Mickey Pearson: There's only one rule in the jungle: when the lion's hungry, he eats!
Fletcher: Enter our protagonist. He's good looking. He's gorgeous. He's golden age. He's a proper handsome cunt. His name is Mickey Pearson. Unique background has our Mickey. American born, Rhodes scholar. So he's born clever, but poor. Now that's quite a leap from a trailer park in Americana to the thousand year-old university in old Angleterre, where he studies the dark art of
horticulture. But he never finished his education, never went home, because he found his vocation. A naughty vocation. He's a bad boy. He starts dealing the dirty wonder weed to his rich, British, upper-class uni pals, and realizes he's rather good at it. But now the plot begins to thicken. He has reached a crossroads in his life. The middle class and the middle age, they've got to him. They've
corrupted his appetite for the horrors. He's gone soft. He wanted to cash in his chips, and get out of the game, and he seems to have found the perfect customer.
Mickey Pearson: I like middle age. I like gentrification, private schools, fine wines, and a spoonful of caviar to help my medicine go down. But most importantly, I'm looking forward to spending more time with you.
Rosalind Pearson: Of course you are.
Michael Pearson: No sooner do I entertain Matthew's offer to buy me out and reject Dry Eye's offer does one of my farms get raided.
Rosalind Pearson: First time ever.
Michael Pearson: Doesn't feel like a coincidence, does it?
Rosalind Pearson: It isn't. There's fuckery afoot.
Ray: I should stab you with that fucking rolling pin!
Fletcher: Oh, don't be cunty. I was just hoping we could have a cozy little drink together. So, I've got a meeting on Saturday at your favorite newspaper. As the best private investigator in this smoky little town, good evening, ladies and gentlemen, they are ready to put a hundred and fifty grand in my
pocket to give them some filth. Good for me, that, but in this case, it's bad for you.
Ray: You're wrong, Fletcher. That's not how Michael works.
Fletcher: Yeah, I know. I know. I was just having a bit of fun. Every movie needs a bit of action, doesn't it? And it's not like Michael doesn't have a reputation.
Ray: Had a reputation. He's been gentrified.
Dry Eye: I understand you're getting out.
Mickey Pearson: Getting out. Getting out of what? Bed? My head? The closet? Don't flirt with me, Dry Eye. I'm a busy man.
Dry Eye: I hear you're getting out of the game. And I would like you to consider an offer.
Mickey Pearson: Look, I'm going to stop you right there,
so you don't waste any more of your precious breath, young man. This is not a discussion for the two of us. Unlike the salt and pepper, it's not on the table. I am not for sale. And even if I was, you're several zeros short. Now, you may be able to buy your man's sausage for that, but to me it just looks rude at breakfast.
Dry Eye: You're out of touch. You're forgetting the
laws of the jungle, looking down on me. Now, when the silverback's got more silver than back, he best move on before he gets moved on. It's not dignified. It's beneath you, Michael. Trying to do you a favor. This is a big fucking number.
[pause]
Mickey Pearson: And this? Well, this is a big fucking gun.
[shoots Dry Eye from under the table]
Mickey Pearson: Eyes not so dry now, are they? Hurts, does it? You looking for your balls, or a hole in the wall?
Dry Eye: [screaming and crawling away] Fuck!
Mickey Pearson: Where the fuck do you think you're going? Because you're not going out the way you came in, you deluded duck-eating cunt! Talking to me about the laws of the
jungle. What was it? Something about being beneath me? Silver on back? There's only one rule in this fucking jungle! When the lion's hungry, he eats!
[shoots Dry Eye]
Fletcher: I think the time has come for me to introduce you to our queen. A Cockney Cleopatra to Mickey's cowboy Caesar. The only weak link, in his otherwise impregnable armor, is his devotion, his passion, some would say his obsession, with his beauteous lady wife.