You and I are gonna talk.
You don't account for my preferences, Mr. Bullock?
I will beat you here in the street.
First-rate thinking. My daughter's agent beats her father in the street, how better to condemn Alma to deepened suspicion as to her role in her husband's violent death and widen suspicion to include yourself? Shoot craps, Mr. Bullock? Were you bullied, Mr. Bullock, when young and incapable? Now you see wrongs everywhere and bullying you feel called to remedy. The bully who oppressed your youth isn't at the table with us, perhaps he's long dead. If you will view the present with more clarity, perhaps you'd recognize that I'm not victimizing my daughter, but merely asking for a small portion of the ample proceeds from her veins. Alma is hurt only in your particular view of things. And while I'll sign no guarantee not to return, or against any future claim on her compassion, realize I do hate it here. And if you inhale and expel pure righteousness, my olfactories are keen to the smell of shit. Having heard all that and knowing, as you must, the injudiciousness of making an enemy of a man who could testify truthfully that, five minutes before her marriage, he heard his daughter wish her prospective husband dead, and who won't shrink from lying as to what she admitted to him on his arrival in this cesspool, as to her complicity in her husband's murder, I suppose you'd best take your swing.
[After beating Mr. Russell] All right. Leave this camp, and draw a map for anyone who wants to believe your fucking lies. Anyone wants to put your daughter or her holdings in jeopardy, you show 'em how to get here and you tell 'em I'll be waiting.
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