I dunno, man. You think I could be as good as him? Get his kinda respect?
Your father? Sure, boss. If you want. But there are different kinds of power. When I was a kid, there was a gangster, real old-school type. Rex Calabrese. He was a big deal, at least in my neighborhood. He helped people. If someone in your family was sick, he'd find you a doctor. Short on rent, front you the cash. Knew everyone's names, too. I dunno how he kept 'em all in his head, but he saw you on the street, he'd call out to you, ask how you were. Felt like he meant it, too. When I'm fourteen or something, he has a heart attack and dies, still holding his cigar. In my neighborhood, they threw a parade in his honor. A friggin parade. I mean, it wasn't fancy, but it was the gesture. The show of love, of what he meant. Can you imagine? To be remembered like that? Revered?
What is this? You want me to be like some small-time asshole?
Nah, that ain't what...
For what? Would that make it easier for you to take what's mine? Or is this you? What you want?
No.
Holy shit, it is! This is your dream. It's so sweet, too! And so pathetic. You really think people would make a float of your dumb face and march it down the street chanting your goddamn name? "Oh, oh, Oswald Cobb! Remember him? What a guy!" What a little bitch.
[Oz shoots Alberto. Laughs, briefly. Realizes:]
Aw... fu--
[Cue title card]