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Nick the Greek
: Just get me a sample. Tom
: No can do. Nick the Greek
: What's that? Some place near Katmandu? Meet me halfway, mate.
: Look, it's all completely chicken soup. Nick the Greek
: It's what? Tom
: It's kosher. As Christmas. Nick the Greek
: The Jews don't celebrate Christmas, Tom.
: There's no money, there's no weed. It's all been replaced by a pile of corpses.
: Well, he can afford to do the deal at the price we're selling. It's not worth him giving us any trouble cause he knows we'll be a pain in the arse. Soap
: I'd take a pain in the arse for half a million quid. Tom
: You'd take a pain in the arse for air miles. Soap
: Tom, the fatter you get, the sadder you get. Eddie
: Will you two stop flirting for a minute?
: Where the fuck are they going?... Shift a piano? I thought this was meant to be a robbery. Eddie
: Where did they get those outfits? Tom
: Not a bad idea, that.
: Rory Breaker? That psychotic black dwarf with an Afro? Tom
: That would be the same man, yes.
[haggling with Tom
] Nick the Greek
: What else does it come with? Tom
: It comes with a gold-plated Rolls Royce, as long as you pay for it.
Nick the Greek
: Dunno Tom. Seems expensive. Tom
: Seems? Well, this seems to be a waste of my time. That is 900 nicker in any shop you're lucky enough to find one in. And you're complaining about 200? What school of finance did you study? "It's a deal, it's a steal, it's the sale of the fucking century!" In fact, fuck it Nick, I think I'll keep it! Nick the Greek
: All right all right, keep your Alans on!
[Peels off notes from his wad
] Nick the Greek
: Here's a ton. Tom
: Jesus Christ! Eddie
: You could choke a dozen donkeys on that! And you're haggling over one hundred pound? What d'you do when you're not buying stereos Nick? Finance revolutions? Nick the Greek
: 100 pounds is still 100 pounds. Tom
: Not when the price is 200 pounds it's not! And certainly not when you've got Liberia's deficit in your skyrocket. Tighter than a duck's butt you are. Now, c'mon. Lemme feel the fibre of your fabric.
: Oh, and if Tom or anyone else for that matter feels like givin' them a bit of a kickin', I'm sure it won't do any harm. Soap
: Yeah, little bit of pain never hurt anybody. If you know what I mean. Also, I think knives are a good idea. Big, fuck-off shiny ones. Ones that look like they could skin a crocodile. Knives are good, because they don't make any noise, and the less noise they make, the more likely we are to use them. Shit 'em right up. Makes it look like we're serious. Guns for show, knives for a pro. Tom
: Soap, is there something we should know about you? Bacon
: I'm not sure what's more worrying. The job or your past.
: Rory Breaker? Barfly Jack
: Rory? Yeah I know Rory. He's not to be underestimated, you've got to look past the hair and the cute, cuddly thing - it's all a deceptive facade. A few nights ago Rory's Roger iron's rusted, so he's gone to the local battle-cruiser to catch the end of his footer. Nobody is watching the custard so he turns the channel over. A fat man's north opens and he wanders over and turns the Liza over. 'Now fuck off and watch it somewhere else.' Rory knows claret is imminent, but he doesn't want to miss the end of the game; so, calm as a coma, he stands and picks up a fire extinguisher and he walks straight past the jam rolls who are ready for action, then he plonks it outside the entrance. He then orders an Aristotle of the most ping pong tiddly in the nuclear sub and switches back to his footer. 'That's fucking it,' says the guy. 'That's fucking what' says Rory. Rory gobs out a mouthful of booze covering fatty; he then flicks a flaming match into his bird's nest and the man's lit up like a leaky gas pipe. Rory, unfazed, turned back to his game. His team's won too. Four-nil.
: Listen to this one then; you open a company called the Arse Tickler's Faggot Fan Club. You take an advert in the back page of some gay mag, advertising the latest in arse-intruding dildos, sell it a bit with, er... I dunno, "does what no other dildo can do until now", latest and greatest in sexual technology. Guaranteed results or money back, all that bollocks. These dills cost twenty-five each; a snip for all the pleasure they are going to give the recipients. They send a cheque to the company name, nothing offensive, er, Bobbie's Bits or something, for twenty-five. You put these in the bank for two weeks and let them clear. Now this is the clever bit. Then you send back the cheques for twenty-five pounds from the real company name, Arse Tickler's Faggot Fan Club, saying sorry, we couldn't get the supply from America, they have sold out. Now you see how many of the people cash those cheques; not a single soul, because who wants his bank manager to know he tickles arses when he is not paying in cheques! Bacon
: So how long do you have to wait for a return? Tom
: Probably no more than four weeks. Bacon
: Well what good is that if we need it in six... no, five days? Tom
: Well it was still a good idea.
: They lack any kind of criminal credibility. I might get laughed at.
: [after having just robbed Dog and his crew
] Jesus, that wasn't too bad, was it? Soap
: When the bottle in my arse has contracted, I'll let you know. Eddie
: Bacon, see what we've got. Bacon
: Let's have a butcher's, eh?
[as he inspects their loot
: We've hit the jackpot, lads! We've got God-knows-how-much of this stinking weed, a shitload of cash... and a traffic warden. Tom
[Bacon holds up an unconscious man
: Jesus, Ed, we've got a traffic warden! Bacon
: I think he's still alive - he's got claret coming out of him somewhere. What did they want with a traffic warden? Eddie
: I don't know, but I don't think we need him! Knock him out and dump him at the lights! Bacon
: Knock him out? What'd ya mean, knock him out? Knock him out with what? Eddie
: I don't know! Use your imagination!
[Bacon punches the Traffic Warden, who moans in pain
: Don't touch him up! Knock him out! Bacon
: I'll knock you out in a minute! Look, you want to knock him out? *You* knock him out. Eddie
: I fucking hate traffic wardens.
[after a pause, Tom and Eddie jump into the back of the van with Bacon; all three proceed to batter the Traffic Warden senseless
: You mean to tell me that the only thing connecting us with the murders is in the back of your car which is parked outside? Tom
: They cost me 700 quid. I'm not just going to throw them away. They're hardly likely to trace 'em back to us, now are they? Soap
: You really think it's worth taking the risk for 700 pounds? Tom, you're a dick.
: I want to look fucking mean! Nick the Greek
: Of course you'll look mean! You'll look really scary...
: What do they say about assumption being the brother of all fuck-ups? Tom
: It's the mother of all fuck-ups, stupid! Soap
: Brother, mother, any other sucker. It don't make any difference. They're still fucking guns and they still fire fucking bullets!
: This is fucked. No money. No weed. Its all been replaced by a pile of corpses.
[Having noticed the corpses of both Rory's gang and the neighbors
: The Traffic Warden identified the neighbours' bodies. Which sort of puts us in the clear. The only thing connecting us with the case is those shotguns. Bacon
: And Tom took care of them. Soap
: You did take care of the shotguns? Tom
: I wanted to talk to you about that? Bacon
: Well, talk. Tom
: Well, actually no. I've got them sitting in the car. I was gonna sell them back to Nick the Greek, but I'm having a bit of trouble getting hold of him. Bacon
: You dippy bastard. Eddie
: So... the only thing connecting us with the case, is in the back of your car which is parked outside? Tom
: They cost us 700 quid. I'm not gonna throw them away. And they're hardly likely to trace 'em back to us, are they? Soap
: Do you really think it's worth taking the risk for £700? Eddie
: Tom, you're a dick. Now you take those guns and you throw them off a bridge. Bacon
: And throw yourself off while you're at it. Soap