| Bullet Tooth Tony: |
So, you are obviously the big dick and the men on the
side of ya are your balls. There are two types of balls:
there are big brave balls, and there are little mincey
faggot balls. |
| Vinny: |
These are your last words, so make them a prayer. |
| Bullet Tooth Tony: |
Now, dicks have drive, and clarity of vision, but they
are not clever. They smell pussy and they want a piece
of the action. And, you thought you smelled some good
ol' pussy. And, have brought your two little mincey faggot
balls along for a good ol' time. But, you've got your
parties muddled up. There's no pussy here, just a dose
that'll make you wish you were born a woman. Like a prick,
you are having second thoughts. You're shrinking . . .
and your two little balls are shrinking with ya. And,
the fact that you've got "replica" written down the side
of your guns. And, the fact that I've got "Desert Eagle
point 5 0" written on the side of mine, should precipitate
your balls into shrinking, along with your presence. Now
. . . fu** off. |
| ----- |
| Turkish: |
What's that? |
| Tommy: |
It's me belt, Turkish. |
| Turkish: |
No, Tommy. There's a gun in your trousers. What's a gun
doing in your trousers? |
| Tommy: |
It's for protection. |
| Turkish: |
Protection from what . . . zee Germans? |
| ----- |
| Cousin Abraham 'Avi' Denovitz: |
Eight-four carats. |
| Rosebud: |
Where? |
| Cousin Abraham 'Avi' Denovitz: |
London. |
| Rosebud: |
London? |
| Cousin Abraham 'Avi' Denovitz: |
London. |
| Jeweler: |
London? |
| Cousin Abraham 'Avi' Denovitz: |
Yes, London. You know, fish, chips, cup o' tea. Bad food,
worse weather. Mary fu**in' Poppins. London! |
| ----- |
| Harold: |
I think you've let him get away with enough already, Governor. |
| Brick Top Polford: |
It can get you in a lot of trouble thinking, Harold. I
shouldn't do so much of it. |
| ----- |
| Harold: |
That sounds like hostility, doesn't it John. |
| John: |
And we don't like hostility, do we Harold? |
| Harold: |
No, we don't, John. |
| ----- |
| Turkish: |
It turns out that the sweet-talking, tattoo-sporting Pikey
was a Gypsy bare-knuckle boxing champion, which makes
him harder than a coffin nail. Right now, that's the last
thing on Tommy's mind. If Gorgeous doesn't wake up in
the next few minutes, Tommy knows he'll be buried with
him. Why would the Gypsies want to go with the trouble
explaining why a man died in their campsite? Not when
they could just bury the pair of them and just move camp.
It's not like they got social security numbers, is it?
Tommy the Tit is praying. And, if he isn't, he fu**ing
should be. |
| ----- |
| Vinny: |
What's the matter with that space over there? |
| Tyrone: |
It's too tight. |
| Vinny: |
"Too tight?" You could land a jumbo-fu**ing-jet in there! |
| ----- |
| Turkish: |
We've lost Gorgeous George. |
| Brick Top Polford: |
You're going to have to repeat that. |
| Turkish: |
We've lost Gorgeous George. |
| Brick Top Polford: |
Well, where'd you lose him?! He ain't a set of fu**ing
car keys, is he? And, it's not as if he's incon-fu**ing-spicuous,
now is it? |
| ----- |
| Cousin Abraham 'Avi' Denovitz: |
Shut up and sit down you big bald fu**! I don't like leaving
my own country, Doug. And, I especially don't like leaving
it for anything less than warm sandy beaches and cocktails
with little straw hats. |
| Doug 'The Head' Denovitz: |
We've got sandy beaches. |
| Cousin Abraham 'Avi' Denovitz: |
So, who the fu** wants to see 'em?! |
| ----- |
| Tyrone: |
I didn't see it there. |
| Vinny: |
It's a four-ton truck, Tyrone. It's not a Sosa packet
of fu**ing peanuts, is it? |
| Tyrone: |
It was at a funny angle. |
| Vinny: |
It's behind you, Tyrone. Whenever you reverse things come
from behind you. |
| ----- |
| Turkish: |
Now, Pikeys are well known for their skills of negotiation
and business. It's probably the reason they talk like
they do . . . so you can't follow much of what is being
said. But, if Tommy can get the caravan for less than
the price asked, on his return there will be an ice cream
waiting. |
| ----- |
| Brick Top Polford: |
Go and put the kettle on. |
| Turkish: |
You take sugar? |
| Brick Top Polford: |
No thanks, Turkish. I'm sweet enough. |
| ----- |
| Turkish: |
Now, there is a problem with Pikeys or Gypsies: you can't
really understand much of what's being said. It's not
Irish, it's not English, it's just . . . well, it's just
Pikey. |
| ----- |
| Turkish: |
It's rumored that Brick Top's favorite means of dispatch
involves: a stun-gun, a plastic bag, a roll of tape, and
a pack of hungry pigs. |
| ----- |
| Turkish: |
Everybody knows Doug the Head. If it's stones and it's
stolen, Doug's the man to speak to. Pretends he's Jewish.
Whishes he was Jewish. Even tells his family they're Jewish.
But, he's as Jewish as he is a fu**in' monkey. He thinks
it's good for business . . . and in the diamond business,
it is good for business. |
| ----- |
| Sol: |
It's a moissanite. |
| Bad Boy Lincoln: |
A whatinite? |
| Sol: |
Moissanite is an artificial diamond, Lincoln. Spurious.
Not genuine. And, it's worth . . . fu**all. |
| ----- |
| Sol: |
What's that? |
| Vinny: |
Ha, ha, this is a shotgun, Sol. |
| Sol: |
It's a fu**ing antiaircraft gun, Vincent! |
| Vinny: |
Yeah, well I wanna raise some pulses, don't I? |
| Sol: |
You'll raise hell, never mind pulses. |
| ----- |
| Tommy: |
I didn't expect him to get hurt. |
| Turkish: |
You put the man in a bare-knuckle boxing match. What the
fu** did you expect: a grease down and a shiatsu?! |
| ----- |
| Vinny: |
I thought you said he was a getaway driver. What the fu**
can he getaway from?! |
| ----- |
| Tyrone: |
I don't want that dog dribbling on my seats. |
| Vinny: |
Your seats? Tyrone, this is a stolen car, mate. |
| ----- |
| Tommy: |
You said get a good deal. |
| Turkish: |
I fail to recognize the correlation between losing ten-grand,
hospitalizing Gorgeous and "a good deal." |
| ----- |
| Turkish: |
What's happening with those sausages, Charlie? |
| Sausage Charlie: |
Five minutes, Turkish. |
| Turkish: |
It was "two minutes" five minutes ago. |
| ----- |
| Turkish: |
Boris the Blade. Or, Boris the Bullet-Dodger. As bent
as the Soviet sickle and as hard as the hammer that crosses
it. Apparently, it's just impossible to kill the bastard. |
| ----- |
| Brick Top Polford: |
If I throw a dog a bone, I don't want to know if it tastes
good or not. You stop me again whilst I'm walking and
I'll cut your fu**ing Jacob's off. |
| ----- |
| Turkish: |
[W]ho the fu** are we going to replace him with? |
| Tommy: |
What about John the Gun or Mad Fist Willy? |
| Turkish: |
You're not exactly Mr. Current Affairs, are you Tommy?
Mad Fist went mad, and the Gun, shot himself. |
| ----- |
| Brick Top Polford: |
I don't care if he's Mohamed "I'm Hard" Bruce Lee! |
| ----- |
| Tommy: |
Is he allowed to do that? |
| Turkish: |
It's an unlicensed boxing match, not a tickling competition.
These lads are out to hurt each other. |
| ----- |
| Mickey O'Neil: |
J'like dags? |
| Tommy: |
"Dags?" |
| Mickey O'Neil: |
What? |
| Mickey O'Neil's Mother: |
Yeah, dags. |
| Mickey O'Neil: |
Dags, ya like dags? |
| Tommy: |
Oh, dogs. Sure, I like dags. I like caravans more. |
| ----- |
| Turkish: |
Tommy . . . Brick Top "loves" Tommy. |
| ----- |
| Gorgeous George: |
Oh, I fu**in' hate Pikeys. |
 |
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