— May I just apologize for the state of my little brother.
— A full-time occupation, I imagine.
— This is a matter of national importance. Grow up!
— Get off my sheet!
— Or what?
— Or I'll just walk away.
— I'll let you.
If I wanted to look at naked women, I'd borrow John's laptop.
— What are you typing?
— Blog.
— About?
— Us.
— You mean me.
— Why?
— Well, you'r typing a lot.
— ... and that the photographs I'm looking for are in this room.
— OK, but how?
— So they are in this room. Thank you.
Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?
— I'm not the Commonwealth.
— And that's as modest as he gets.
— Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.
— Sentiment? What are you talking about?
— You.
He's good, isn't he? I should have him on a leash. In fact, I might.
— Having successfully committed a criime without a single witness why would he call the police and consult a detective? Fair play?
— He's trying to be clever. It's overconfidence.
— Did you see him? Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own. The righ sleeve of an internet porn addict, the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ and a limited life expectancy, and you think he's a criminal mastermind? Don't worry, this is just stupid.
— What did you say? Heart what?
People don't really go to heaven when they die, they're taken to a special room and burned.