Mr. Smith: You got spunk. There was this guy, big guy, Irish-Italian, red face, black hair, jolly son of a bitch. Nobody could make me laugh like him. Made a science out of collecting jokes. Closed more bars together than I could count. He was a pal. I loved the crazy Mick. I’m not ashamed to say that, but he was a fuck-up. He had this image of himself. He thought he was a con man. Always trying to shave the edge. He was nickel and dime. I’ll always miss him. Tell me why.
Gene Watson: Tell you why what?
Mr. Smith: Tell me why I miss him.
Gene Watson: He’s dead?
Mr. Smith: That’s right. But tell me why.
Gene Watson: How do I know?
Mr. Smith: Tell me why he’s dead.
Gene Watson: ‘Cause you killed him.
Mr. Smith: That’s right. He fucked up once too often, so I put a bullet in his eye, two more to be sure. Now, that was somebody I loved. I loved him. But I got the call, I put him down like a sick animal. So if you got doubts about what’s gonna happen if you don’t deliver, let me tell you something. I’ll make gravy out of your little girl, just to season that black Irish cocksucker’s meat. You do what you’re supposed to do. You do it now.