M. Gustave: If I die first, and I almost certainly will, you will be my sole heir. There's not much in the kitty, except a set of ivory-backed hairbrushes and my library of romantic poetry, but when the time comes, these will be yours. Along with whatever we haven't already spent on whores and whiskey.
M. Gustave: Serge X, missing. Deputy Kovacs, also missing. Madame D, dead. Boy With Apple, stolen. By us. Dmitri and Jopling, ruthless, cold-blooded savages. Gustave H, at large. What else?
Zero: Zero, confused.
M. Gustave: Zero, confused, indeed. The plot thickens, as they say. Why, by the way? Is it a soup metaphor?
Zero: I don't know.
M. Gustave: I must say, I find that girl utterly delightful. Flat as a board, enormous birthmark the shape of Mexico over half her face, sweating for hours on end in that sweltering kitchen, while Mendl, genius though he is, looms over her like a hulking gorilla. Yet without question, without fail, always and invariably, she's exceedingly lovely.
Zero: What happened?
M. Gustave: What happened, my dear Zero, is I beat the living shit out of a sniveling little runt called Pinky Bandinski, who had the gall to question my virility. Because, if there's one thing we've learned from penny dreadfuls, it's that when you find yourself in a place like this, you must never be a candy ass; you've got to prove yourself from day one. You've got to win their respect. You should take a long look at HIS ugly mug this morning. He's actually become a dear friend.