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Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips
Honey, I'm home!
I'm gonna tell you what your options are.
Textbook bust, sir. Yes, sir.
Your satellite is on, by the way.
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
I don't know.
You know, I don't really burn much anymore.
- We're not killing Badger, yo! - Then you got real problems, okay.
So you wanna go grab some dinner?
I don't get it. What's the holdup?
I mean, everything's going through me like crap through a tinhorn.
- Bye. - Bye.
First of all, he's not gonna do eight years.
- Here we go. Public masturbation. - What?
Terrible.
Is it in your mattress? Is it in a jelly jar buried in the side yard?
All right? Badger will not identify anyone to anybody.
I'm blinded by white.
Wrong guy, wrong guy. Other bench.
Both times, they had him dead to rights, yo. And then, poof.
Who's short?
So that everything you say is strictly between us.
I was out partying, minding my own business...
The price is the price, yo.
Yeah. "Morally outraged," he said.
Come on, make it official.
No shanking!
Fact is, your nephew is gonna get out in no time.
They all want a pipe-hitting member of the tribe, so to speak.
I don't want him banging the hell out of my dryer.
- God. - Take it easy.
I mean, if Badger--
You're not his pal. You're his boss.
Heisenberg, huh?
Eighty thousand dollars for eight years of his life, huh?
No. No.