Pulp Fiction
Pulp Fiction

Brett: H-H-He's black... Jules: Go on! Brett: He's bald...! Jules: Does he look like a bitch? Brett: What? Jules: [shoots Brett in the shoulder] DOES HE... LOOK... LIKE A BITCH? Brett: No! Jules: Then why you tryin' to fuck him like a bitch, Brett?

Brett: I didn't...! Jules: Yes, you did. Yes, you did, Brett! You tried to fuck him. Brett: [gasping] No, no... Jules: But Marcellus Wallace don't like to be fucked by anybody except Mrs. Wallace.

Pulp Fiction
Pulp Fiction

Mia: Don't you hate that? Vincent: What? Mia: Uncomfortable silences. Why do we feel it's necessary to yak about bullshit in order to be comfortable? Vincent: I don't know. That's a good question. Mia: That's when you know you've found somebody special. When you can just shut the fuck up for a minute and

comfortably enjoy the silence.

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Pulp Fiction

Jules: I'm not giving you that money. I'm buying something from you. Wanna know what I'm buyin' Ringo? Pumpkin: What? Jules: Your life. I'm givin' you that money so I don't have to kill your ass. You read the Bible? Pumpkin: Not regularly. Jules: There's a passage I got memorized. Ezekiel 25:17. "The path of

the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of the darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy My

brothers. And you will know I am the Lord when I lay My vengeance upon you." Now... I been sayin' that shit for years. And if you ever heard it, that meant your ass. You'd be dead right now. I never gave much thought to what it meant. I just thought it was a cold-blooded thing to say to a motherfucker before I popped a cap in his ass. But I saw some shit this mornin' made me think twice. See, now

I'm thinking: maybe it means you're the evil man. And I'm the righteous man. And Mr. 9mm here... he's the shepherd protecting my righteous ass in the valley of darkness. Or it could mean you're the righteous man and I'm the shepherd and it's the world that's evil and selfish. And I'd like that. But that shit ain't the truth. The truth is you're the weak. And I'm the tyranny of evil men. But I'm

tryin', Ringo. I'm tryin' real hard to be the shepherd.

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Pulp Fiction

Vincent: And you know what they call a... a... a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in Paris? Jules: They don't call it a Quarter Pounder with cheese? Vincent: No man, they got the metric system. They wouldn't know what the fuck a Quarter Pounder is. Jules: Then what do they call it? Vincent: They call it a Royale

with cheese. Jules: A Royale with cheese. What do they call a Big Mac? Vincent: Well, a Big Mac's a Big Mac, but they call it le Big-Mac. Jules: Le Big-Mac. Ha ha ha ha. What do they call a Whopper? Vincent: I dunno, I didn't go into Burger King.

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Pulp Fiction

Fabienne: Whose motorcycle is this? Butch: It's a chopper, baby. Fabienne: Whose chopper is this? Butch: It's Zed's. Fabienne: Who's Zed? Butch: Zed's dead, baby. Zed's dead.

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Pulp Fiction

Jimmie: I can't believe this is the same car. The Wolf: Well, let's not start sucking each other's dicks quite yet.

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Pulp Fiction

Vincent: Want some bacon? Jules: No man, I don't eat pork. Vincent: Are you Jewish? Jules: Nah, I ain't Jewish, I just don't dig on swine, that's all. Vincent: Why not? Jules: Pigs are filthy animals. I don't eat filthy animals. Vincent: Bacon tastes gooood. Pork chops

taste gooood. Jules: Hey, sewer rat may taste like pumpkin pie, but I'd never know 'cause I wouldn't eat the filthy motherfucker. Pigs sleep and root in shit. That's a filthy animal. I ain't eat nothin' that ain't got sense enough to disregard its own feces. Vincent: How about a dog? Dogs eats its own feces. Jules: I don't eat dog either.

Vincent: Yeah, but do you consider a dog to be a filthy animal? Jules: I wouldn't go so far as to call a dog filthy but they're definitely dirty. But, a dog's got personality. Personality goes a long way. Vincent: Ah, so by that rationale, if a pig had a better personality, he would cease to be a filthy animal. Is that true?

Jules: Well we'd have to be talkin' about one charming motherfuckin' pig. I mean he'd have to be ten times more charmin' than that Arnold on Green Acres, you know what I'm sayin'?

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Pulp Fiction

Jules: If my answers frighten you then you should cease asking scary questions.

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Pulp Fiction

Esmeralda: What is your name? Butch: Butch. Esmeralda: What does it mean? Butch: I'm American, honey. Our names don't mean shit.

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Pulp Fiction

[after Butch saves Marsellus from rapists] Butch: You okay? Marsellus: Naw man. I'm pretty fuckin' far from okay. Butch: What now? Marsellus: What now? Let me tell you what now. I'ma call a coupla hard, pipe-hittin' niggers, who'll go to work on the homes here with a pair of pliers and a blow torch. You hear me talkin',

hillbilly boy? I ain't through with you by a damn sight. I'ma get medieval on your ass. Butch: I meant what now between me and you? Marsellus: Oh, that what now. I tell you what now between me and you. There is no me and you. Not no more.

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Pulp Fiction

[Jules, Vincent and Jimmie are drinking coffee in Jimmie's kitchen] Jules: Mmmm! Goddamn, Jimmie! This is some serious gourmet shit! Usually, me and Vince would be happy with some freeze-dried Taster's Choice right, but he springs this serious GOURMET shit on us! What flavor is this? Jimmie: Knock it off, Julie. Jules: [pause] What?

Jimmie: I don't need you to tell me how fucking good my coffee is, okay? I'm the one who buys it. I know how good it is. When Bonnie goes shopping she buys SHIT. I buy the gourmet expensive stuff because when I drink it I want to taste it. But you know what's on my mind right now? It AIN'T the coffee in my kitchen, it's the dead nigger in my garage. Jules: Oh,

Jimmie, don't even worry about that... Jimmie: [interupting] No, No, No, No, let me ask you a question. When you came pulling in here, did you notice a sign out in front of my house that said "Dead Nigger Storage"? Jules: Jimmie, you know I ain't seen no... Jimmie: [cutting him off again; getting angry] Did you notice a sign out in front of my

house that said "Dead Nigger Storage"? Jules: [pause] No. I didn't. Jimmie: You know WHY you didn't see that sign? Jules: Why? Jimmie: 'Cause it ain't there, 'cause storing dead niggers ain't my fucking business, that's why!

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Pulp Fiction

Honey Bunny: [about to rob a diner] I love you, Pumpkin. Pumpkin: I love you, Honey Bunny. Pumpkin: [Standing up with a gun] All right, everybody be cool, this is a robbery! Honey Bunny: Any of you fucking pricks move, and I'll execute every motherfucking last one of ya!

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Pulp Fiction

Jules: [Vincent and Jules are cleaning the inside of the car which is covered in blood] Oh, man, I will never forgive your ass for this shit. This is some fucked-up repugnant shit. Vincent: Jules, did you ever hear the philosophy that once a man admits that he's wrong that he is immediately forgiven for all wrongdoings? Have you ever heard that?

Jules: Get the fuck out my face with that shit! The motherfucker that said that shit never had to pick up itty-bitty pieces of skull on account of your dumb ass. Vincent: I got a threshold, Jules. I got a threshold for the abuse that I will take. Now, right now, I'm a fuckin' race car, right, and you got me the red. And I'm just sayin', I'm just sayin' that it's

fuckin' dangerous to have a race car in the fuckin' red. That's all. I could blow. Jules: Oh! Oh! You ready to blow? Vincent: Yeah, I'm ready to blow. Jules: Well, I'm a mushroom-cloud-layin' motherfucker, motherfucker! Every time my fingers touch brain, I'm Superfly T.N.T., I'm the Guns of the Navarone! IN FACT, WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOIN' IN THE

BACK? YOU'RE THE MOTHERFUCKER WHO SHOULD BE ON BRAIN DETAIL! We're fuckin' switchin'! I'm washin' the windows, and you're pickin' up this nigger's skull!

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Pulp Fiction

Jules: I want you to go in that bag, and find my wallet. Pumpkin: Which one is it? Jules: It's the one that says Bad Motherfucker.

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Pulp Fiction

Vincent: Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go home and have a heart attack.

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Pulp Fiction

The Wolf: Jimmie, lead the way. Boys, get to work. Vincent: A please would be nice. The Wolf: Come again? Vincent: I said a please would be nice. The Wolf: Get it straight buster - I'm not here to say please, I'm here to tell you what to do and if self-preservation is an instinct you possess you'd better

fucking do it and do it quick. I'm here to help - if my help's not appreciated then lotsa luck, gentlemen. Jules: No, Mr. Wolf, it ain't like that, your help is definitely appreciated. Vincent: I don't mean any disrespect, I just don't like people barking orders at me. The Wolf: If I'm curt with you it's because time is a factor. I think fast,

I talk fast and I need you guys to act fast if you wanna get out of this. So, pretty please... with sugar on top. Clean the fucking car.

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Pulp Fiction

[cleaning their bloody hands] Jules: Fuck, nigga, what the fuck did you do to his towel? Vincent: I was dryin' my hands. Jules: You're supposed to wash 'em first! Vincent: You watched me wash 'em. Jules: I watched you get 'em wet. Vincent: I was washing 'em. But this shit's hard to get off.

Maybe if I had Lava or something, I coulda done a better job. Jules: I used the same fuckin' soap you did and when I got finished, the towel didn't look like no goddamn Maxi-Pad!

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Pulp Fiction

Mia: Vincent, do you still want to hear my Fox Force Five joke? Vincent: Sure, but I think I'm still a little too petrified to laugh. Mia: No, you wont laugh, 'cus it's not funny. But if you still wanna hear it, I'll tell it. Vincent: I can't wait. Mia: Three tomatoes are walking down the street- a poppa

tomato, a momma tomato, and a little baby tomato. Baby tomato starts lagging behind. Poppa tomato gets angry, goes over to the baby tomato, and smooshes him... and says, Catch up.

Pulp Fiction
Pulp Fiction

Jules: Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa... stop right there. Eatin' a bitch out, and givin' a bitch a foot massage ain't even the same fuckin' thing. Vincent: It's not. It's the same ballpark. Jules: Ain't no fuckin' ballpark neither. Now look, maybe your method of massage differs from mine, but, you know, touchin' his wife's feet, and stickin' your

tongue in her Holiest of Holies, ain't the same fuckin' ballpark, it ain't the same league, it ain't even the same fuckin' sport. Look, foot massages don't mean shit. Vincent: Have you ever given a foot massage? Jules: [scoffs] Don't be tellin' me about foot massages. I'm the foot fuckin' master. Vincent: Given a lot of 'em?

Jules: Shit yeah. I got my technique down and everything, I don't be ticklin' or nothin'. Vincent: Would you give a guy a foot massage? [Jules gives Vincent a long look, realizing he's been set up] Jules: Fuck you. Vincent: You give them a lot? Jules: Fuck you. Vincent: You know, I'm getting

kinda tired. I could use a foot massage myself. Jules: Man, you best back off, I'm gittin' a little pissed here.

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Pulp Fiction

[Marsellus is telling Butch to take a dive] Marsellus: The night of the fight, you may feel a slight sting. That's pride fucking with you. Fuck pride. Pride only hurts, it never helps.