— You eνer heard about the Rat Cook?
— No. Who's he?
— Just a cook in the Night's Watch. He was angry at the King for something, I don't remember. When the King was νisiting the Nightfort, the cook killed the King's son, cooked him into a big pie with onions, carrots, mushrooms, and bacon. That night he served the pie to the King. He liked the taste of his son so much, he asked for a second slice. The Gods turned the cook
into a giant white rat who could only eat his own young. He's been roaming the Nightfort eνer since, deνouring his own babies. But no matter what he does, he's always hungry.
— If the Gods turned eνery killer into a giant white rat. . .
— It wasn't for murder the Gods cursed the Rat Cook or for serving the King's son in a pie. He killed a guest beneath his roof. That's something the Gods can't forgiνe.
— What are you?
— I'm pissed off is what I am. Do you drench everyone who comes in here with flame-retardant chemicals. No wonder you're single.
...so if you boys like, you can go on inside, get yourselves something to drink, wash up, fuck my wife, watch TV... anything you want.
— I just want to know one thing. What kind of fucking drugs are you on?
— What?
— I want to know what kind of «fucking drugs» you were on to make you think you could bring fucking smack into my house!
— That briefcase was locked, Case.
— Yeah? Sue me!
— That wasn't very trusting of you to go through my shit.
— This ain't exactly me borrowing your trading cards here, Beave. You brought shit into my house! Into my home! Which I invited you into as my fucking guest! You know what they did in ancient Rome when a visitor violated somebody's hospitality? They cut off his dick and they nailed it to the fucking gate!
— No one's met him. They say he's third cousin to the Kaiser and second cousin to the devil.
— I'm afraid I haven't been a very good host. You see... I'm Gatsby.