— 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.
Let's just say I know a guy who knows a guy, who knows another guy.
Christ. You two. All I can say is if I ever get anal polyps, I'll know what to name them.
— What did you tell them?
— I told them they were a couple of dicks.
— He's a wordsmith.
Believe me, there's no honor among thieves. Except for us, of course.
— Go. Get to it before the feds do.
— And do what exactly? I mean, what... The thing... The thing is the size of a... It's RV size. I mean, where do I go to make an RV disappear? I'm not David Copperfield!
— You act like you're the first guy this ever happened to. I caught my second wife screwing my stepdad, okay? It's a cruel world, Walt. Grow up.
— I just wanted to talk to him.
— Yeah, well, now I'm talking to you. Consider this an intervention. You could have been arrested back there. You understand. I mean, speaking as your lawyer, I'm always looking for billable hours, but speaking as your business associate, I'm strongly advising that you get your shit together.
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