— Can you walk?
— Yeah.
— You get the fuck out of here and never come back.
— You're out on the town. Yeah, you're partying hearty. You're knocking boots with the chicky babes. Oh, who's this? It's the tax man. And he's looking at you. Now, what does he see? He sees a young fellow with a big fancy house... unlimited cash supply and no job. Now, what is the conclusion the tax man makes?
— I'm a drug dealer.
— Wrong. Million times worse. You're a tax cheat.
So you're chasing around a fly and in your world, I'm the idiot.
What happens now? I'll tell you what happens now. Your scumbag brother-in-law is finished, done. You understand? I will own him when this is over. Every cent he earns, every cent his wife earns, is mine. Anyplace he goes, anywhere he turns, I'm going to be there, grabbing my share. He'll be scrubbing toilets in Tijuana for pennies, and I'll be standing over him to get my cut. He'll see me when he wakes up in the morning and when he crawls to sleep in whatever rat hole's left for him after I shred his house down, I will haunt his crusty ass forever until the day he sticks a gun up his mouth and pulls the trigger just to get me out of his head. That's... what happens next.
Look, uh, so what if this is like math or algebra? You add a plus douche bag to a minus douche bag and you get, like, zero douche bags.
— What did you tell them?
— I told them they were a couple of dicks.
— He's a wordsmith.
— Tell me why you're doing this. Seriously.
— Why do you do it?
— Money, mainly.
— There you go.
— Nah, come on! Man, some straight like you, giant stick up his ass, all of a sudden at age, what, 60, he's just gonna break bad?
— I'm 50.
— It's weird is all, okay? It doesn't compute. Listen... if you've gone crazy or something... I mean, if you've... if you've gone crazy or depressed, I'm just saying... that's something I need to know about. Okay? I mean, that affects me.
— I am awake.
— What one particular element comes to mind?
— Wire!