— You know what happens if I pull this trigger? Do you?
— You repaint my ceiling.
— Tell me, why is it so fucking difficult?
— What?
— This relationship.
— So, you're Casey?
— That's right.
— I'm a friend of Nick's.
— I'll bet you are.
— May I come in?
— Nick's not here right now.
— I'll wait.
— I'm a little busy.
— Well, I'll be real quiet.
— Look, lady, I just told you. I'm a little busy!
— It's quite all right. I would enjoy speaking with your friend.
— She's not my friend. I don't know who the fuck she is.
— I want you to pedal your ass back here, pick up your shit, get the fuck out of my house.
— No can do, buddy. I appreciate your situation, but I told you... I got a little unfinished business to take care of.
— So what?
— A little unfinished business.
— If you're not back here in 15 minutes, you're going to have to pick up your shit from the police evidence room.
— And tell 'em what? Your ex-partner just happened to stop by with a basketful of goodies and you felt it was your moral obligation to turn him in?
— I don't think so.
— Look, you lame piece of shit. I am having a little bit of trouble oming up with reasons, not to blow the back of your fucking head off!
— Where is it?
— I'll tell you, if you answer one question.
— Sure. Shoot.
— Are you on the rag? Because you look like one of those women who are... explosive under stressful situations, and...
— Being married, you should fucking know how much women hate that question. But being a typical male, you ignore your better judgment and ask anyway, huh? I should just do your wife
a favor and blow your head off. It's as if every mood swing can be written off as: "She's just on the rag." Like that explains something. Women have mood shifts, that is a fact of life. And for your information, I am a complete bitch, whether I'm on the rag or not. Hmm? Now, let me answer your question. Does that answer it?
— I'd say you're right. You're just a bitch.
— I just want to know one thing. What kind of fucking drugs are you on?
— What?
— I want to know what kind of «fucking drugs» you were on to make you think you could bring fucking smack into my house!
— That briefcase was locked, Case.
— Yeah? Sue me!
— That wasn't very trusting of you to go through my shit.
— This ain't exactly me borrowing your trading cards here, Beave. You brought shit into my house! Into my home! Which I invited you into as my fucking guest! You know what they did in ancient Rome when a visitor violated somebody's hospitality? They cut off his dick and they nailed it to the fucking gate!
— Ballpeen's casa at 7:00.
— Where in the fuck a nigger get a name like that?
— You seen little nigger's arm, right?
— Oh, yeah.
— That's why they call him Ballpeen. He broke Jimmy's arm... with a ten-pound ball peen hammer. Three years ago "Lester James", a.k.a. Ballpeen, was a big, stud motherfucker. Had a stable of bitches he fucked on a regular basis, but every couple weeks... he went out to get some strange. One night, Lester finds himself in this titty bar, and this knockout white girl named Raven, is just gyrating her little tits off. Well, Lester wanted her in the worst way. Even more when she told him to go fuck himself. He sprinkles a little fairy dust on her, somehow gets her to go back to his place. That was all she wrote. He "abused" this bitch. He fucked her every way you can think of and then some. Finally, he gets ready to go again, and he figures he'd "really" degrade this bitch and make her blow him. So, he pushes her head down and, bam! She bites that motherfucker's dick... clean off. Fortunately, they found it and sewed it back on. But it never worked right again. The problem is, a story like that gets around, you know how it is. So to combat this, anytime he even heard anybody talk about it, he'd use this fuckin' hammer on them. "Ballpeen" kind of stuck.
— And Jimmy?
— Over the years, this kind of shit gets out of control. So one day, Ballpeen, shows up late for a meeting and Jimmy made the mistake of asking if he'd been jerking off. Next thing you know,
Jimmy's got a broken arm.
