The Penguin: The heat is getting to me, I’ll kill you momentarily.

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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.