Hello, Harvey.
Hello, Harvey.

Remember the internal affairs offices? A pot of coffee, the one pack of cigarettes out of a carton that you managed to grab before Gilda hid it from you?
Long nights, stepping out every couple of hours into the unforgiving winds of a Gotham winter to smoke as you ran that "lucky" two-headed coin between the fingers of the opposite hand, the air so freezing cold that when you exhaled, you almost couldn't tell what was smoke and what was just the moisture on your breath freezing?

Remember deliberation with the captain, carefully sniffing out only the most putrid bags of garbage in the dumpster the Gotham PD had become, listing them to the current DA only to hear "Dent, you two-faced son of a bitch" as the compactor crushed them?

Didn't do much good for your conscience, pretending to be everyone's friend, but you were the Pyrite City's golden boy, right Apollo?

Remember how sick you were getting of hearing about the Roman, and those distrustful glances you caught Gordon and the Bat exchanging on the rooftop a few days after Viti turned up with two.22 rounds in him?

Remember how much those self-righteous rock-steady bastards started to piss you off during that whole Holiday mess, always calling you up, calling you out, all the while Gilda called to wonder when exactly you'd next be coming home? You got so angry sometimes, it was almost like you'd become a different person, wasn't it?

Neither of you are the bad guy. Scarred side up might lead you to do some bad things, but you give everyone a fair, half-and-half, fifty-fifty chance. The odds of successfully prosecuting a serial rapist in this piss-sink—even for a smooth operator like either of you—are what, one in five? You know what has to be done, Harvey. As do you, Harvey.

The two main parties who vilified you in Dent's tragedy weren't Sal and Carmine. They weren't you and yourself. They were Jimbo and Bats.

Just something to discuss among yourself.

I've got a fun game for you and your little lady, smiley.
It's a simple variation of monkey in the middle, using a bat in place of a simian.
All you need to do is track down the freak in the pointy-eared fetish gear.
You know the one I mean.

I promised the Scarecrow a brain, so all you have to do is keep the Bat's big black boots off the yellow brick road for right now.

I have something cool to give you if you can do me this favor.

Does the phrase "fork in a toaster" mean anything to you?