— That will be $1.08.
— That sign says «All Coffee 69 Cents».
— I am very sorry, but that is a 44-ounce cup, and the largest coffee cup is 20 ounces. Therefore, I must charge you — 99 cents, plus tax, — the price of a large fountain drink.
— That's bullshit. That sign says: «Coffee All Sizes» — not «All Sizes Up to 20 Ounces».
— I am humbly sorry, but you must pay 99 cents plus tax for that cup.
— Just pay the bitch the $1.08 and let's get the fuck out of here.
— Either of you got something smaller than a Ben?
— I'm sorry. I cannot accept any monies over a $20 bill.
— That's it.
— I should not sell it to you, anyway... As that cup is very hot and might burn you. You are very strange. I'm going to call the police.
— Fuck this. Fuck me.
— 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.
— Do you like pornos?
— Excuse me?
— You know, pornos. Fuck films. Surely you've heard stories.
— Yes. I've heard stories, but I've never... never really given them that much thought.
— I love them, especially fag flicks. Their big cocks sliding in and out of each other. Fuck, that gets me so wet they have to steam clean the seat after I leave. In fact... I'm getting wet just talking about it. <...> I went on as a day player on this porn film in L. A. Just to see what it was like, right? So, I spent five hours with this guy ramming his dick up my ass and these two women licking my clit. Not what you'd expect, though. It's just acting. I mean, at first, it was great. Then you have some prick director that comes over and yells "cut" in your face and some queen makeup artist that comes over every couple of minutes to touch up the makeup that's been slobbered off your tits. So you don't really have a chance to enjoy it. Finally, I just walked off the set. Cool experience, though. You got a hard-on, Jarv?
— 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.
