Macskafogó

— Liquidate them!
— Yes sir! Bullet in the head or poison?
— No, that would be a waste. Throw them in the river!

— Get in. I rented a car.
— Oh god! What will this cost us?!
— 2 years of prison if you don't get in fast.

— Grabowszky! Are you hurt?
— Not a habit of mine.

— You're a grand thief, old geezer.
— I'm flattered... But you're still the best, Mr. Teufel.
— You're the most disgusting when you're trying to be nice.

— How do you say in Pokionian to shoot?
— God knows. Tell him «boom, boom».
— Boom! Boom!

In 80 AMM (After Mickey Mouse) the mice of Planet X were threatened by the apocalyptic ghouls of humiliation and complete extinction. Bloodthirsty cats grouped into well-organized, well-equipped multinational gangs, denying law and order, ignoring the historical conventions between cats and mice aiming for the complete annihilation of the race of the mouse. But on the verge of total destruction, when the wisest mice were already thinking about leaving the planet... suddenly a new hope was born...

I want results, not excuses! Do you get that? Or else you'll be flying back to the can!

— In direct contact we'll put stockings on our heads.
— Oh, no! But... but... I only have fishnet stockings on me!
— Doesn't matter. Billy will lend you his socks.

But we should figure something out, because in the end we'll get screwed and... We can go back to the ballet hopping around.

— Naw, Grabowszky's done for. He quit, he's finished. He reads the Toro and he eats junk food.
— Nah, he always does that. After the King Kong situation, he told everybody that he's the 13th reincarnation of Mickey Mouse.

— It no hurt. Only small scar... on neck... there suck it blood. And..
— Is it certain yet?
— Certain. Like death.
— Excuse me. Could you please allow me to... before the suction... to blow one last time? I mean... on my trumpet.
— Bravo! Dinner with music!

Pedro..! Amigo mio...! We drink blood of can today too. Would be pity for such talent kid.

— When can we take these things off, I can't see anything!
— Well, me neither!... But I'm not whining.

— Safranek!
— Sir?
— What happened to you Safranek?
— I nicked myself while shaving, sir.

— You're pulling my leg, aren't you. These are rats!
— You're not a racist, are you Mr. Teufel! And what if they are rats!

— Any benefits to the widows? Mourning clothes benefit? Benefit for the widowed?
— Nothing. The usual telegraph of condolence from the chairman. And for the orphans a piece of candy. One for each of course.