The Penguin: Ah, the direct approach. I admire that from a man with a mask.
The Penguin: Touring the riot scene. Gravely assessing the devastation. Upstanding mayor stuff.
Catwoman: Honey, I’m home. Oh, I forgot. I’m not married.
The Penguin: You’re just jealous because I’m a genuine freak and you have to wear a mask.
The Penguin: The heat is getting to me, I’ll kill you momentarily.
Catwoman: We need to talk. You see, you and I have something in common.
The Penguin: Sounds familiar. Appetite for destruction? Contempt for the czars of fashion? Wait, don’t tell me… naked sexual charisma.
Catwoman: Batman. The thorn in both our sides. The fly in our ointment.
The Penguin: Ointment! Scented or unscented?
The Penguin: Actually, this is all just a bad dream. You’re at home, in bed, heavily sedated, resting comfortably, dying from the carcinogens you personally spewed in a lifetime of profiteering. Tragic irony or poetic justice, you tell me.
The Penguin: Why is there always somebody that brings eggs and tomatoes to a speech?
Jen: Research tells us that it’s people like mayors that have hands.