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Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips
- You're expecting what? - Payout.
Come on, boy, I'm calling your name.
then you got the means to put your hip into the punch.
There'll be nothing left of it before midnight shift.
A nigga step in my house, he getting dropped.
- You're gonna go to the press? - Not me.
Now here's Shamrock returning Bodie's call.
- It's for Russell Bell's dirty cell. - It's a good pull.
Whitey sale, whitey sale.
I ain't claiming no kind of victory, neither.
Look like you and me both trying to make sense of this game.
Us, man.
Us, motherfucker.
This is the neighborhood where a cop got shot last summer, right?
That'd be Shamrock.
with a briefcase full of drug money?
- I ain't asking. - Damn, String, I don't know...
In fact, the folks downtown at Minor Privileges tell me...
- That's how you were standing. - You ain't had no weight on your back foot.
You should probably sell sweats with hoodies.
I seen your picture on them Globe posters back in the day.
They gonna say all that firepower is theirs.
Clay Davis Rainmade you.
- It's me, man. - You heard from the fat man?
If he made a mistake here, then I'm willing to pay the cost.
At the time, Stringer Bell was at the print shop.
And...
Nigga, I got to remind you who the fuck you work for?
Justin, come on. Come on.
It was a funeral parlor.
If Burrell's painting him the villain...
Is that suppose to mean something to me, man?
Get you some water, boy, and spit it out.
This is an old game in this town, and Clay Davis?
Bing, you just pull the number right off the cell tower.
You got this headgear right here. It's new.
- All right? - I'm good, I'm good.
It's genius.
- Well, he got to go. - No, you a fucking businessman.
He wants me to turn the information over to Tony Gray...
who will happily put His Honor's shit in the street.
and attest that the information contained in this document...
- But it's safe. - WMDs, got them WMDs.
then whatever comes out of Burrell's mouth is gonna stand.