Pick-up Guy: This reminds me of a joke. This guy comes into a bar, walks up to the bartender. Says, "Bartender, I got me a bet for you. I'm gonna bet you $300 that I can piss into that glass over there and not spill a single, solitary drop." The bartender looks. I mean, we're talking, like, this glass is like a good ten feet away. He says, "Now wait, let me get this strait. You're tryin' to tell me you'll bet me $300 that you can piss, standing over here, way over there into that glass, and not spill a single drop?" Customer looks up and says, "That's right." Bartender says, "Young man, you got a bet." The guy goes, "Okay, here we go. Here we go." Pulls out his thing. He's lookin' at the glass, man. He's thinkin' about the glass. He's thinkin' about the glass. Glass. He's thinkin' about the glass, glass. Thinkin' about his dick. Dick, glass, dick, glass, dick, glass, dick, glass, dick, glass, dick, glass, dick, glass. And then, *foosh*, he lets it rip. And he-he's pisses all over the place, man. He's pissin' on the bar. He pissin' on the stools, on the floor, on the phone, on the bartender! He's pissing everywhere *except* the fucking glass! Right? Okay. So, bartender, he's laughing his fuckin' ass off. He's $300 richer. He's like, "Ha, ha, ha, ha!" Piss dripping off his face. "Ha, ha, ha, ha!" He says, "You fucking idiot, man! You got it in everything except the glass! You owe me $300 punta." Guy goes, "Excuse me just one-one little second." Goes in the back of the bar. In back, there's a couple of guys playing pool. He walks over to them. Comes back to the bar. Goes, "Here you go, Mr. Bartender, 300." And the bartender's like, "What the fuck are you so happy about? You just lost $300, idiot!" The guy says, "Well, see those guys over there? I just bet them $500 a piece that I could piss on your bar, piss on your floor, piss on your phone, and piss on you, and not only would you not be mad about it, you'd be happy."
El Mariachi: [praying] Give me the strength to be what I was, and forgive me for what I am.
El Mariachi: You know, it's easier to pull the trigger than play guitar. Easier to destroy than to create.
Short Bartender: What do you want?
Short Bartender: All I got is piss-warm Chango.
Buscemi: That's my brand. Oh, this is damn good! Say, this is the best beer I've ever had. Actually...
Short Bartender: [ignoring him] You need anything over there?
Buscemi: I'm just glad to be alive right now. I was up a few towns away- you know Saragosa? I was visiting a bar there, not unlike this one. They serve beer, not quite as good as this, but close. And I saw something you wouldn't believe. I'm sitting there, see, small table all by myself. Now this bar, it's full of real low-lives. I mean, not like this place here. No, I mean bad. Like they were up to no good, know what I'm sayin'? Anyway, I'm all by myself, I like it that way. Meanwhile, things are going on... under the table kinds of things. Not too obvious, but, not too secret, either. So, I'm sitting there, and in walks the biggest Mexican I have ever seen. Big as shit. Just walks right in like he owns the place. Now, nobody knew quite what to make of him, or quite what to think. There he was and in he walked. He was dark, too. I don't mean dark-skinned. No, this was different. It was as if he was always walking in a shadow. I mean every step he took towards the light, just when you thought his face was about to be revealed, it wasn't. It was as if the lights dimmed, just for him.
[telling a story]
Buscemi: The stranger shot him, walked over to the bartender, paid, and left.
Short Bartender: So the bartender lived?
Short Bartender: The bartender never gets killed!
Buscemi: But as the stranger neared the door...
[Bartender pulls a shotgun. Stranger shoots bartender]
Buscemi: No man, bartender got it worse than anybody.
[El has just walked out of the confessional booth]
Priest: Did you want confession?
El Mariachi: Heh? Well, maybe later, Father. 'Cause where I am going, I'd just have to come right back.
Short Bartender: [nervous] Is there something in the guitar case?
El Mariachi: Yeah.
Short Bartender: What?
El Mariachi: My guitar.
[Talking about his bar]
Short Bartender: Bad beer, bad service. Don't people know not to come in here?
Buscemi: Now, I wasn't interested in his drink. No, I was more interested in what he was carrying when he walked in. Some sort of a suitcase, kind of heavy. And he sat that thing on a stool beside him as if it were his girl.
Buscemi: What happens when he's dead?
El Mariachi: When Bucho's dead... it's over. He is the last one.
Buscemi: End of payback? An eye for an eye and all that crap? You finally gonna be satisfied?
El Mariachi: I think so.
Buscemi: I hope so. 'Cause, I don't have the stomach for this anymore.
El Mariachi: You never did.
Buscemi: Neither did you.
Buscemi: Just try and keep it from turning into a fucking bloodbath, all right? Not like last time.
El Mariachi: That one wasn't my fault.
Buscemi: Well, of course not.
El Mariachi: No, they started it.
El Mariachi: I have to go to church.
Carolina: What for?
El Mariachi: Confess my sins. I'm a sinner.
Buscemi: Suddenly they got very interested in who you were. So, I laid the story down nice and thick.
El Mariachi: How thick?
Buscemi: Well, pretty thick, I told 'em you were the biggest Mexican I've ever seen...
Tourist Girl: And, your beer tastes like piss.
Short Bartender: We know.
Tavo: 'Cause we piss in it!
Short Bartender: That's not all!
El Mariachi: It's easier to pull the trigger than play guitar. Easier to destroy than create.
[the mariachi comes back for the guitar-case of weapons that he just threw away]
El Mariachi: Just in case. It's a long ride to the next town.
[customers enter a bar littered with corpses]
Bucho: Can't you see that we are fucking closed?
Buscemi: Can I get a cleaner mug? This one's dirty.
Short Bartender: Fuck you man! That's the cleanest one I got!
El Mariachi: Suddenly you're my big brother.
Buscemi: Well I do feel some responsibility for you, yeah.
Tavo: [in Spanish] How much in dollars?
Short Bartender: [in Spanish; counts] 18,000.
Tavo: [in Spanish] Fuck. Should we pay him or kill him? More for us...
Short Bartender: I have a house payment.
Buscemi: So, anyway, without warning, without any hint or preview, the stranger whips around, and he sees... me.
Short Bartender: You saw his face?
Buscemi: His face? No. His eyes.
El Mariachi: [right before a firefight] Back together again, huh?
El Mariachi: [cracks neck] Let's play.
El Mariachi: I'm looking for a man who calls himself Bucho. That's all. And you had to do it the hard way.
Buscemi: Ya know, one of these days you're gonna lie down too hard on that thing and blow your brains out.
Carolina: What about calling you friends?
El Mariachi: Campa... Quino... They would destroy the city...
Bucho: [talking to his henchmen] It's one thing if you can't find someone running around the city hiding any place he chooses. I can understand that. What I can't understand is how you let him get away when you knew where he was! Now you drive around town. You see someone you don't know, you shoot them. How hard is that, huh?
[takes gun from Right Arm]
Bucho: Look over there.
[the henchmen look in different directions, unsure of where "over there" is]
Bucho: I don't know him. Never seen him before.
[the henchmen part, revealing Shrug]
Bucho: Look, he has a gun!
Shrug: [looks down at the gun tucked into his belt in dismay]
Bucho: Must be him!
Bucho: [shoots Shrug, then returns the gun to Right Arm] Now, how hard is that? It's that easy.
Bucho: [to El Mariachi, as they stare each other down] You come to kill me? Let me tell you something. You have already killed me!