A/N: Short little fic inspired by the absolutely afreakingmazing villain, the Joker, and his infamous Disappearing Pencil Trick. Enjoy! :D


They always say the pen is mightier than the sword.

Well, he doesn't have a pen on hand. But he does have a pencil.

How one fourth-grade boy is supposed to use a pencil to defend himself against the nastiest, most idiotic bully in his entire school, he isn't sure yet. But he's not concerned. He'll think of something. He always does. It's why he scares them - his parents, his teachers, the kids his age. Everyone. They're scared of him. He knows. He likes. It makes him laugh. But then, he's always been easily amused.\

"Hey freak," the bully in question - what's his name? Oh, yeah... Jason. He thinks it's Jason, anyway. Not that it matters. Jason, Jackson, Jacob, whatever his name is, is such a low lifeform that he's not even really part of this boy's world. Not in any sense except as a vague, moronic presence - an irritation.

He doesn't like irritations.

"Hey, freak, I'm talking to you," Jason-Jackson-Jacob-Whatever says, louder this time, voice cracking. How very ominous, the boy thinks snidely. He giggles at the sound.

"You laughin' at something, freak?" Jason-Jackson-Jacob-Whatever growls.

The boy spins his perfectly sharpened #2 pencil in his fingers and smiles secretively to himself. "Just you," he says.

"You think I'm funny, retard?" Jason-Jackson - aw, hell, call him what he is. Whats-His-Face. That's who he is. "You think you can laugh at me?"

"We-ell," the boy says slowly, his grin blossoming widely across his face. "Yeah, yeah, I do."

Whats-His-Face is purple with rage. "You're the freak," he snarls, getting up from his desk. "You're the weirdo. Nobody likes you."

The grin doesn't go away. "Nobody likes you, either," the boy says. "They're just... scared. We're kinda similar that way, actually." He rolls the word actually on his tongue, pronouncing every syllable, tasting it. It's a good word. It fits nicely in his mouth. ACT-choo-ah-lee. "Except, people will grow up and not be scared of you anymore – because you're all talk and fists and anger. And someday, your anger will die, and you'll be normal, like all the rest of them, and they'll laugh at how pathetic you are." He shrugs almost apologetically, and continues, "Now, me – me they'll always be afraid of. Because they think I'm a freak. And to them, I'll always be… a freak. People will be running from me for the rest of their lives." He leans towards Whats-His-Face, eyes glittering strangely. "You should probably run, too," he whispers confidentially.

Whats-His-Face, who has been listening with a mesmerized and frightened expression, snaps instantly from his daze, eyes narrowing suddenly. "Is that a threat?" he growls.

The boy grins and settles back into his desk. "Just a bit of friendly advice," he says, shrugging again – not apologetically this time, but carelessly. Take it or leave it, the gesture says. Do what you will with it, but don't blame me for the consequences.

Whats-His-Face's pride is wounded now. The freak, the retard, the creepy kid who can't keep up in school, who even the teachers hate, is threatening him without batting an eyelash. Raging, Whats-His-Face shoves back his chair, gets out of the desk he's been sitting in. "I'm gonna tear you apart," he snarls, starting across the room towards the boy.

The boy looks around. It's too early for anybody else to be in the classroom. Even the teachers are in the lounge talking and sipping coffee. The kids who walk from home aren't here yet; the buses won't be here until five minutes after the second bell rings, even though they're supposed to arrive at least fifteen minutes before school starts. They're all alone. And hulking Whats-His-Face is barreling across the room, shoving desks out of the way and turning purple with fury. But the boy's not worried. He's clever. He's inventive. And necessity is, after all, the mother of invention.

And anyway, he has a pencil.

The boy gets up and backs away in pretended nervousness, twitching slightly. He twitches pretty often, but it's not because he's afraid. He's just jumpy. It's part of his nature. It always has been. So there he is, scuttling and jumping and twitching his way towards the teacher's desk with a spitting mad fourth grade nothing charging him.

He pauses on one side of the massive desk. Whats-His-Face pauses on the opposite side, lips curling in a vicious sneer. "You're gonna get it, freak," he growls triumphantly.

The boy laughs hysterically at that. He laughs so hard he drops to one knee, the hand with the pencil balled into a fist on the desk. The pencil's point is towards the ceiling, tall and sharp and oddly lethal. And it's thusly that inspiration strikes. It's so beautiful in its simplicity that he laughs even harder, sides shaking, stomach burning, tears coming out of his eyes. Oh, it's too perfect… Whats-His-Face will never see it coming…

Whats-His-Face isn't smiling anymore. He leans across the desk to see his prey crumpled on the ground, giggling and snorting on his knees. "What the hell…?" he says.

That's all he has a chance to think. The boy is up faster than he can blink and on his feet, and then with one forceful strike, Whats-His-Face's head makes contact with the point of the pencil. There's a weird popping sound of sorts, and the pencil penetrates the skull. Not far enough. Another hit, and it goes further in. Another, and it's even deeper.

The boy steps back, still laughing hysterically. He admires his handiwork – Whats-His-Face collapsed on the desk, expression frozen in surprise and fear. Lovely, thinks the boy. Too lovely for words.

He's still chortling when he goes through the boy's pockets, looking for anything worthwhile. He finds a pack of gum, a chocolate bar, some lunch money, and a lighter. Of course. The kiddie playing badass would have a lighter. He giggles and opens the chocolate bar, munching on the chocolate with a soft, contented sigh. He gets up and flips open the lighter, watching the flame with a fascinated gaze. He continues to play with the lighter while searching over the desk; finally, he finds an unsharpened pencil. He goes to the electric sharpener and waits while it shapes the pencil into a perfect point, gobbling down the chocolate bar in several furtive gulps, licking the remaining chocolate from his fingers.

He pauses, pulls the pencil out, admires it. A good, sharp point. He grins, gives a full-fledged laugh, and then turns back to the desk and sets fire to the papers littered across it.

He walks out of the room, humming the Alphabet Song and feeling content. He's starting to smell smoke behind him, but no matter. He's not concerned.

After all, he has a pencil.