You don't parley when you're on the back foot.
— We are Flaming Dragon! <...> Send $50 million, or you no see Simple Jack again because we kill him.
— This is Les Grossman. Who is this?
— This is Flaming Dragon!
— Okay. Flaming Dragon. Fuckface. First, take a big step back and literally fuck your own face! Now, I don't know what kind of pan-Pacific bullshit power play you're trying to pull here, but Asia, Jack, is my territory. So whatever you're thinking, you better think again. Otherwise, I'm gonna have to head down there, and I will rain down an ungodly fucking firestorm upon you. You're gonna have to call the fucking United Nations and get a fucking binding resolution to keep me from fucking destroying you. I am talking scorched earth, motherfucker! I will massacre you! I will fuck you up!... Could you find out who that was?
— Who is it?
— It's me. Snakes. I got the stuff.
— Leave it on the doorstep and get the hell out of here.
— All right, Johnny, but what about my money?
— What money?
— A. C. Said you had some dough for me.
— Is that a fact? How much do I owe you?
— A. C. Said ten percent.
— Too bad A. C. Ain't in charge no more.
— What do you mean?
<...>
— I'll tell you what I'm gonna give you. I'm gonna give you to the count of ten to get your ugly, yellow no-good keister off my property, before I pump your gu
full of lead.
— All right, I'm sorry. I'm going.
— One, two... ten. Keep the change, you filthy animal.
— Flaming Dragon's a heroin manufacturer. They're responsible for an eighth of the drug trade in Asia. Huge profit margin. <...>
— Les Grossman.
— We not get money yet. Price now 100 million! You pay now, or tomorrow Simple Jack die.
— Great. Let me get this down. 100 million. Wait! I got a better idea. Instead of 100 million, how about I send you a hobo's dick cheese? Then you kill him! Do your thing! Skin the fucking bastard! Go to town, man! Go to town! In the meantime, and as usual, go fuck yourself! We don't negotiate with terrorists.
It's just too much politics. It's too much compromise.
— So I guess you have a choice. You want a war? Or do you wanna just give me a gun?
— Somebody, please! Get this man a gun!
— There's a storm coming. Not just for me. For all of us. For everyone under the Table.
— Yes, killing someone who has a seat at the High Table does create a problem. But it's your problem, baby. After all, none of my people sent Gianna D'Antonio... to the hereafter.
— That being said, Santino has her seat now. And he wants the city. When he's done uptown, you think he's gonna stop at 14th Street?
— We'll just have to take care of ourselves.
— Oh, yeah? For how long? And how much blood? You kill Santino, the Camorra, and the High Table come for you. I kill Santino, they come for me.
— He's offered $7 million for your life. Seven million dollars is a lot of money, Mr. Wick.
— So I guess you have a choice. You want a war? Or do you wanna just give me a gun?
— Somebody, please! Get this man a gun!
— Kimber 1911, .45 ACP. Seven-round capacity.
— Seven rounds?
— Seven million dollars gets you seven rounds. That's a million dollars a round, baby.
— Let's go.
— Hopefully, this will short-circuit me the inevitable "it can't be done" discussion. I need this door open.
<...>
— This may take a bit longer.
— That really is unfortunate. We're gonna need a new engineer. This one's sprung a leak.