Dr. Weir:
[describing how the Event Horizon functions] The ship doesn't really go faster than light; what it does is it creates a dimensional gateway that allows it to jump instantaneously from one point of the universe to another light years away.
Lt. Starck, Executive Officer:
How?
Dr. Weir:
[stammering] Well, that's - that's difficult to - it's all math...
Miller:
Try us, Doctor.
Dr. Weir:
Right. Well, um, using layman's terms... Use a retaining magnetic field to focus a narrow beam of gravitons - these, in turn, fold space-time consistent with Weyl tensor dynamics until the space-time curvature becomes infinitely large, and you produce a singularity. Now, the singularity...
Miller:
[interrupting] "Layman's terms"?
Cooper:
Well, fuck layman's terms! Do you speak English?
Edward D. Wood, Jr.:
...and then, Dr. Vornoff falls into the pit, and his own octupus attacks and eats him. The end.
Old Man McCoy:
Whew! That's quite a story.
Edward D. Wood, Jr.:
Yes.
Old Man McCoy:
So, uh, you made the movie, and now you wanna make it again?
Edward D. Wood, Jr.:
No. We shot ten minutes of the movie, and now we're looking for completion funds.
Old Man McCoy:
Oh, son, you're too vague. [Yells to one of his butchers]
Old Man McCoy:
BILLY BOB! You're cuttin' em too lean.
Edward D. Wood, Jr.:
Mr. McCoy. How can I make you happy?
Old Man McCoy:
[Spits] Okay. Two things. Number one: I want the movie to end with a big explosion. Sky full of smoke.
Edward D. Wood, Jr.:
Yes. But it ends with Dr. Vornoff falling into the pit.
Old Man McCoy:
Not any more. Number two: I got a son. Little slow, but a good boy, and somethin' tells me he'd make a helluva leadin' man.
Mr. Pink:
Hey, why am I Mr. Pink?
Joe:
Because you're a faggot.
Mr. Pink:
Why can't we pick our own colors?
Joe:
No way, no way. Tried it once, doesn't work. You got four guys all fighting over who's gonna be Mr. Black, but they don't know each other, so nobody wants to back down. No way. I pick. You're Mr. Pink. Be thankful you're not Mr. Yellow.
Mr. Brown:
Yeah, but Mr. Brown is a little too close to Mr. Shit.
Mr. Pink:
Mr. Pink sounds like Mr. Pussy. How 'bout if I'm Mr. Purple? That sounds good to me. I'll be Mr. Purple.
Joe:
You're not Mr. Purple. Some guy on some other job is Mr. Purple. Your Mr. PINK.
Mr. White:
Who cares what your name is?
Mr. Pink:
Yeah, that's easy for your to say, you're Mr. White. You have a cool-sounding name. Alright look, if it's no big deal to be Mr. Pink, you wanna trade?
Joe:
Hey! NOBODY'S trading with ANYBODY. This ain't a goddamn, fucking city council meeting, you know. Now listen up, Mr. Pink. There's two ways you can go on this job: my way or the highway. Now what's it gonna be, Mr. Pink?
Mr. Pink:
Jesus Christ, Joe, fucking forget about it. It's beneath me. I'm Mr. Pink. Let's move on.
Joe:
I'll move on when I feel like it... All you guys got the goddamn message?... I'm so goddamn mad, hollering at you guys I can hardly talk. Pssh. Let's go to work.
Bob Barnes:
If anything happens to me or my family, an accident, an accusation, anything, then first your son will disappear, his body will never be found. Then your wife. Her body will never be found either. This is guaranteed. Then, whatever is the most dangerous thing you do in your life, it might be flying in a small plane, it might be walking to the bank, you will be killed. Do you understand what I'm saying? I want you to acknowledge that you do understand so that we're clear and there won't be any mistakes.
Dean Whiting:
Beirut rules, Mr. Barnes?
Ricky Slade:
OK, Bob, you knocked the Jew's tooth out, right? That's gonna cost Max 8 grand, maybe more than 8 grand. You probably lost him his whole line of clientele too. Plus, you've been fucking up Jess' dancing. Now I think he knows I sold the fucking carpet van, he's been giving me looks and shit which leads to that, OK? Now he can't kill us in Los Angeles cause there's a lot of questions there right? But all of a sudden he flies us out to New York City to do a drop? We don't know what the fuck the drop is, OK? But if we disappeared out here, there's no fucking questions involved in that. There's no questions if we disappear. LA, questions, drop out here, not a lot of questions!
Bobby:
How do you come up with this shit?
Mr. Grocer:
Ya sure Oregon doesn't ring a bell? The Pacific Northwest, couple of months ago? Something about you doin' some wonderdog named Cujo...
Martin Q. Blank:
Ah, *Budro*, yes, Budro, Jesus Christ! Yeah, I was out there tryin' to whack these junk bond fuckos and these idiots were flushing game with sticks of dynamite! And the dog that they borrowed, little Budro, was a retriever, get it? Budro was never a target, Budro was acting on instinct. I would never hurt an animal and I'm offended at the accusation...
Mr. Grocer:
Whoa, whoa, whoa, Chatty Cathy! Clip yer string, I don't need to know! But, just for the record, here's what I heard: the marks borrowed your client's prize hunting pup. So, bad luck for Budro and bad luck for Blank. Poodle pumper. Hound hitter. Pooch puncher!
