The Bear and Barnacle

There was no denying it, the Joker was bored. Is bored. Will continue to be bored. There is simply no challenge to be found at the moment. And really, there were only so many little insignificant jokes and pranks one could play before they become fed up with the meaninglessness of it all. Because just plain fun, be it harmless or harmful, just isn’t the point at all. The point, the POINT is to mess with the status quo. Get into people’s heads. Create chaos out of order. Open people’s minds and eyes to new ways of thinking. And frankly, right now, his own mind was one big annoying, frustrating, angering BLANK. After a very lengthy conversation with himself and a rather one-sided fight with a wall, he decided on a new course of action – a new form of joke. That maybe, just maybe, it’s time for a partnership. Discreetly, he leaves messages where he knows Gaav and Rodolphus will get them. The notes themselves are short and simple.

I'm not laughing. It’s time for a new order. – Mr. J

It lists a date, time, and location at the bottom. And then all he has to do is wait…

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."

If there has been one thing that has been consistent since the Joker wandered into Margate, it's been that the food from one cook at the pub has been suitably adequate, while the food from the other has been consistently above par. He supposes that the number of times he has threatened Ivonka has not helped matters, but really, he threatens everyone, so why should she be special? She's not special, she's noone. Unlike the other cook. Oh, sure, he's threatened him too, but those threats are on a whole different level. They are anticipated, possibly even enjoyed. And they are...personal.

Whatever, the point is that Xellos' food amuses Joker. Xellos amuses Joker. And that's a pretty rare gift, to capture and keep the Joker's attention. Without dying. The Joker can count those people on one hand.

So he decides it's time to be a bit more...forthcoming...with his...special appreciation. And he slips in and out of the pub (only a sap would stick around), leaving a beautiful (if dangerous) arrangement of Venus Flytraps on the bar, with a card saying:

For Xellos
Love, Mr. J

The van (stolen, of course) careens madly down the streets of Margate in the early morning fog, coming to a stop after whipping around at the end of a long stretch of empty street. Hopping out of the drivers seat and onto the pavement, coat swirling as he sings a little song to himself, the Joker moves to the back of the van and flings the doors open with gusto.

"Enjoy the ride, my feathered friends?" he asks, a cacophony of noise and flapping feathers his response. "All right, all right, all of you out..." He hops onto the back of the van and starts herding the turkeys out into the street. Free at last, the large birds, all seemingly wearing collars, begin to move quickly in every direction.

Jumping out of the van, the Joker spins around, laughing, watching the turkeys rush every which-way. "Go out and explore! See the town! Have a BLAST!"

Laughing at his own joke, he abandons the van and heads to the pub.

"Happy Thanksgiving!" He yells as he enters, the few patrons eying him warily. Ivonka stands holding a knife. "Oh, relax. I'm not cooking this year. I was promised there would be pie...is there pie? That's all I want, the rest of my 'silly American Holiday' is taken care of." He slides into a seat by the window, pulling a remote detonation device out of his pocket. He looks at the timer on it, compares it to his watch. Glancing out of the window, he sees a shopkeeper chasing one of his turkeys with a broom. He grins, thumb over the toggle, "Three...twooooo...ONE!" The toggle is pressed, and outside the noise of multiple small explosions can be heard, and showers of feathers (and little bits of turkey) are fluttering down from the sky.

He leans back contentedly, hands behind his head, and waits for his pie.

Somehow, possibly with Xello’s intervention, Ivonka has returned to tolerating Joker’s presence in the pub. He’s told her he can’t promise never to try anything with her again, and she told him that she can’t promise he won’t end up on the menu if he does. That had prompted a smile and laughter, and there had been a tense truce ever since.

Which is why he now finds himself sitting at the bar in the pub, scarfing down a BLT with extra bacon, and talking to her with his mouth full. “You know, Halloween is coming up. I love Halloween, all the costumes and disguises. Everyone playing a part. But it’s a lie, you know…the real disguises, that’s what everyone sees every day. The faces ordinary people put on to go out and live their ordinary lives, those are the real masks.” He leans forward on the counter. “Me, I’m a master of disguise. Have a whole trunk full. Police uniform, nurse uniform, orange jumpsuit, my regular clothes…which one is the real me? Is this? Is the jumpsuit? Is my makeup the disguise or the real me?” He takes another bite, laughing. “What about anyone in here, right now? They’re all wearing disguises, all hiding what’s really underneath…”

In his warehouse the Joker watched the flame underneath the beaker, flickering blue, as the liquid above bubbled and rolled. He followed the progress of the liquid up, over, around…twisting through glass tubing.

“Now I’m set to have some fun…oh, the people, how they’ll run!” He paused, frowning. Hadn’t meant to rhyme there. Oh well, it was sort of amusing. He shrugged to himself and smiled. “A new batch of Joker Juice, almost ready! Just have to keep the temperature steady.” He twisted the knob, the blue flame flickering slightly as it reduced. As he started to move away, he stopped. Had he just rhymed again? Nah, couldn’t have. But maybe… “Let’s consider this a test, as I give it all my best.” He clapped a hand over his mouth and giggled. “I’m being forced to speak in rhyme! This damn town is at fault this time. I’m doing nothing on my own, oh, this is going to make me groan!”

He did groan then, before immediately following it with laughter and spinning in a circle. “I can’t seem to let this drop, the rhyming doesn’t want to stop!” Merrily, he returned to filling a vial with Joker Juice, before placing his best trick boutonniere into the buttonhole on his jacket. Turning off the flame, he hummed a tune as he tidied and headed out into the town.

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."

Video file from the security camera in Arkham's common room

The nurse sighed as the man in front of her spoke.

"The patient continues to exhibit dissocial personality disorder..." he said, blinking behind his glasses.

"Well, THAT patient shows classic megliomaniac tendencies" drawled the Joker, rolling his eyes, "Need I remind you, neighbor of mine, that you are on the wrong side of the glass to be giving a diagnosis? You're just one of the squirrels in the nuthouse, now, just like the rest of us...Scarequeer."

The man beside him at the table flinched slightly but remained calm as he removed and polished his glasses, glancing around the recreation room. "Don't call me that."

"Oh, we all know who, and what, you are, Doctor Crane." The Joker sneered merrily, poking at his afternoon Jello with a spoon. When the nurse wasn't looking, he slipped the spoon casually into his jumpsuit. Not a fork, but he'd make do. "Care to share any opinions on the matter, Two-Face?" The Joker turned to eye the disfigured man on his left, who was staring down at the table sullenly.

The eyes swiveled to look to at the Joker, partly missing cheek flexing over jaw. "I have no comment." He looked back down at the table.

The Joker frowned. "Well that's no fun. Didn't you use enough of that line out there?" he gestured toward the world outside. Turning back to Jonathan Crane, he continued. "Harvey just doesn't know how to play, yet. He'll learn. Give him a little more time, then he'll be just like the rest of us."

Jonathan bristled. "Do not include me in your 'us', I am not one of you. I am a doctor, and a genius."

The Joker laughed so loud the nurse jumped. "Hahahehehohahaha, oh, you're funny, doc, I'll give you that."

As the Joker stepped out of his flat, he tripped over something. A box. He looked around, half expecting to see a squirrel or something. He poked the box with a toe. It did not attack him back. Yes, he expected it to, with good reason.

"Hmmm, well, curiosity killed the cat...good thing I'm not feline!" He grabbed the box and went back inside, tearing it open.

When he saw the t-shirt inside, he clapped his hands. "Perfect! It even matches the STEAMROLLER!"




He quickly changed shirts, and then continued on his way out the door.

He doesn’t know why he didn’t think of the toxin immediately when Xellos brought up the plan. Been too long since he used it. The increasing headaches were probably not helping the situation. Little souvenirs from his “therapy” at Arkham. They certainly weren’t helping him remember all the things he would need. But he worked through the pain, and he got his list prepared.

( Convenient that there is a small cosmetics research lab just outside town... )

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 fiddled with one last wire, and then screwed the cover back on. Standing a reasonably safe distance away from the building, rigged to blow, he danced excitedly from foot to foot. Looking at the henchman standing nearest, he smiled.

"One more minute, and if the Commissioner doesn't make his move, then..." he made a blowing up sound and then laughed.

The henchman laughed along with his boss, a wise thing to do. "Yeah, boss...boom. 50 kegs rigged to go...that'll show 'em."

The Joker held the makeshift detonator in one hand, finger on the toggle, while he watched the seconds tick on his watch. "10...9...8...7...6...5...4...3...2...1..." He glanced at the cell phone in the hand of the henchman, who shook his head no. Looking like an excited boy on Christmas, the Joker flipped the toggle. A pause. Nothing happened. He flipped it back and forth a few more times. Nothing. Brows furrowed in frustration, he hit his hand against the side of the box a couple times. "Damn technology," he mumbled, then turned to the henchman. "Why, ah, why don't you go back in...guess we didn't hook up the last rig right...fix it, come back, we'll try this again."

The henchman looked a little nervous, but headed for the building anyway. As he stepped in the front door, the Joker looked down at the box in his hand. "Stupid thing." He whacked it once more, for good measure. And jumped at the explosion that immediately followed, all 50 barrels blowing. "Oops!" he called out to the flaming building. "Guess the rig was fine after all!" Laughing, he skipped down the street away from the fire.

The Joker had discovered that there was something very useful about not calling Gotham home. It wasn't. At least he doesn't think it is. No where is. He goes where he goes. He may have lingered in Gotham longer than other places, and he'll probably go back some day. But it isn't home. That precise thinking means that he has had no issues with contacting Gotham and those in it since arriving in Margate. He could probably go back whenever he wanted. If he wanted, which right now, he doesn't. But there was no denying that there were some things he just couldn't get here. Not the real deals. So he'd placed a phone call to an old henchman's number. The henchman had been able to connect him to Harley's latest number.

"Harls? Need some stuff here. My regular supplies. No, don't know when I'll be back. Yeah, uh, whatever, you too."

( He checked the mail impatiently every day until the box arrived. )

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..."

The Joker was very observant. He knew the routines of all the pub regulars. Knew when they ate, when they drank, where they worked, where they lived. He made it his business to know everything he could about all these people. Of course, they had no idea he knew where they lived, had no idea how easily he could slip into their homes, take what he wanted, and slip back out again unnoticed.

He stood back and admired his handiwork. It was still quite early, somewhere around 4 am. Ivonka wouldn’t even be coming in to start preparing to open for another hour or so. Mumbling and singing to himself, The Joker went about the pub, adjusting a knot here, a clothespin there…

Everywhere, hung on clotheslines crisscrossed across the pub, there were undergarments. Knickers. Boxers. Briefs. Panties. Bras. He had taken at least one article from every pub regular and strung it up here. Ivonka would have a fit. It was wonderful. He’d even included a pair of his own, just to throw them all off his scent (as if anyone would doubt it had been him).

There was that ONE weird guy, who hadn’t had any extra laying around. And the Joker wasn’t about to remove the pair he was wearing. So that guy, he was waiting for Ivonka on the prep table, red boxer-briefs and red blood and clothesline tying him up like a prepped turkey. But everyone else had at least one indecent article available for him to purloin. And now the pub looked beautiful, all bedecked in solids and stripes and even some polka dots. He tied the last knot, and exited through the back, patting the dead red-boxer-brief-guy on the head on the way, and whistling a jaunty tune.

The Joker slinks into the back of the pub unnoticed and watches for a bit. Then, abrubtly, he stalks to the front and steals the mike right out of the hands of some poor local.

"Ladies and gentelman, ah, now for some REAL entertainment..."




*shakes head* I'm so, so sorry. I had nothing to do with this nonsense, I swear.

The Joker could certainly keep a secret…especially his own. But sometimes, the secret, the truth, was not even under his control.

( Even he wasn't sure anymore... )

The Joker was very curious. So when a note was left on the door to his flat, he was very curious indeed. It simply stated to be at an appointed construction site in Margate at an appointed time, that there was a job for him. It was certainly the first time since arriving here that someone had sought him out, on purpose.

At the appointed time (Tuesday, at 11am) he arrived at the appointed place. The construction site was deserted, no workers. Just sand, dirt, and…

A steamroller. A big, yellow, steamroller. With the keys in the ignition. The Joker clapped his hands in delight and began inspecting the machine. Out loud, he mumbled. "Well, there's LOTS of jobs this baby could help with. But, ah, who left the note? Who wanted me here? What's the job?" He was wary, eyes darting this way and that, though the grin never subsided. Just in case, he pulled his knife as he leaned against the machine to wait for the mysterious, vague note-writer.

He called out to the seemingly empty lot. "Here I am. Got the note. Nice, ah, steamroller here. With keys. So I could just drive off with it. See how I'm NOT? I think that's pretty decent of me. So why don't you come on out and tell me what you wanted me to do with this thing? Other than the, ah, obvious flattening of things…"

The Joker snuck up to the door, which he was pretty sure belonged to blaise_samedi, and he carefully placed a large box in front of it. He paused to adjust the bow, then laughed, then knocked on the door and ran.




( The tag read: If you are brave enough to open )

Just be glad I talked him out of the dead fish he was orginally considering. Also, I have no photoshop, so tacky Paint edits is all you get!! Hahaha.

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."