Post by chrisoneill on Feb 6, 2007 21:24:35 GMT -5
Stuka: [after getting shot with an arrow] Hey... Will ya look at that? It's right through me. Guys, look. It's cut a hole right through me.
Schutz: There's something wrapped around it. Some kind of note.
Manute: Give it to me.
Stuka: Guys, this is starting to really hurt. Just look at it. It's poked a hole right through me. Guys?
Manute: [reading the note] McCarthy, you fool.
Stuka: Guys, don't you think maybe somebody oughta call a doctor for me or something? This isn't the kind of thing you just ignore, guys.
Manute: Out back. Everyone. Bring the women.
Stuka: Guys?
Klump: And, if my current state of much-justified petulance permits me to press the point, you are likeways demonstratably bereft of a working understanding of the perimeters of our beforementioned mission at hand.
Klump: Relevant to said mission is the following query I now put forth to you. Said query concerning matters strictly spatial in nature... Wherein this most streamlined and trunkless of transports, boner-inspiring though it may be, wherein are we to reposit our recently deceased cargo?
John Hartigan: Just one hour to go. My last day on the job. Early retirement. Not my idea. Doctor's orders. Heart condition. Angina, he calls it. I'm polishing my badge and getting used to the idea of saying goodbye to it. It and the 30 odd years of protecting and serving and tears and... blood and terror... triumph it represents. I'm thinking about Ilene's slow smile, bout the thick, fat steak she picked up at the butchers today. I'm thinking about the one loose end I haven't tied up. A little girl out there, caught in the hands of a drowning lunatic.
Schutz: There's something wrapped around it. Some kind of note.
Manute: Give it to me.
Stuka: Guys, this is starting to really hurt. Just look at it. It's poked a hole right through me. Guys?
Manute: [reading the note] McCarthy, you fool.
Stuka: Guys, don't you think maybe somebody oughta call a doctor for me or something? This isn't the kind of thing you just ignore, guys.
Manute: Out back. Everyone. Bring the women.
Stuka: Guys?
Klump: And, if my current state of much-justified petulance permits me to press the point, you are likeways demonstratably bereft of a working understanding of the perimeters of our beforementioned mission at hand.
Klump: Relevant to said mission is the following query I now put forth to you. Said query concerning matters strictly spatial in nature... Wherein this most streamlined and trunkless of transports, boner-inspiring though it may be, wherein are we to reposit our recently deceased cargo?
John Hartigan: Just one hour to go. My last day on the job. Early retirement. Not my idea. Doctor's orders. Heart condition. Angina, he calls it. I'm polishing my badge and getting used to the idea of saying goodbye to it. It and the 30 odd years of protecting and serving and tears and... blood and terror... triumph it represents. I'm thinking about Ilene's slow smile, bout the thick, fat steak she picked up at the butchers today. I'm thinking about the one loose end I haven't tied up. A little girl out there, caught in the hands of a drowning lunatic.