The Bear and Barnacle

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!

He stands there, getting wet and wetter, but instead of hurrying inside - fixing himself a caffè, now that he's learnt how to, instead of grabbing one of those lush towels, or better yet: lounging away the rest of the day, snug in a fauteuil, swirling Armagnac - he walks away from the door, back into the rain.

He doesn't look where he's going until he bumps into a bench, shin first. Cesare takes that for a sign - isn't the sky full of portents? - and sits, getting wet and wetter, the glasses clutched in his hand as if they were a saint's relic.

Looking heavenwards, all he sees are fleeing shapes, panicked and wheeling, twisted by an invisible force and trampled by the throng. The shapes in the clouds remind him of something. Something he's seen, somewhere. He vaguely remembers being angry ( then. )