[Walter has taken the Dodge Challenger he had bought for Walter Jr. to an empty parking lot instead of to the dealership. After burning some donuts and setting the gas tank on fire, he calls for a taxi while sitting on the curb.]
[on the phone] Yes, hello. I need a cab... Yes, thank you. The name is White... I'm at the Pavilion parking lot on University... Oh yes, that's right, just south of the airport.... Oh, that would be great, thank you. Oh, how long do you think that would take? [pause; the Dodge Challenger explodes] No, I'm sure he'll see me. Thank you.
A month ago, Gus was trying to kill both of us, and now he pulls you out of the lab and employs you as... what? An assistant gunman? A tough guy? Does that make any sense to you? He says he sees something in you. What kind of game is he playing? Does he think you're that naïve? He can't truly think that you'd forget. Let alone Gale, let alone Victor, and all the horror that goes along with all of that, what about this girlfriend of yours? And her little brother? I mean, the man looked you straight in the eye and told you no more children, but that very night, that little boy... he just, he winds up... I mean, Gus can't possibly think that you'd forget that. All I'm saying is that is it possible that he would think that you're that weak-willed...
So no matter what I do, hooray for me because I'm a great guy? It's all good? No matter how many dogs I kill, I just, what, do an inventory and accept? I mean, you backed your truck over your own kid and you, like, accept?! What a load of crap!
No, you know what, why I'm here in the first place, is to sell you meth! You're nothing to me but customers! I made you my bitch! You okay with that? Huh? You accept?
I mean, what do we know about Gustavo Fring, huh? This whole friend of law enforcement thing? Could be a case of keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. I mean, he's got the money to finance this operation, maybe he's got the connections, too. Maybe–just maybe–he's our guy.
You know, I couldn't agree more, guys. Gustavo Fring, blue meth... Whole thing is off-the-map nuts. I ought to be wearing a tinfoil hat, you know? Except I can't seem to wrap my mind around this one little thing, and that is, what are Gustavo Fring's fingerprints doing in Gale Boetticher's apartment?
