Slevin: — I'm not the guy you're lookin' for. I don't live here.
Sloe: — Yeah, well, you look like the guy that lives here.
Slevin: — Then you don't know what the guy that lives here looks like.
Elvis: — What he means to say is you look like you live here.
Sloe: — Yeah, that's what I mean to say.
Slevin: — Well, yeah, I look like I live here, but I don't.
— Make sure he doesn't come home late.
— I will.
— I was talking to your son.
— I'm sorry. Who are you?
— I'm The Boss.
— I thought he was The Boss.
— Why? Do we look alike? So, Mr. Fisher, you were gonna tell me something?
— I don't know. You brought me here.
— Yes, I did, but back when you thought I was him.
— I never thought you were him, I thought he was you.
Mr. Fisher. Are you familiar with The Shmoo, Mr. Fisher? Comic strip I liked as a boy. The Shmoo was a loveable creature, really. Laid eggs, gave milk... and died of sheer ecstasy when looked at with hunger. The Shmoo loved to be eaten. It could taste like any food you desire. Shmoo hide cut thin made fine leather. Even Shmoo whiskers made excellent toothpicks. In essence, The Shmoo supplied all of the world's wants.