— Shit. I can't take this fucking waiting.
— Excuse me. Do you normally curse this much?
— I didn't... What, are you a Mormon?
— Yes, I'm a Mormon. That's why I just smoked a pack of Newport and drank three vodka tonics. What I'm saying is back when we first met, you were all like, «Oh, phooey. I burned the darn muffins». Now, you go into a bar, 10 minutes later, sailors come running out.
— Of all the Christmas pageants I have ever seen, this was by far the most recent.
— Ha, ha. For God's sakes, Sam. I've got teenage girls that are playing the Three Wise Men. What'd you expect?
— Teenage boys?
— I thought they did fine.
— It was the first nativity where Joseph stares at the Wise Men's tits all night.
My name is Samantha Caine. At least, I think it is. You might not believe it to look at me, but I was born only years eight ago... on a beach in New Jersey. I entered the world fully grown, wearing clothes I don't remember buying. In the back pocket a single key filed blank and faceless. A fitting metaphor, but otherwise no help whatsoever. None.
— Eight years ago, this guy was on the hit list.
— Budget cuts, dear. Congress blinded us overseas. I was forced to turn to any eyes and ears I could find even if that meant recruiting the quote-unquote "bad guys" here.
— Budget cuts, is that what this is about? Operation Honeymoon. Fuck me. You're running a fundraiser.
— Fundraiser?
— 1993. World Trade Center bombing, remember? During the trial, one of the bombers claimed the CIA had advanced knowledge. The diplomat who issued the terrorists' visa was CIA. It's not unthinkable they paved the way for the bombing purely to justify a budget increase.
— You're gonna fake some terrorist thing just to scare some money out of Congress?
— Well, unfortunately, Mr. Henessey, I have no idea how to fake killing 4000 people. So we're just gonna have to do it for real. Oh, blame it on the Muslims, naturally. Then I get my funding.
— Okay, let's say I buy it. You are a trained killer. I can't even say that with a straight face. So Samantha, she, um...
— Never really existed. Like Nathan said, she was a total fabrication. I made her up.
— Mm. So now she's just, uh, gone forever and ever?
— Thank God. Look at my inordinately large ass. Look what she did to me. <...> Change the subject. Better yet, bring me that bottle.
— Here you go. Drink up. So, what's next? What do we do now?
— I contact Chapter. I come in for debriefing bury the last eight years get back to work. Cheers.
I shot him. He's pretty much dead. Actually, I would have done it earlier, say back in '92... but I was baking. Don't ask. I wanna come in.
— Hey, Mitch. You're awake. Uh-oh. You're seeping. Here. Look at this.
— Ow! Shit. Mm! Ow, that hurt like shit.
— I know. That's why I distracted you first. Same principle as deflowering virgins.
— What? Virg...? What?
— I read it in this Harold Robbins book. Guy bites her on the ear, distracts from the pain. You ever try that?
— No, no. I sock them in the jaw and yell, «Pop goes the weasel».
