Frank: Thirty-two forgs. Pretty impressive, boys. You ever think about doing this on a regular basis?
Jake: Spec? Yeah!
Frank: You run your own ship. Take down these nests. Don't have to deal with me and the pink sheets anymore. You two riding around together, kicking ass, taking names. I can talk to Corporate, see if they'd bump up the commissions a bit.
Jake: What do you think, man? What do you think, buddy?
Remy: Forget it. Actually, Frank, I've been meaning to talk to you about something. Something...
Jake: Yeah. Forget that. Find somebody else. Just get us our pink sheets.
Frank: Suit yourself.
Jake: Okay, look. Can I just ask you something?
Jake: What do you think keeps a world like this's shit together? It's not magic. It's not. It's rules. It's people abiding by the terms of the deals that they sign themselves. It's rules. You know what's more important than the rules, though? It's the enforcement of those rules. I mean, we got a responsibility, you and me. I mean, what we do, I mean, maybe it's small, I don't know, but it matters. It matters.
Remy: I'd actually work less hours.
Jake: You're sure about this?
Remy: A job's a job, right?
Jake: A job's a job. Just make sure that they give you hazard pay. You'll be sitting next to Frank, in some booth, telling some cancer-riddled prick, "You owe it to your family. You owe it to yourself." There's a good chance you'll choke on your own vomit. You should go finish that T-Bone job.
Jake: It'll be your last hurrah. Get Carol a chance to blow off some steam at the same time.
Remy: You ready to go after the Patrick Morton's?
Jake: I was there this morning. He said to say hi.
Remy: You didn't do it?
Jake: I did it. He said to say hi before that.
Remy: Jake's right. And if this is going to be my last job, then they don't come much better than Jimmy T-Bone.
Music: Every day...Will be like a holiday...
Remy: I've been listening to his music since I was in high school. And the way I see it, at least he's gonna get his heart ripped out by someone who appreciates his music.
Music: When my baby comes home...
Remy: It's a nice house.
T-Bone: Thanks. Not really mine anymore. You from the IRS?
T-Bone: Soul suckers, taking everything back.
Remy: Mmm. So am I.
T-Bone: Uh...Can I finish this song?
Remy: Yeah. Of course. I'm a bit of a fan, actually.
T-Bone: Yeah? Good. You can help me out.
Remy: I don't...I don't know. I wouldn't be much help.
T-Bone: It's not that complicated. A song is just a bunch of separate tracks, all working together. Just got to know when to break it down. You know, pull it out, one thing at a time.
Remy: Well, I can do that.
Music: And every day, oh, yeah...Will be like a holiday...Oh, yes, it will...When my baby...When my baby comes home
T-Bone: That's a motherfucking hit right there.
Remy: IRS will be thrilled.
T-Bone: Can you make sure my boy Terrance at Blue Note Records get this?
Remy: It's done. Now, I'm legally bound to ask if you would like an ambulance on standby, in order to take you to the hospital.
T-Bone: And, what, they gonna give me a new heart?
Remy: Christ, no, not with your credit history. I know, it's a chicken-and-egg thing. There's a complaints department.
T-Bone: Nah, man, nah. Let's just...Will I sit or stand?
Remy: Easier if you lie down.
T-Bone: What the fuck is that, man?
Remy: My defib unit. Jarvik stops pumping when you give it a jolt with electricity. Saves me from losing my finger.
T-Bone: Hold on, hold on. Is this... Is this going to hurt?
Remy: You won't feel a thing.