— How's the hip?
— It's atrocious, but thanks for asking.
— I've seen much worse, but then I do post-mortems.
— I'm angry.
— It's OK, John. There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made everyone feel. All the marks on my table and the noise, firing guns at half past one in the morning...
— Yeah.
— Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine, keeping bodies where there's food.
— Yes.
— And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings-on!
— Listen, I'm not actually that angry, OK?
I just like to watch them all competing. "Daddy loves me the best." Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know, you've got John. I should get myself a live-in one.
The case of the vanishing glow-in-the-dark rabbit. Nato's in uproar.
— I can prove that you created an entirely false identity.
— Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort.
— This phone call, it's...it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note.
— Leave a note when?
— Goodbye, John.
Amazing how fire exposes our priorities.
— I'm not stupid, you know.
— Where do you get that idea?