Kilgore: I love the smell of napalm in the morning.
Abraz: Bullshit. Who sent you here, boy? Did that chickenshit asshole Raphael send you, boy?
Chance the Gardener: No. Mr. Thomas Franklin told me I must leave the old man's house. He's dead, you know.
Abraz: Dead, my ass. You tell that asshole, if he got somethin' to tell me, to get his ass down here himself! You got that, boy?
Prison Guard: Your painting privileges have been removed.
Doc: Why?
Prison Guard: I don't know.
Berger: Bukowski.
Claude Bukowski: Yes, Sergeant.
Berger: Let's move it out.
Claude Bukowski: Yes, Sergeant.
Berger: Double time, soldier.
Claude Bukowski: Yes, Sergeant.
Claude Bukowski: Sir?
Berger: In the car, soldier.
Claude Bukowski: Yes, Sergeant.
Berger: Are you an asshole, soldier?
Claude Bukowski: No, Sergeant.
Berger: That's too bad, because I am.
Bobby James: Get the goons with the fruit.
Wally Stanton: I see that you're keeping up with the Agatha Christie affair. Tell me, do you think that she is dead? Everyone seems to.
Agatha Christie: They do, don't they?
Wally Stanton: That is all except her husband. I read this morning that he offered five hundred pounds for information. What do you think?
Agatha Christie: Perhaps that is all she is worth.
Angelique: That's very theatrical, Joe.
Jack Godell: I know the vibration was not normal.