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: ...I bet you guys got a lot of stories, right? I don't. I grew up soft with the private schools and the little blazers, you know, and everyone "talked things out," you know? No one ever threw any blows - still to this day, never punched in the face, imagine that. I'm pretty much a pantywaist. I don't say this to be self-deprecating, I just, you know, don't have much of an opinion of myself. I'd much rather be like you guys, you know, bar fighters and big, swinging dicks, takin' care of shit. You know, sadly this is it, you know, it's disgusting - "Thanks, God! Dog-pile of piss-poor physique on top of a small cock and hereditary alcoholism, 'preciate it!" I'm babbling, I do that drunk, please forgive.
[Hollis is playing with Rip's rabbit mask
] Rip Reed
: Hey man. That's not yours. "Pistol" Pete Deeks
: [to Hollis
] Put the fucking rabbit down! Rip Reed
: Appreciate it man, get your dick beaters off it.
: [giving Hollis a 'pound'
] Bones it... huh... and you padlock it, and then you put the chain on it. That's a new one, that I'm working on.
[to Jack, about Hollis
] Rip Reed
: I'm really getting the hairy eyeball off that guy...
: He drinks, you know. Self-medicates, total cliche, this guy. He's a strung-out, washed-up, has-been, jerk, snitch fuckin' drunk seven-layer loser. Right. And I'm prayin' he puts up a fight. Please please please. Rape him! If it's possible. Punch him in the seat if it's possible. Hit him in the brown. I don't know. Anyway...