there?" he asks, only getting a glare in response. "Well, if you hadn't been so, ah, difficult...you wouldn't be in this little, uh, situation." He taps her head with the wooden spoon he's holding. "I don't CARE if this is Merry Old England, I don't care if it's the beginnings of the Second Flood outside, I WANT MY THANKSGIVING."

Even if it means he's cooking it himself. He played with the turkey (it joined him in a waltz) more than he seasoned it, and it was very possibly going to be very under cooked or very overcooked by the time he was done with it. The stuffing had 3 kinds of bread products and any random food he could find to chop up and add. The potatoes, that was easy. If there was one thing he could do, it was SMASH, er, mash, potatoes. He loved them. Too many servings of Arkham's nasty instant-from-a-box-those-flakes-were-never-REAL-potatoes meant that he made sure to figure out how to make the real thing.

So the sides are about ready, the turkey is (hopefully) cooking, and now he's faced with the TRUE challenge. Pie. Because you can't have Thanksgiving without PIE. The prep table is covered in flour, and bowls of what may or may not be pie fillings. The Joker resumes stirring vigoursly at the bowl of, what he hopes, what will make the pie crust dough.

He pauses again, frowns at the mix, and holds out the bowl towards his captive. "Does this look right to you?" When all he gets is what sounds like muffled cursing, he sighs and rolls his eyes. "Now, now, that's not very helpful..." He licks his lips before shaking his head at her and leaning down close to her face. "You KNOW I can't eat all this by myself, so you might want to be more proactive with the advice, unless you WANT to be the reason I poison everyone."

He grins widely, and reaches to untie her gag. "But I warn you, you try anything, YOU'LL be the one being carved on the table."


Happy Turkey Day to all my American friends!

"I'm not a monster, I'm just ahead of the curve..."

It was a line he'd used many times. He was always being called a monster - by the news, by the Bat, by the so-called "doctors" at Arkham. But he's not a monster. He just gets it, how the world really works, and he goes with the flow...wherever that flow takes him and whatever it inspires him to do.

Monster. What did that even MEAN? Looks that aren't the norm? How many people did not look "normal"? Behavior that is different? By some of their definitions, THEY were all monsters. The Batman himself even. The schemers, the planners, the politicians. The ones who manipulate the general populace, the ones who say "I'm doing this for you, the people. I'm going to SAVE you and CURE your world!", while really furthering only themselves and assisting the world on it's never-ending spiral towards inevitable self-destruction.

Monster. It's all relative.

AND.HE.IS.NOT.A.MONSTER.

The Joker sat on the ground outside the pub, looking angry and frustrated. Several of his knives lay on a pile of orange goo & seeds. Despite his propensity for knives, and his normal skill with them, this damn Halloween Pumpkin thing seemed to be beyond him. He had hacked diligently at it for a while, cleaning out the guts (though not very well), attempting eyes, then a nose, then a smile. It had been the smile where he might have gotten carried away. He ended up slicing the pumpkin almost in half. Tried to fix it, made it worse. And then came the throwing.

The Joker's brain was Very Busy (was there ever a time when it wasn't running at least two conversations and a few jokes and a blueprint for a masterpiece of chaos?).

He was pacing the empty warehouse on the edge of town (and just WHY does evey town have one or more abandoned warehouse? It's perfect of course, but really, they might as well post a "Villians Lair for Steal" sign out front and EXPECT the bad guys to move in. Everyone is always so surprised, like "Wow, we never thought to look HERE for the criminals!". Hmmm, villians realty...that had possibilities...no, no, it didn't, but it WAS funny.)

Gotham had been a GREAT place to work. But it was time for a change, time for a break from the Bat. Give the city time to recover and go back to a false sense of security.

( Hard Work )

The gift shop, and the flat above it, had been vacant and shuttered for years.
Small, neglected, and oddly unnoticed in the busy seaside resort. No one even noticed as he had crept up the back staircase time and again.

( Home Sweet Home )

Pardon our dust, gentle sirs and good ladies, new friends and old, but we assure you that the sounds of your voices are more welcome than your boot-prints.

To begin with, let each of you order up his drink and meal! Tonight, the chef takes requests, and your fancy is limited only by what we find in our pantry. However, all who have recipes must bring them to him, and so we shall set our menu when the time comes.

Come, then, have a seat! Here by the bar I shall keep you amused with talk and good drink, and there by the fire the room is warm, and at every table you shall find good company, and should you choose a place by the half-height walls of the kitchen you may speak with Xellos as he cooks. Come, your order?

For this very simple first topic, everyone can comment to this post with their food and drink choice. Thread-crashing is highly encouraged as otherwise there's not much in the way of interesting conversation to be had. Although Iago can and has discoursed at extreme length on polenta, but whether or not that qualifies for interesting depends on the listener's profession.

Welcome to the Bear and Barnacle!

Oh, and he means it about the recipes.