R.S.V.P.

Garrett:
Your overeducated, undermotivated, scrawny little toothpick ass shows up at my site,

Garrett:
I'll be damned if I be given it a job.

Terry:
You know, security's tight these days, Republican White House and all.

Nick:
You look like one man who could use a drink.

Hal Evans:
You have no idea.

Nick:
What exactly is the object of this game?

Hal Evans:
Where's Jim?

Nick:
He's not here yet.

Hal Evans:
No, stupid, that's the object of the game.

Hal Evans:
Bandiero.

Skyles:
What the f*** are you, Irish or Spanish?

Hal Evans:
Now, I could be famous by sunrise if I really wanted to.

Jordan:
Oh really? And how's that?

Hal Evans:
I'd kill everyone in this room.

Skyles:
What is the correlation here between this freak and death?

Hal Evans:
A, I readily concede that I am a freak, right, and B, death is just this particular freak's hobby and occupation.

Hal:
You know, for a big brain Nick, you're awfully f***ing stupid.

Nick:
Smart enough to beat you.

Hal:
*Beat?* Hah! Sh*t, boy! Did you ever stop for f***ing one goddamn minute and take a good arm's length look at the f***ing situation, eh? You're nothin' but a show, my friend - a little experiment that I've privately undertaken, that I readily admit's gone a *wee* bit wrong. Right, question: how much bullshit do I have to fill an overly-intelligent, but f***ing emotionally retarded kid's head with before he steps, or in Nick's case *leaps*, with both feet *and* a kitchen sink, over the edge?

Jordan:
Evidentally, not f***ing much!

Hal:
Just whispered f***ing sweet nothings about murder and mayhem into his ear and three semesters later, he's got his best friend stuffed into a box, man. Jesus, kid, wake the f*** up! You're not in control here, I am, always have been!