I’m not bad. I’m just drawn that way.
Oh, you’re a bad pony. And I’m not gonna bet on you.
One of these days in your travels, a guy is going to show you a brand-new deck of cards on which the seal is not yet broken. Then this guy is going to offer to bet you that he can make the jack of spades jump out of this brand-new deck of cards and squirt cider in your ear. But, son, do not accept this bet, because as sure as you stand there, you’re going to wind up with an ear full of cider.
We’re counting cards. We’re counting cards. We’re counting cards. Are you taking any prescription medication?
We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half-full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers… Also, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of beer, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyls. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can. The only thing that really worried me was the ether. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge, and I knew we’d get into that rotten stuff pretty soon.
Drugs! What’d they give you? Thorazine? Haldol? How much? Learn your drugs — know your doses. It’s elementary…
That you studied medicine in Paris is to be inferred from the great number of medical texts in that language. Where else should a German use French textbooks but in France, and who but a brilliant German could understand the complexities of medicine in a foreign tongue? That you’re fond of Shakespeare is to be deduced from this book, which is lying face downwards. The fact that you have not adjusted the volume suggests to my mind that you no doubt intended referring to it again in the near future. (Hm, not my favorite play.) The absence of dust on the cover would tend to confirm this hypothesis. That you’re a physician is evident when I observe you maintain a consulting room. Your separation from various societies is indicated by these blank spaces surrounding your diploma, clearly used at one time to display additional certificates. Now, what can it be that forces a man to remove these testimonials to his success? Why, only that he has ceased to affiliate himself with these various societies and hospitals and so forth, and why do this, having once troubled to join them all? It is possible that he became disenchanted with one or two of them, but NOT likely that his disillusionment extended to all. Rather, I postulate it is THEY who became disenchanted with YOU, doctor, and asked you to resign, from all of them. Why, I’ve no idea. But some position you have taken, evidently a medical one, has discredited you in their eyes. I take the liberty of inferring a theory of some sort, too radical or shocking to gain ready acceptance in current medical thinking. Your wedding ring tells me of your marriage, your Balkanized accent hints Hungary or Moravia, the toy soldier on the floor here ought, I think, to belong to a… small boy of five? Have I omitted anything of importance?
Ace: You’re an extreme workaholic. You recently returned from a short trip to Gotan in northern Africa, and upon your return you more than likely took a nasty spill because of some… shotty masonry work.
Vincent Cadby: Very impressive… might I ask, how?
Ace: Surely… The abrasion on the palm of your left hand is the type one sustains breaking a fall of 3 to 5 feet; the small remnants of plaster on the tip of your shoe pointed to a careless mason being the culprit: your new watch, a quality forgery of a Cartier was most likely purchased through the north African black market known to reside in Gotan.
[Ace gasps for air]
Vincent Cadby: And my work habits?
Ace: Yes, a workaholic; the urine stain on your pants would signify that you’re a single shake man, far too busy for the follow-up jiggle.
For future reference, right-handed men don’t hold it with their left. Just one of those things.
Nonsense. You’re only saying that because no one ever has.
Well, there’s no sense in nonsense.
Women sense my power, and they seek the life essence. I do not avoid women, Mandrake. But I do deny them my essence.
Yeah. Good luck with that.
It’s all in the wrists.
I have a big head and little arms.
For as long as I can remember people have hated me. They looked at my face and my body and they ran away in horror.
What’s wrong with being a large mammal?
Of course I’m not happy! Look at me, I’m a big fat slob. I’ve got bigger titties than you do. I’ve got more chins than a Chinese phonebook. I’ve not seen my willie in two years, which is long enough to declare it legally dead.
I had a dream last night. My belly-button was a Phillips-head screw, and I’m workin’ unscrewin’ it, and when I get it unscrewed, my penis falls off. You know, I pick it up. And I’m holdin’ it and I’m runnin’ around lookin’ for the guy who used to work on my Lincoln, when I drove Lincolns, so he can put it back on. And I’m holdin’ it up, and this bird swoops down and grabs it in its beak and flies off with it.
What’s the matter with you? Is this what you’ve become, a Hollywood finocchio who cries like a woman? “Oh, what do I do? What do I do?” What is that nonsense? Ridiculous!