Harley's plan to keep an eye on Joker was foiled almost instantly when they returned home, and Joker immediately entered his study, still carrying the box, and slammed the door in her face.

He didn't leave his study for the rest of the day or most of the next. That afternoon, the door to the study opened at last, but it wasn't the Joker who left the room. It was Rocco, carrying the box Joker had been so careful of.

"Roc, hi!" exclaimed Harley, intercepting him. "What's in the box?"

"Heck if I know," retorted Rocco, shrugging. "The boss just calls me to tell me to come collect this and return it to Bergduffs with this receipt and this note," he said, holding up a piece of paper.

Harley took it and read the following: Please deliver to Harvey Dent on Christmas Day – No. 22, 22nd Street, Gotham City, 66842.

"And you don't know what's in it, huh?" she asked, studying the box.

"No, the boss just told me to be careful with it, and not to open it for any reason," he replied. "He said if I do, it'll spoil the surprise."

Harley said nothing, but bent down and put her ear against the package. Very faintly, through the rustle of wrapping and ribbon, she heard a slight ticking sound. "I think it's a bomb," she said. "Probably timed to go off on Christmas Day, when Harvey opens the box."

"A bomb?" repeated Rocco, growing pale. "I don't wanna be carrying a bomb to the store! What if it goes off?"

"It shouldn't – Mr. J's good with bomb-making," said Harley. "And he's packed it pretty well, you can hear that. It should go off just when he intends it to. But I can't let that happen."

"But Harley, if I don't deliver this like he asked, the boss will kill me," said Rocco.

"That's true," agreed Harley, nodding. "And if he thinks something's gone wrong with his bomb plot, he'll try something else. We gotta figure out a way to stop this bomb from being delivered to Harvey without Mr. J knowing we did that. We gotta let him think his plan is still gonna work."

"How are we gonna do that?" asked Rocco.

"I'm thinking!" snapped Harley. "And I'm thinking…I need to go with you to the store," she finished. "Just let me grab my coat," she added, seizing her new mink coat from the rack. "And the babies," she added, whistling for the hyenas and grabbing their leashes.

Bergduffs was once again crammed full of people, but the hyenas had their usual effect on the crowds, and Harley and Rocco were ushered to the front of the line. "Hello, Miss Quinn," said the same cashier from the previous day, recognizing her and the coat. "I can see you disregarded the instructions on the gift box not to open it until Christmas Day."

"Oh…yeah," stammered Harley, adjusting the coat. "Uh…that's why we're here, in fact," she said, an idea striking her suddenly. "See, Mr. J came home yesterday with this beautiful package just for me, but then he went out, and I couldn't resist opening the box to see what he got me, and…well, I just love it. But I don't want Mr. J to know I spoiled the surprise and opened the box, y'see – he gets really mad when his plans are foiled, even minor ones like Christmas surprises. So I'm wondering if you could give me another box just like the one you gave him, and I'll put the coat in it, and then you can ship it to me at Christmas and Mr. J will be none the wiser that I spoiled the surprise."

"Surely he'll wonder why you brought it back to the store?" asked the cashier, puzzled.

"Well, yeah, but I'll tell him that I just couldn't resist peeking at the present if it was in the hideout – in order to resist temptation, I had to return it to the store," invented Harley. "So it could be delivered on the day I'd get to open it, and I wouldn't be tempted to do it earlier."

"Then why do you need another box?" asked the cashier, confused. "Why don't you just put it back in the one that we gave you?" he asked, pointing at the box Rocco carried.

"Uh…because…" stammered Harley. "Because…I also wanted to send a gag gift to a pal of mine – see, I bought her something cheap, but if it comes in a Bergduffs box, she'll think it's something really fancy and expensive, and it'll be funny when she opens it and it's junk. So…uh…that's what in this box," she said, pointing at the box Rocco carried. "And…I'd appreciate if you'd help me out by delivering it to her at…this address," she said, seizing a pen and writing down the address of the warehouse she and Ivy had burned down. That way, even if the bomb went off, it couldn't do any more damage than Ivy already had.

"I'm sorry, Miss Quinn, but that's fraud – we can't possibly deliver anything that doesn't come from our store in one of our boxes," said the cashier, firmly. "That's why we need the receipt…"

"Look, I appreciate your devotion to your employer," interrupted Harley. "But frankly, I think it's kinda a misplaced loyalty. I mean, this store pays your salary, but does it really care about you as a person? When's the last time you got some real appreciation from your job? A raise? Paid vacation? Dental?"

"Well, we don't get dental, or paid vacation, but it's an honor just to work for such an illustrious establishment…" began the cashier.

"Aw see, that's how they scam you," sighed Harley. "Make you feel like you're a part of a great tradition, a part of the family. But they don't treat you like family. You're disposable, pal, and deep down you know that. Now Rocco here, he's family to me and Mr. J," she said, shoving the henchman forward and making him nearly drop the box, which he caught just in time. "You know what we give him for Christmas? Tell 'em, Roc," she said, nodding at him.

"Uh…it's usually five bucks and a pair of socks," said Rocco, slowly. "With itching powder in them."

"No, we invite you to Christmas dinner!" snapped Harley. "Remember last year when we had that big banquet with all the guys?"

"I remember we all got food poisoning…" began Rocco.

"The point is, we treat our employees like family," interrupted Harley. "Does the CEO of this place invite you to Christmas dinner, pal? Does he ever do anything to make your life a little better? Look at you, a week from Christmas, having to work your fingers to the bone dealing with demanding, irate customers. And what do you get for it? Not even a living wage, I'm betting. Retail workers are so badly paid and underappreciated these days. So why do it? Why enslave yourself to these creeps who don't care if you live or die? You're just a meaningless little cog in the capitalist machine to them, buddy, another drone serving your exploitative masters. They're laughing at you up there, with their cigars and their diamond rings and their parties with Bruce Wayne. And you're stuck down here, not even willing to help out your fellow man during the Christmas season, all for some arbitrary rule set down by some uncaring corporation. Is mindless consumerism and pointless dictates really what Christmas is all about? Is that what Jesus wanted? Remember the reason for the season, buddy. What about helping out those in need? And I'm in need, pal, trust me. So please just help me out here, and I'll owe you forever. Please?" she asked, gazing at him with her big blue eyes.

The cashier nodded slowly. "All right, Miss Quinn," he said, grabbing another identical box. "Let's put the coat in here, and give me your address so we can send it for Christmas. And we'll get this one sent off to your friend right away," he said, taking the bomb box from Rocco.

"Yeah, careful with that," said Harley. "It's…ah...cheap glassware, but it's breakable. No joke if the present gets to her in pieces – she might think it was something really expensive that got broken in transit, and then she'll just be mad."

"Your friend lives in a warehouse?" asked the cashier, reading the address.

"All us supercriminals live in weird places," said Harley, shrugging. "Wait until you see the address of our hideout – it's a shipping company," she said, writing it down and handing it to him, and then handing him the coat. "I really appreciate you doing this for me…" she began.

"Not at all, Miss Quinn – I got into this business to serve people," said the cashier, smiling. "Thank you for reminding me what my job should always be about."

"No problemo!" said Harley, cheerfully. She left the store, and let out a sigh of relief, wiping her brow. "Well, another crisis averted," she said, smiling at Rocco. "Only problem is I ain't got my coat anymore, and it's freezing out here."

"Here, take mine," said Rocco, removing his overcoat and placing it around her shoulders. "I'm really impressed, Harley. That was really quick thinking in there. No wonder you were such a good shrink."

"Yeah, I guess you could say I can make up convincing lies when I have to," agreed Harley, smiling at him. "And that's what being a good shrink is all about. But now you can tell Mr. J the truth – that you dropped the package off at Bergduffs and they're gonna send it off for Christmas. And when it doesn't arrive at Harvey's, you can't be blamed for it. Mr. J will just assume it was a mix-up at the store. I'm sure misdeliveries like that happen all the time. They certainly do with the postal service, especially at this time of year! Why, the other year, the post office sent about a million letters to some crazy guy who thought he was Santa Claus down on 34th Street…"

Harley continued to babble as she, Rocco, and the hyenas walked back to the hideout. She was correct in that misdeliveries and mix-ups did happen all the time, in the postal service as well as at Bergduffs. But what she hadn't counted on was how this particular mix-up would backfire on her spectacularly. For as the cashier put the labels on the identical boxes, he accidentally addressed the mink coat box to the warehouse, and the box with the bomb in it to the Joker and Harley Quinn's hideout.