"Why did the blind man fall into the well?" Bruce, in full Dark Knight getup, asked in a completely deadpan tone. "Because he couldn't see that well."

The orphans all groaned in unison, and Bruce's lips almost twitched. Almost. When he volunteered for the holiday party at the orphanage, this hadn't quite been what he'd assumed he'd be doing. They'd asked him to sit there and tell the kids awful jokes for about an hour. He'd known everyone involved would hate every second of it, but the other volunteers insisted it was an important tradition. By "important tradition" they had to mean "you're the Bat and that will keep the kids entertained while we sneak the presents under the tree," because he could not possibly fathom why anyone would want to listen to him tell jokes.

"Two fish are in a tank," he continued. "One turns to the other, and asks, 'Do you know how to drive this thing?'"

"You have terrible jokes," a ten-year-old girl declared, crossing her arms and making a face. "They're the worst."

Ignoring the comment, Bruce continued. "What did the pirate get on his report card?" He paused, looking around at the kids. "Seven 'C's."

One of the boys threw a piece of candy cane at him, and the children burst into laughter. The kids promptly got up and scattered, and Bruce was left sitting there, with scores of untold bad jokes and no audience.

He was not good with kids, despite having a gaggle of his own. Bruce sighed, stood up, wished the volunteers happy holidays, and left out the window in true Bat-fashion, landing in the street below where his ride was waiting. He got into the car and brushed the snow from his cape, frowning. "I should've just brought the Batmobile instead of bother you," he muttered, looking out the window as the driver pulled away from the curb. After a moment of silence, he continued, "The kids hate my jokes."