All language subtitles for Hot Metal s01e05 Slaughter Of The Innocent

Editor Russell Spam has run a front
-page story in Twiggy Rathbone's Daily

Crucible, claiming Catholic priest
Father Edward Teasdale is a werewolf.

While managing editor Harry Stringer
tries to repair the damage, reporter

Titler continues his hunt for the killer
of former mental patient Donald

Kubelski. But his inquiries have been
dealt a crushing blow by the sudden and

mysterious silencing of the anonymous
source known as Saw Throat.

Thank you.

readers, are you getting it regularly?

Then why not let me pop mine through
your letterbox?

Do you know what I'm talking about?

It's tops for news and sport and it's...
Makeup.

Are you sure there's nothing we can do
about the nose?

Maybe if we try changing lenses.

It's looking great, Harry!

You take the cameras like a duck to
water.

I still say you should be doing this
commercial, Russell. I'm not at all...

You're the managing editor, Harry.
You're the man who commands trust and

respect.

Try shining a light up his nostrils.

We'll move on to the next speech, Mr
Springer. Now, remember, the pickling

is coming in from the right, OK? Yes, I
think a pickling jar. What pickling jar?

Going in. Three, two, one.

Action. Yes.

The Crucible has always been a paper
with a heart.

Well, now we're a paper with kidneys.

Every day this week, we're giving away
one of these six human kidneys to

patients with chronic renal failure.

Simply fill in the human kidneys?

You told me we were giving away a mini
-metra. BL pulled out, Harry.

We thought this one had greater human
interest.

I don't believe it. Oh, sorry, Harry. I
thought you knew. We did discuss it at

last week's conference.

Oh, that must have been the afternoon
you were caught in the revolving door at

Selfridges. My God, Father Russell, if
we put this out, there'd be a national

outcry. I can personally guarantee it. I
want this whole idea spiked

immediately. I agree, Harry.

Only a man with your breadth of vision
could point out the insensitivity of

giving away human kidneys in a
newspaper.

Spike it, we shall.

I've never seen anything like it in my
life.

Hold it like that, Mr Springer. The nose
looks great.

For the latest information, gentlemen,
378 Catholic churches are now on strike

in sympathy.

And yesterday, police stopped nine
coachloads of flying Jesuits on their

from Durham.

The time has come for a messianic figure
to step in and mediate, and that is why

I, Terence Rathbone, have pledged my
services night and day until a

is reached.

Night, that's when it happens.

That's when I turn into a werewolf.

Let's see what your newspaper has done
to him. He's a nervous wreck.

Take that string of garlic off your
neck, Father.

That's for vampires.

You say you want to help us reach a
compromise, Mr. Rathbone, but I don't...

Compromise is the heaving buttock in the
thrust of my argument card.

The strikers are demanding St Ninian's
be kept open. You are determined it

close. Only a man steeped in the supreme
subtleties of diplomacy could hope to

find a way out.

Gentlemen, we have found a way out. If
the dispute is over, St Ninian's will

remain open. I have personally put the
church in touch with an anonymous

businessman.

Well, generously agreed, Mr. Knight. 80
,000 pounds for the upkeep and

maintenance of the building. Of course,
I'm unable to divulge the identity of

the mystery benefactor, but I have here
a short statement issued on his behalf.

I am proud to give this 80 ,000 pounds
without recourse to any cheap public

relations exercise. For cheap public
relations exercises are the speaky lido

the corridors of power.

And now, gentlemen, perhaps you'd care
for a picture of the three of us

together, if we could just... Oh,

I'm

sorry, Your Eminence.

It was the only way.

Where have you hidden it, Russell?

Where's the announcement about the
kidneys?

In the small ads, used kidney for sale,
only one previous owner.

Harry, it's your droll quips that make
working on this paper a constant joy.

What have you got, Max?

Well, there's this computer break -in.
It's quite interesting.

Special Branch had this top -secret
third -generation computer installed for

personal surveillance, phone tapping,
general invasion of privacy.

National Council of the Civil Liberties
broke in to try and sabotage the thing.

Found somebody else had got there first.

Wires pulled out the lock.

I'm not dancing a jig on the desk with
excitement.

Well,

there's Father Teasdale impaling himself
on a meat skewer at lunch this morning.

What?

Let the... Blas, everyone.

Take the red in Hart's fear death bid.
Wolfman fears prompt preachers panic

at peace talks.

Craig's down in the hospital now keeping
a 24 -hour vigil. Any developments

he'll ring straight to here.

Oh, my God.

You should lose some weight.

What do you want?

Her Majesty's press. I'm afraid I shall
have to commandeer this phone.

And I'll thank you not to eavesdrop on
my conversation. I've little time for

snoopers. Copy? Now, Greg Kettle, I've
got the Teasdale story.

Catch line, bloodbath.

Maniac Marxist Red Ted Teasdale was
today... After driving a wooden stake

through his heart in a dramatic
bloodbath of such and such...

Keep it down, would you?

Out of consideration for others, the
shocked suicide attempt came seconds

a... Look, I won't tell you again.

After a brilliant 11th hour settlement
to the church dispute, engineered by the

Crucifix proprietor, Mr Terence
Rathburn.

to get out when I saw you in the
operating theatre now, will you? Hello?

Hey, Dr.

Martin, it's Mrs. Sankey. The multiple
births on its way.

I take it you want to keep them.

Well, if it's convenient, Keith.

I don't know what fairy tales you've
been hearing from our friend Sore

but you can take it from me. There's not
an ounce of truth in any of it. Well,

I'm not so sure.

Oh, haywire.

Everything you heard from that computer
was the product of a malfunction.

You understand me? A computer?

Jesus.

Malfunction, I've got you. Good.

I do hope we understand each other now,
Mr Titler.

Because if I catch you snooping around
here once more, you'll find out what

brain damage is really about.

little mazes. Wait!

I think I can see another one in there.

There's one more there. I can definitely
see it. What are you doing here?

I wonder if he will just talk us through
that last one again.

Then I got back to the office.

I found this letter from Sharon.

Since you won't stop bothering me, Mr
Titler, I have decided to leave the

country. I am flying to Bangladesh to
work as a nurse in that para where there

has just been a major outbreak of food
poisoning. And that para, isn't that

where... Mr Rathbone handed out six
million rat -bite chocolate bars.

Look, with respect, Bill, there's one
area of this case we've so far

Who'd have a motive to kill Kubelski?
Who'd have a motive to kill Kubelski?

Here.

It's not to be someone who thought he
was Khrushchev.

Someone who didn't want him to spell out
a load of secrets that might be

embarrassing to the Russians.

Exactly. What I can't get out of my
head, though, is the last thing Thor

said to me.

Who do you know with the power that
influenced the money?

Who?

That's what I said, Russell. A major
multi -million pound contract with the

Soviet Union.

Rathaus International have today reached
agreement with Moscow to supply them

with rat cola mineral drinks for the end
of the century.

Only a true businessman like yourself
could have pulled it off, Mr Rathbone.

That's not for me to say, Russell.

And own the daily crucible lock, stock
and barrel as I do it, but be wrong for

me to advise you how big to run the
story.

Suffice it to say that it marks a
sensational new boost.

To East -West Detente.

Not content with bringing peace to major
industrial disputes, you now bring hope

to humanity, sir. The world's cast
deserves a man of your calibre.

Now this tin of rat cola with my
compliments, sir.

I'm not worthy to drink it, sir. I'll
treasure it all.

No! I've told you, I'm not interested.

Now listen, Mrs Sankey.

How long do you think you'll be able to
provide for six little ones like that on

your wages from a wimpy bar?

I think you should reconsider my offer.

No.

Look, for the last time, I don't want to
sell my children to a newspaper.

Mrs. Sanky, perhaps I haven't made my
position totally clear.

We are prepared to offer you this sum.

I don't care what.

Actually, sign this, Greg.

And you'll see that I've inserted a 12
-month guarantee clause, Russell. So if

any of the babies die, she has to give
us a refund.

That's it all out, Greg.

This is tomorrow's front two and three.

Well, I've heard of buying the mother's
story, but buying the babies?

It's called a scoop, Matt.

What are we going to do with six babies?

Matt?

Harry who?

dentist appointment go?

You what?

Trapped in a telephone box?

Can't you?

Some idiot lorry driver's parked on the
pavement right up against the door.

No, he can't get out and he's only got
one ten -pee piece.

What the hell?

Well, can't you?

Oh, no.

He didn't even have time to say where he
was.

Then answer me, Russell. What the hell
are we going to do with six babies?

Six little miracles.

They captured the hearts of the nation.
Now, exclusively through the Crucible,

one of the Sankey sex duplets can be
yours. I don't believe that. Yes, no one

can believe it, but it's true.

Every day this week, we're giving away a
super sex duplet to one of our readers.

I've never seen anything like it in my
life.

Yes, it's baby freebies all this week in
the Crusading Crucible.

Just write to us, including proof of
sterility, and the first six childish

couples out of the sack will take home a
toddler. I can personally guarantee it.

The Crucible. The PayPal with integrity.

What can I say, Harry? When you said
spike the babies, I thought you meant

them all onto metal spikes.

How could you do it, Russ? Your word is
my command, Harry.

They're going to hang me for it,
Russell.

A tragic loss to the world of
journalism, Harry. No fine newspaper man

walked the earth.

But I didn't kill them, Russell. You
did.

It wasn't me. It wasn't me.

I didn't kill them. Harry, wake up!

Where am I?

You just passed out, Harry.

Must have been that six and a half hours
you spent stuck in a telephone box

yesterday.

You were starting to say something
about... the shanky sex tuplets.

Sex tuplets?

Sex tuplets.

Oh, my God, Russell. What have you done?
It's an outrage.

Russell's found something. Giving away
babies is worse than kidneys.

I agree, Harry. We'll spike them at
once. Yes, you do that.

No, don't spike them at once. What are
you going to do?

Just give them back to their mother,
Russell. Just give them back to their

mother. Give them back?

But the Crucible's just paid this sum
for them, Harry.

I don't care what, sir.

Yeah, thank you.

I don't think there'll be any giving
back just yet, Russell.

Camdenbury Council have made an
application to take the kids away from

put them into local care.

From now on, it's all in the hands of
the law courts.

This is a historical day for us in the
Soviet Union, Mr. Rathbone. What more

could any civilized nation ask for than
the chance to drink 500 billion gallons

of rat cola?

No, we have now truly entered the age of
technology.

Of all the merchandise that I produce,
Mr.

Kuznetsky, rat cola is the apple of my
eye.

No other product gives me such a sense
of pride over two months.

Not for me, I think. Not for me.

Harry, you'll have some more, won't you,
Harry?

Well, I don't think I've got room for
any more. He can't get enough of it.

Look,

Mr. Rathburn, I wonder if I could have a
private word with you. There's

something I'm very worried about.

Why is the polluted trout in the stream
of consciousness, Harry? You didn't get

it off your chest to me.

Excuse us, gentlemen.

It's Russell, sir.

This time he's gone beyond the pale.

Buying newborn babies, for God's sake.
And for this son.

And now it's all going to be dragged
through the courts. The crucible's name

will be mud.

Something's got to be done about it.

I agree, Harry.

Fire him.

What? Fire him. If you're not happy with
his work, kick him out.

Can I do that?

You're the king of the castle, Harry.
You reign supreme. You could have sacked

him whenever you wanted. I didn't put
Spam in that job as some mindless puppet

to do my every bidding.

If he's overstepped the mark, he'll have
to go.

Good Lord.

Well, if it's as simple as that...
Couldn't be simpler, Harry. We'll hold a

special meeting of the board of Rathouse
Newspapers.

Convince them...

And spam will be out on his ear. You
have my solemn, binding word on that.

I'm off to have lunch with the board
now, Max.

Can't say too much at this stage, but I
might have a spot of good news for you

when I get back.

Good news?

No use to me, Harry. Got a paper to
fill.

Greg, great news. Wait till Harry
Stringer hears about this one.

You've just missed him. What's up?
Something broken?

You tell Max what you just told me,
Greg.

Well, I've just come from court, Max.
The care order hearing on the Sankey

sextuplets. Social services officer, Mr.
F .L. Wilkie, testified that upon

calling at Mrs. Sankey's flat in
Rhododendron Terrace to interview the

he found not Mr. Sankey, who it seems
left home 15 months ago, but a gentleman

known as Big Mick.

described in court as a cross between
giant haystacks and a small brewery.

Mr Wilkie attempted to question the man
about his viability as a kind, caring

father for six newborn kiddies and was
promptly escorted down three flights of

stairs with the aid of a ratchet
spanner.

In short, Max, the babies would have
gone back to live with a drunken

psychopath.

If the crucible hadn't intervened, now
they'd be taken safely into care where

-one can harm them.

They'll owe their lives to the Crucible.

Bash it all out, Greg!

Crucible averts barbaric baby -butter
tragedy.

J .P.'s praise press -scoop -tot -dealer
-sankey -six -cheap -drunken -thug

-dad's -raging -rampage.

This is a story even Harry Stringer will
be proud of.

The members of the board are all here,
Harry. They'll back you to the hilt. I

feel it in my bones. I'm very grateful
to you, sir.

Thank you.

So there you have it, gentlemen. It
would be no travesty of the truth, I

to say that Harry Stringer is the
greatest newspaperman who ever drew

If a nuclear bomb were to fall on this
man's head tomorrow, the world would

never see his life again.

The decision is yours. You, as non
-partisan objective observers, must

the evidence without fear or favour.

I hear what you say, Twiggy. This man
Stringer has a good deal to answer for

himself. I agree.

Look at the things he's done since he
took over as managing editor.

Introduced pictures of wobbling breasts
against Spam's Express.

Fell for a massive hoax by believing a
mental patient was Mr.

Khrushchev.

refused to publish front page apology
after his own paper had called the local

priest a werewolf. The same priest who
now lies critically ill with a meat scar

through his heart. And to capital.

He's actually been ordered in Spain to
return these babies to their parents.

In spite of the fact that the father is
a homicidal junkard who probably dashed

their heads against a brick wall as soon
as look at them.

Thank you.

Sir.

All those in favour of Harry's
suggestion that we dismiss Spam as

It is all there.

Letters, diaries, everything.

It better be.

How much did we say?

Give them to him from me.

A friend of a friend.

It is enough.

Yes, I've got them, sir.

Do you want me to bring them personally
or shall... Right, I'll use the normal

channels and then we can... Oh, look.

I think I'd better ring you back.

Stand up, Mr Titler.

Try not to bleed too much, won't you,
Mr. Titler?

It does make such a nasty mess on the
carpet.

you'll find disaster servants killing
off his master and a story with some

sordid sex to feel someone's secrets we
have grabbed famous facts that we have

stabbed now you know what