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