What do you think?
Am I close?
I said, we got a
motherfuckin' problem here!
What you doing, man?
I'm fuckin' dead.
- Fuckin' dead.
- Why didn't you use a silencer, Casey?
Get the fuckin' money, Jimmy.
I'm fuckin' dead.
I'm fuckin' dead, man.
Why didn't you use
a silencer, Casey?
You want to go door-to-door...
tell everybody my fuckin' name?
- Oh! I'm fuckin', fuckin' dead.
- Fuckin' forgot 'em.
Good luck, man. I don't know
what the fuck is wrong with you.
We got 45 seconds.
Let's go.
You still here?
- What are you doing?
- I'm leaving.
I've heard quite
enough for one day.
What-what?
What did you tell him?
- I don't even know this bitch.
- Well, she certainly seems to know you.
Thank you very much.
It's been a pleasure to meet you.
Could have made
a very bad mistake.
Dr. Jarvis. Now, I-I...
- Doctor!
- We'll be in touch, Mr. Wells.
No, now, there's been some kind
of a mistake, Dr. Jarvis.
Dr. Jarvis!
- I'm fucked.
- Yes... you are.
Well, Case, it's just you and I.
What do you think?
My wife's going to have my ass
when she finds out I let some -
- dyke in a pink rubber dress
blow off her chances -
- for Happy Meals and diaper wipes.
It's red, asshole.
- Where is it?
- I'll tell you, if you answer one question.
Sure. Shoot.
Are you on the rag?
Because you look like
one of those women who are...
- explosive under stressful
situations, and...
Being married, you should fucking
know how much women hate that question.
But being a typical male, -
- you ignore your better judgment -
- and ask anyway, huh?
I should just do your wife
a favor and blow your head off.
It's as if every mood swing
can be written off as:
"She's just on the rag."
Like that explains something.
Women have mood shifts,
that "is" a fact of life.
And for your information,
I am a complete bitch, -
- whether I'm on the rag or not.
Hmm?
Now, let me answer your question.
- Does that answer it?
- I'd say you're right. You're just a bitch.
Good. Now...
- answer my questions -
- before you start
losing appendages.
It's gone.
- Gone?
- Yeah.
- What do you mean, it's gone?
- I 86'ed it.
I sent it swimming
down the sink. Bye-bye.
You're one smooth motherfucker, Casey.
You can keep the smack,
and I'll take the money -
- and we can call it even.
- Money? What fucking money?
It seems we're going around
in circles here. Hmm.
I want the two mil, Casey.
- Let me...
- Let me explain something to you.
I am not a drug dealer.
It's been four years, -
- since I've even seen any drugs.
I'm an architect.
I am a happy little Republican, -
- who spends the majority of his time, -
- trying to figure out how
to pay the fucking bills -
- and make his wife happy.
I got to tell you, Casey,
I'm not impressed.
After everything I heard about you, -
- I thought you were
gonna be more like... me.
But you are a sheep,
like all the rest.
There will come a time...
- when even you,
can't handle it anymore.
You'll pack it up
or you'll put a bullet -
- in that pretty little head of yours.
Or someone else will.
You are a pussy, Casey.
Nick wouldn't admit it,
but it's true.
You just couldn't
handle it, could you?
Nick ever tell you
about that last time?
- Sure.
- Ballpeen's apartment?
- Uh-huh.
- Did he tell you about the girl?
- What's up?
- Why didn't you use the silencer, Casey?
Get the fucking money.
- Why didn't you use a silencer?
- You wanna go door to door -
- and tell everybody,
in the building my fuckin' name?
- I forgot 'em, all right?
- I don't know what the fuck is wrong with you.
Get the fuckin' money, Jimmy,
and let's get the fuck out.
We got 45 seconds.
Let's go.
- What?
- Jesus.
She's seven, maybe eight
months, pregnant, Nick.
Fuck me.
Come on, Casey, we got to go.
She's dead, Casey.
Dead, just like we're going to be -
- if we don't move our asses.
We got to go.
Snap out of it, man!
It's clear. We got to jump. That bitch
was gonna kill