[first lines]
Bacon: Right. Let's sort the buyers from the spyers, the needy from the greedy, and those who trust me from the ones who don't, because if you can't see value here today, you're not up here shopping. You're up here shoplifting. You see these goods? Never seen daylight, moonlight, Israelite. Fanny by the gaslight. Take a bag, c'mon take a bag. I took a bag home
last night. Cost me a lot more than ten pound, I can tell you. Anyone like jewelry? Look at that one there. Handmade in Italy, hand-stolen in Stepney. It's as long as my arm. I wish it was as long as something else. Don't think because these boxes are sealed up, they're empty. The only man who sells empty boxes is the undertaker, and by the look of some of you lot today, I'd make more money with
me measuring tape. Here, one price. Ten pound.
Eddie: Did you say ten pound?
Bacon: Are you deaf?
Eddie: That's a bargain. I'll take one.
Bacon: Squeeze in if you can. Left leg, right leg, your body will follow. They call it walking. You want one as well, darling? You do? That's it. They're waking up.
Treat the wife. Treat somebody else's wife. It's a lot more fun if you don't get caught. Hold on. You want one as well? Okay, darling, show me a bit of life then. It's no good standing out there like one o'clock half-struck. Buy them, you better buy them. These are not stolen, they just haven't been paid for, and we can't get them again. They've changed the bloody locks. Here. One for you. It's no
good coming back later when I've sold out. "Too late, too late" will be the cry when the man with the bargains has passed you by. If you got no money on you now, you'll be crying tears as big as October cabbages.
Eddie: Bacon, cozzers!
Bacon: Shit.
Nick the Greek: Dunno Tom. Seems expensive.
Tom: Seems? Well, this seems to be a waste of my time. That is 900 nicker in any shop you're lucky enough to find one in. And you're complaining about 200? What school of finance did you study? "It's a deal, it's a steal, it's the sale of the fucking century!" In fact, fuck it Nick, I think I'll keep it!
Nick the Greek: All right all right, keep your Alans on!
[Peels off notes from his wad]
Nick the Greek: Here's a ton.
Tom, Eddie: Jesus Christ!
Eddie: You could choke a dozen donkeys on that! And you're haggling over one hundred pound? What d'you do when you're not buying stereos
Nick? Finance revolutions?
Nick the Greek: 100 pounds is still 100 pounds.
Tom: Not when the price is 200 pounds it's not! And certainly not when you've got Liberia's deficit in your skyrocket. Tighter than a duck's butt you are. Now, c'mon. Lemme feel the fibre of your fabric.
Big Chris: I've got some bad news for you, John.
John: What the fuck?
[Chris closes tanning parlor on John]
Big Chris: Mind your language in front of the boy!
John: Jesus Christ!
[Chris does it again]
Big Chris: That includes blasphemy as well!
Tom: Listen to this one then; you open a company called the Arse Tickler's Faggot Fan Club. You take an advert in the back page of some gay mag, advertising the latest in arse-intruding dildos, sell it a bit with, er... I dunno, "does what no other dildo can do until now", latest and greatest in sexual technology. Guaranteed results or money back, all that bollocks. These dills
cost twenty-five each; a snip for all the pleasure they are going to give the recipients. They send a cheque to the company name, nothing offensive, er, Bobbie's Bits or something, for twenty-five. You put these in the bank for two weeks and let them clear. Now this is the clever bit. Then you send back the cheques for twenty-five pounds from the real company name, Arse Tickler's Faggot Fan Club,
saying sorry, we couldn't get the supply from America, they have sold out. Now you see how many of the people cash those cheques; not a single soul, because who wants his bank manager to know he tickles arses when he is not paying in cheques!
Bacon: So how long do you have to wait for a return?
Tom: Probably no more than four weeks.
Bacon: Well what good is that if we need it in six... no, five days?
Tom: Well it was still a good idea.
Rory Breaker: Your stupidity must be your one saving grace.
Nick the Greek: Uh?
Rory Breaker: Don't "uh" me Greek boy! How is it that your fucking stupid soon-to-be-dead friends thought they might be able to steal my cannabis and then sell it back to me? Is this a declaration of war? Is this some white cunt's joke that black cunts
don't get? 'Cause Im not fucking laughing Ni-ko-las!
Nick the Greek: [shrugs nervously]
Rory Breaker: I know you couldn't have known my position 'cause you're not that stupid that if you did, you wouldn't have turned up here scratching your arse with that "what's going on here?" look slapped all over your chevy chase! But what you do know is where
these people live.
[rises from his chair and walks towards Nick]
Rory Breaker: If you hold back anything, I'll kill ya. If you bend the truth or I think you're bending the truth, I'll kill ya. If you forget anything, I'll kill ya. In fact, you're gonna have to work very hard to stay alive, Nick. Now, do you understand everything I've just said? 'Cause if you don't,
I'll kill ya! Now, Mr Bubble and Squeak, you may enlighten me.
Nick the Greek: [nods nervously]
Tom: Rory Breaker?
Barfly Jack: Rory? Yeah I know Rory. He's not to be underestimated. He's a funny looking fucker, I know. But you've got to look past the hair and the cute, cuddly thing - it's all a deceptive facade. A few nights ago Rory's Roger iron's rusted. He's gone down the battle-cruiser to watch the end of a football game. Nobody is watching the
custard so he turns the channel over. A fat geezer's north opens. He wanders up and turns the liza over. 'Now fuck off and watch it somewhere else.' Rory knows claret is imminent, but he doesn't want to miss the end of the game. So, calm as a coma, picks up a fire extinguisher, walks straight past the jam rolls who are ready for action and he plonks it outside the entrance. He then orders an
Aristotle of the most ping pong tiddly in the nuclear sub and switches back to his footer. 'That's fucking it,' says the geezer. 'That's fucking what?' says Rory. And he gobs out a mouthful of booze covering fatty. He flicks a flaming match into his bird's nest and the geezer's lit up like a leaking gas pipe. Rory, unfazed, turned back to his game. His team's won too. Four-nil.
Winston: Charles, why have we got that cage?
Charles: Uh, security.
Winston: That's right, that's right, security. So what's the point in having it if we're not goin' fucking use it?
Charles: Well, I would've used it but this is Willie and Willie lives here.
Winston: Yes, but you didn't
know it was Willie until you opened the door, did you?
Willie: Chill, Winston, it's me. Charlie knows it's me. What's the problem?
Winston: The problem, Willie, is that Charles and yourself are not the quickest of cats at the best of times. So just do as I say and keep *the fucking cage locked!* What is that?
Willie: That's
Gloria.
Winston: Yes I know that's Gloria, what's that?
Willie: Fertilizer.
Winston: You went out six hours ago to buy a money counter and you come back with a semi-conscious Gloria and a bag of fertilizer. Alarm bells are ringing, Willie.
Willie: We need fertilizer Winston.
Winston: Mmmhmm. We also need a money counter. This money's got to be out by Thursday, I'm buggered if I'm gonna count it. Just make sure if you do need to buy sodding fertilizer you could be a bit more subtle.
Willie: What do you mean?
Winston: We grow copious amounts of ganja, yah? And you're carrying a wasted girl and a bag of
fertilizer. You don't look like your average horti-fucking- culturalist! That's what I mean Willie.
Eddie: Oh, and if Tom or anyone else for that matter feels like givin' them a bit of a kickin', I'm sure it won't do any harm.
Soap: Yeah, little bit of pain never hurt anybody. If you know what I mean. Also, I think knives are a good idea. Big, fuck-off shiny ones. Ones that look like they could skin a crocodile. Knives are good, because they don't make
any noise, and the less noise they make, the more likely we are to use them. Shit 'em right up. Makes it look like we're serious. Guns for show, knives for a pro.
Tom: Soap, is there something we should know about you?
Bacon: I'm not sure what's more worrying. The job or your past.