Original subtitles

I'm depressed, Red.

Here it is holiday time, and we're hiding out in this dingy rattrap.

No presents, no fun, no nothing.

- Can't we at least get a Christmas tree? - What?

And support the mad campaign...

of botanical genocide that grips this country every December?

But Christmas trees are so bright and fun and pretty.

Oh, please, please, please...

Calm down, Harl.

I've got a little plan that will make this the happiest holiday ever.

So tell me, Bruce...

what does Gotham's most eligible bachelor have planned for the holidays?

Skiing in the Alps? Sunning in the Bahamas?

And more importantly, who's he taking?

Actually, I was planning on a quiet Christmas alone, Veronica.

- Really? I wouldn't tell them that. - Who's "them"?

- Brucie! - Brucie!

You're standing under the mistletoe.

Oh, he's so handsome!

- Come here, big boy! - Give me that!

- Cheers. - Now, ladies...

Isn't he dreamy?

- Bye. - See you.

- See you soon. - Call me.

May we give you a ride, Mr. Wayne?

- No, thanks. I have my own car. - Oh, but we insist.

Season's greetings, Brucie.

Your two favorite party girls are out for some Christmas fun.

Ivy zapped you with her special lipstick back at the party.

Now we've got Gotham's handsomest, wealthiest bachelor...

to treat us to a holiday shopping spree.

- Race you to the shoe department, Red. - You're on.

- Please? - No!

Step lively there, Brucie.

- Look. Pianos! - I've had just about enough of this.

- I think the stuff is wearing off. - Can't have that. Give him another shot.

Right-a-roonie. Give me some sugar, baby.

No, not again.

Oh, my God! Oh, my God! We killed him.

- Oh, well. - We were going to do it anyway.

We got his credit cards. What's to worry?

So where to now?

Anyplace is fine by me, as long as it's away from that guy.

Quick. In the toy store.

I'll bet you've been a good little Batboy this year.

Unfortunately, Harley and I are still on the naughty list.

Come on up and get your presents.

Merry Christmas, darling.

And Happy New Year, chump.

Gee, Harley, you broke our new toy.

Bye-bye, Batsy.

Well, here's your stupid tree. You happy?

Yeah.

It's perfect. Dad will love it.

I've heard of kids being afraid of Santa, but they've been crying all day.

You big crybaby. Next!

I don't believe it.

You know, you could be more jolly, St. Nick.

Give me a break, Montoya.

This is the lamest stakeout I've ever been on.

We'd better get some lead on this invisible shoplifter soon or...

- You're not the real Santa Claus. - Sure I am. Wanna see my gun?

My name is Mary McSweeney, Santa.

Can you bring my daddy home for Christmas?

- Gee, kid, I don't know. Where is your pop? - In prison.

You mean your dad is Mad Dog...?

I mean, Mike McSweeney?

Poor kid. I sent her old man up the river three months ago.

Listen, kiddo, it's like this. I'd like to help you out, but...

What I mean is, sometimes even Santa can't make every wish come true.

- Here, kid. Buy yourself something nice. - Thank you, Santa.

- Can I buy something for my daddy too? - As long as it ain't a hacksaw, why not?

Wait a minute.

Hold it right there, young...

man?

And a bag of marbles and a football and...

Juvenile suspects heading towards Menswear. There are four of them.

All have been observed shoplifting. Detectives are in pursuit.

- Wake up, Harvey, we're on. - And a speedboat, and a...

Stop!

Hold it!

Hey, kid.

Halt! Police!

Clayface!

Hold it, freak, or we'll drill you.

You're scaring me, tubby.

Great thing about being a shape-shifter. I can blend in with the crowd outside...

make my getaway and rip off some other joint.

Once you're out of the way, ain't gonna be no one to stop me.

Don't bet on it, gruesome.

Run! Clear the area. Now!

Aim high.

Don't waste your ammo on him.

- Shoot the Santa! - You wouldn't.

Not you, dope. That Santa.

Well, so much for Frosty the Lawn Cigar.

- Let's get a cup of Joe. - Not so fast, Santa.

- We still have to recover the evidence. - Oh, no.

Oh, yes. Roll up those sleeves.

The ball is snapped.

Alteire fades back, looking for an opening...

Hi-ho, couch potatoes.

I'm interrupting the Toilet Bowl to bring you my very special New Year's resolution:

Starting tonight at midnight...

I, your loving Uncle Joker, do solemnly vow...

not to kill anyone for a whole year.

Which means I'm going to have to work extra fast...

to bump off a few more of you today.

Hysterical.

As to who, how and when, let's make that a game.

A countdown of victims that will end at midnight...

unless our dear Dark Knight stops me first.

Joker broadcast that message at noon.

Since then, only one victim has turned up.

Dr. John Erickson, a pioneer in sonic research at GothCorp.

Says here he was working on some special weapon.

A sort of sonic bomb. Once activated, the device releases waves of hypersound.

Strong enough to kill anyone within earshot.

Unless they're wearing these special mufflers.

Joker's got the bomb and he's gonna use it tonight.

He promised a countdown of victims.

And there's no bigger countdown on New Year's Eve...

than at Gotham Square.

I love New Year's Eve. So many happy faces.

How's it coming, boys?

All set, boss. We hooked up the boom box just like you told us.

Once the bell reaches the clock, everyone's getting a real bad earache.

I really have to congratulate myself on this one.

It's almost magic time, and Batman is nowhere in sight.

Of course, he does have that annoying habit of spoiling my fun at the last minute.

So I wisely stocked up on party favors.

- You're sure he'll be here? - With murder on this scale...

Joker will be close by to enjoy his handiwork.

Even in this crowd, he'll stick out like a sore thumb.

You were saying?

Not only has Joker found the perfect hiding place...

he's fixed it so all his victims will die with a smile.

There.

Those clowns are wearing sound mufflers.

Batman!

Poor Bats. That champagne went right to your head.

Now you'll miss the big countdown.

Ten, nine, eight...

seven, six...

five...

four, three...

two, one.

Oh, no.

Happy New Year!

- Sorry, fellas. Closing time. - But we wanna sing.

So start practicing for St. Paddy's Day.

Hey! Hey!

Happy New Year, commish. I heard your buddy had a rough night.

I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't show this time.

And break our tradition? In fact, unless I miss my guess...

that's him now.

- How's that arm? - Better than the Joker's.

- Close one this time. - They're all close ones.

Well, here's to survival.

Hopefully we'll be doing this again next New Year's Eve.

Hopefully.

And now, Joe, if I could get one of your cheesesteaks to go...

I'll be ready to call it a night. Anything for y...?

One of these years, I'm going to beat him to the check.

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