The Bear and Barnacle

Late at night, the Joker sits cross-legged on the floor of the warehouse, looking for all intents like a child at a slumber party. Or he would, if not for the blood on the floor, and the body that is doing much more than sleeping beside him, a metal spoon sticking out of his neck. The Joker looks down, makes a "tsk" noise, and yanks the spoon out, sending another gurgle of blood onto the floor.

"Oh, not done yet? My whole FLOOR will be red soon, Steve." The Joker regards the spoon in his hand solemnly. "It's a very, very serious matter, choosing one's weapon. Oh, you might THINK I've just grabbed whatever was, ah, handy...but really, even when it happens quickly, it's done with very careful calculation. For example, while yes, I often prefer knives for their...art, sometimes a nice Uzi is just more appropriate to the situation, you know?" He chuckles as he continues, scar stretching upward. "And sometimes, more creative measures are called for. When you want it to hurt more. Or be more surprising for the victim. Hell, you probably EXPECTED a knife, didn't you, Steve?" The man does not respond, having passed over quite a few minutes ago. As such, he can't respond that his name isn't Steve. Not that it matters. "But sometimes it's better to go for the unexpected! The spoons, like this one, and the pencils, the pool cues, the barbecue tongs...oh, there WAS that one time with the tv antenna..." he continues smiling.

"But you know what my absolute favorite weapon is, Steve?" He waits, then frowns. "Oh come on, at least TRY to guess." He waits a moment longer, then shrugs. "My very special favorite? It's the mind! Not MINE, but yours! Well, ah, any persons. Use their OWN BRAIN against them, make them second guess, make them jump, make them anticipate. So by the time we even GET to the knives, or the whatever else, they're already half broken before I've so much as laid a FINGER on them!" He laughs loudly at his joke, slapping his hand down on the ground for emphasis. It makes a squelching noise as it hits the puddle of blood.

He grins down again at the body. "I like you, Steve...you're a good listener. It's, uh, a quality I admire."

Faramir was given his first sword so long ago he doesn't remember not owning one and while he was at first much more interested in his books than in weaponry it was not long before the influence of his adored brother began to set in. Boromir is ten years his senior and Faramir has spent the entirety of his sixteen years thinking his brother a god.

In some ways the two could not seem more different even though they look so much alike. Even as children it was so. As Boromir sat beside their father Denethor in court and eagerly learned from the citadel guard all he could discover and some things he shouldn't have repeated, Faramir spent his time following the keeper of Gondor's ancient library and doing odd jobs for the Wardens of the Houses of Healing. He was at his father's knee only to ask for answers and stories rather than to absorb and adopt the ways of the ruler. By the time the brothers were eight and eighteen Boromir had picked up many mannerisms of their father and commanded his first expeditions with a tone and mind very familiar to the men in his service. Faramir was said to resemble his mother or neither parent in his shy nature and his willingness to listen to any snippet of lore or history that someone would tell him.

So it startled a few of his tutors and the servants of the house when at thirteen quiet, bookish Faramir began challenging Boromir to practice swordsmanship with him. Boromir indulged him and Faramir always lost.

But he persevered and refused when Boromir kept offering to go easy on him. He learned more from the losing than he would have from a swordsman of his own ability and soon that ability was greatly expanded. Their illmatched practice never seemed to draw more than half curious glances from Denethor, but Boromir's laughter and the rough hand ruffling Faramir's hair – those gave the boy a warm, steady glow that no other's praise and no other's touch could equal.

Now that he is uprooted from home and far from the warmth of his brother's love and the long-held hope of his father's approval, Faramir carries his sword close by him even though he's already noticed that very few in this place go armed. Its weight at his side is comforting as he pushes into the Pub having come on Mina's recommendation. Here in this strange and frightening place it is a touch of home and a memory of his brother that he cannot imagine doing without.

“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.”

I am informed that Iago will be returning soon. Then this is the last of these godforsaken topics I must give, yes?

If you must have something, tell of your weapon of choice. Then order, eat, and get out.

Um ... what she said! :D Tag is "weapons."