Rory Breaker: If the milk turns out to be sour, I ain't the kinda pussy to drink it. Rory Breaker: If you hold back anything, I'll kill ya. If you bend the truth or I think your bending the truth, I'll kill ya. If you forget anything I'll kill ya. In fact, you're gonna have to work very hard to stay alive, Nick. Now do you understand everything I've said? Because if you don't, I'll kill ya. Nick the Greek: Dunno. Seems expensive. Tom: Seems? Well, this seems to be a complete waste of my time. That, my friend, is 900 nicker in any store you're lucky enough to find one in. And you're haggling over 200 pound? What school of finance did you come from Nick? "It's a deal, it's a steal, it's the Sale of the fucking Century!" In fact, fuck it Nick, I think I'll keep it! Nick the Greek: Alright alright, keep your Alans on! [Peels off notes from his wad] Nick the Greek: Here's a ton. Tom, Eddie: Jesus Christ! Eddie: You could choke a dozen donkeys on that! And you're haggling over one hundred pound? What're you doing when you're not buying stereos Nick? Finance revolutions? Nick the Greek: 100 pound is still 100 pound. Tom: Not when the price is 200 pound it ain't! And certainly not when you've got Liberia's deficit in your skyrocket. Tighter than a duck's butt you are. Now, lemme feel the fibre of your fabric. Nick the Greek: What else does it come with? Tom: It comes with a gold-plated Rolls Royce, as long as you pay for it. Tom: Rory Breaker? Barfly Jack: Rory? Yeah I know Rory. He's not to be underestimated, you've got to look past the distinct facade. A few nights ago Rory's Roger iron rusted, so he has gone to the battle-cruiser to watch the end of a football game. Nobody is watching the custard so he has turned the channel over. A fat man's north opens and he wanders up and turns the Liza over. 'Now fuck off and watch it somewhere else.' Rory knows claret is imminent, but he doesn't want to miss the end of the game; so, calm as a coma, he stands and picks up a fire extinguisher and he walks straight past the jam rolls who are ready for action, then he plonks it outside the entrance. He then orders an Aristotle of the most ping pong tiddly in the nuclear sub and switches back to his footer. 'That's fucking it,' says the guy. 'That's fucking what' says Rory. Rory gobs out a mouthful of booze covering fatty; he flicks a flaming match into his bird's nest and the man lit up like a leaking gas pipe. Rory, unfazed, turned back to watch his game. His team won too. Four-nil.