A tough Russian policeman is forced to partner up with a cocky Chicago police detective when he is sent to Chicago to apprehend a Georgian drug lord who killed his partner and fled the country.
— Stress management. You watch the fishes. You water the plants. Special breathing exercises. Monitor your blood pressure. Listen to pleasant sounds. Relax... Personally, I think it may all be a pile of shit! But when you're facing a bypass, you stop asking questions. Look, just out of curiosity, and since I figure cops are cops the world over... how do you Soviets deal with all the tension and stress?
— Vodka.
You want to know what my crime is? My crime was being born. I'm 38 years old and I've been locked up 26 of those. I educated myself in here. I've come to understand this country was built on exploiting the black man. Of course, I don't hear anything about brothers in your country. But your country exploits its own people just the same. So I guess that makes me the only Marxist around here... right, comrade? You see, this ain't just no drug deal. This is politics, baby. This is economics. This is spiritual. I plan to sell drugs to every white man in the world... and his sister.
— How come I get all the shit jobs?
— Because it fits you, Ridzik.
— Hey, asshole. You can't park here. This is my parking place. I live right up there. Move your piece of shit car out now or give me 50 bucks.
— I do not understand.
— Let me make it real simple, moron. You move your ass or give me 50 or I take my Pete Rose... and fucking mutilate your car.
— Do you know Miranda?
— Never heard of the bitch.
— Nice night. Been real hot lately. Nothing hotter than Chicago in August. It's the humidity that gets to you.
— Humidity. You know, moisture in the air.
— How's it been in Moscow?
— Hot. No moisture.
— Where'd you learn to speak English so well?
— Army. Compulsory training. Language school in Kiev.
— Oh, yeah. That's like as in Chicken Kiev. Yeah, we had that at my sister's wedding.
