Crazy? No, no…Poor people are crazy, Jack. I’m eccentric.
I am Jack’s colon. I get cancer. I kill Jack.
Killing is our business. And business is good.
You probably heard we ain’t in the prisoner-takin’ business; we in the killin’ Nazi business. And cousin, business is a-boomin’.
Nazis. I hate these guys.
Not many people know it, but the Fuhrer was a terrific dancer.
Dancing is just a conversation between two people. Talk to me.
Dancing is not your future. One day, you’re going to own Edna’s Occidental Laundry.
I’m eighteen years old. I can sing, I can dance, and I’m going to New York. (Pause) Should I?
In 1988, the crime rate in the United States rises four hundred percent. The once great city of New York becomes the one maximum security prison for the entire country. A fifty-foot containment wall is erected along the New Jersey shoreline, across the Harlem River, and down along the Brooklyn shoreline. It completely surrounds Manhattan Island. All bridges and waterways are mined. The United States Police Force, like an army, is encamped around the island. There are no guards inside the prison, only prisoners and the worlds they have made. The rules are simple: once you go in, you don’t come out.
If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere.
Hooray for Hollywood!
Take him to Detroit!
I understand that’s the most painful place to be shot in.
Do you understand the words that are a-coming out of my mouth?
Conversation like television set on honeymoon: unnecessary.
Next time, Jack, write a goddamn memo.
J. Pierpont Finch: What are you taking that down in?
Hedy LaRue: Long hand. It’s safer. I make up for it when I type.
J. Pierpont Finch: Oh, you type fast.
Hedy LaRue: Like a jack rabbit - 12 words a minute.
If I’m curt with you it’s because time is a factor. I think fast, I talk fast, and I need you guys to act fast if you wanna get out of this. So, pretty please, with sugar on top – clean the fucking car.
I’m Victor. I’m the cleaner.