twelve-thirty.
what the fuck?
he stood me up? they're better be a fucking good reason. like he's dead. that is just plain fucking rude. i mean, how would he like it if i just did a big hairy shit on his desk?
yeah well excuse me if at this time of national crisis i don't sit with a thumb up my ass flipping through time magazine eating pop tarts? tell him to call me. but he might not get through cos i'm a fucking busy man.
yeah - can i hang around in here for a while?
do i need a fucking reason? linton's playing me like a fucking turkey drumstick on a big bass drum.
yeah. order us some cute mammals. alive. a lamb or a piglet so i can snap it's fucking neck.
you get everything you need?
no, see, because i'm upfront about what i do. i don't creep around like some fucking gay mercenary doing other people's dirty work. page 98
uh-hu. i think you're doing linton's dirty work. i think you're his english bitch and if i walked into your hotel room tonight i'd find you on all fours in fishnets and him hanging out the back of you.