i'm setting up a concern that would enable those of us in our rarefied profession to consolidate our efforts.
like a club. work less, make more.
we could be working together, making big money, killing important people.  i'm willing to let you in on the ground floor.
it's a free-market evolution. you'll wake up to it.  c'mon kid. we used to run together when you were a rookie. i don't want to run against you. this thing's real. everybody's in.
i'm gonna get you, kid.
moving into the diner.
slides into the booth, across from martin.
easy, tiger.
i want two eggs poached, hash brown well-done. english muffin for the bread. and a coffee.
come on, live a little. i'm sorry about the incident yesterday.
a little misunderstanding among my associates.
i told them to kill you and they didn't.
but since we're both here, i think it's time to take a fresh look at our relationship.
fuck you! no scabs! from now on, everything's regulated!
fine. but we're not going to let you do your job. because we're gonna do it. and then, after we do your job, we're gonna do another little job.
yeah-- after i shoot you through the fucking forehead i'm gonna fuck you in the bullethole.
oh shit.
that punk is either in love with that guy's daughter or he has new found respect for life.  let's go.
don't listen to him, he's a professional.
you're breaking my heart down here, blank. i can't shoot through the tears.
heads up the back stairs.
hears him and starts back down.
flying through the air disappearing through the shuttered serving window, his flight carrying him past a television that sits on a lazy susan.
how about i sell you two rounds for a hundred grand a piece?
excellent. here they come.
begins to rise from his side of the counter, cocking his gun.
gets off one round before
body crumpled, neck is snapped, head encased in the shattered picture tube. he is dead.