Agent 47:
We determine who we are by what we do.

Agent 47:
We determine who we are by what we do.
[upon reaching Claw Island]
Robin:
Holey rusted metal, Batman!
Batman:
Huh?
Robin:
The ground, it’s all metal. It’s full of holes. You know, holey.
Batman:
Oh.
Sister Ann: The demon preys on the most devout because our guilt, it is the deepest.
Vincent:
Look in the mirror. Paper towels, clean cab. Limo company some day. How much you got saved?
Max:
That ain’t any of your business.
Vincent:
Someday? Someday my dream will come? One night you will wake up and discover it never happened. It’s all turned around on you. It never will. Suddenly you are old. Didn’t happen, and it never will, because you were never going to do it anyway. You’ll push it into memory and then zone out in your barco lounger, being hypnotized by daytime TV for the rest of your life. Don’t you talk to me about murder. All it ever took was a down payment on a Lincoln town car. That girl,you can’t even call that girl. What the fuck are you still doing driving a cab?
Bottles:
The fact is, we all started out as someone’s little angel. And a place like this forces us to become warriors or victims. Nothing in between can exist here.
Sherlock Holmes: Uh, hmm… Right. Where are the wagons?
Madam Simza Heron: The wagon is too slow. Can't you ride?
Dr. John Watson: It's not that he can't ride… How is it you put it, Holmes?
Sherlock Holmes: They're dangerous at both ends and… crafty in the middle. Why would I want anything with a mind of its own bobbing about between my legs?
[as Freb and Mirror Man watch Sway feeding Toby]
The Sphinx:
If his unpleasant wounding has in some way enlightened the rest of you as to the grim finish beneath the glossy veneer of criminal life and inspired you to change your ways, then his injuries carry with it an inherent nobility, and a supreme glory. We should all be so fortunate. You say poor Toby? I say poor us.
[everyone stares in awe at Sphinx]
Tumbler:
He spoke.
Atley Jackson:
Yeah…
Memphis:
Hey man, I thought you were from Long Beach.
[Sphinx, drinking a beer, just shrugs. Laughter]
Marvin Boggs:
I never thought I’d say this again. *I am getting the pig*!
[Arthur blows up a truck]
Charlie Croker: You're only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!
Ernie:
Did he just call me a black cunt?
Coach:
Yes, he did.
Ernie:
He can’t do that. That’s racist.
Coach:
But you are black and you are a cunt, Ernie. Those are the facts. I don’t think Primetime cares what race you run in.
Ernie:
The fact that I’m black has nothing to do with the fact I’m a cunt.
Coach:
He didn’t say black people were cunts, Ernie. He was being specific to you. One has nothing to do with the other. And I’d go a step further and say it was a term of affection.
Ernie:
Primetime’s a Gypsy. I wouldn’t call him a pikey cunt.
Coach:
Why not? He might be very understanding. Only if it comes from a place of love, of course.