Oh, it's you, you eccentric genius. (He winks at you sarcastically.)
Hard to say which came first -- the middle class chick or the drink? Egg and the chicken kinda thing...
Oh, I definitely know you from *somewhere*. (ESPRIT DE CORPS - Another life...)
Extremely fuckable, Harry. Gorgeous. A gorgeous bourgeois woman. Waifish. Like a *welkin* basically.
*You're* an asshole! (He pauses.) You know what, maybe we're both assholes...
You're right. It's *is* a small thing. (He looks around.) Does anyone care? About a jacket? No one? (Silence. The wind blows.) See -- no one cares.
There are *universal* standards of good out there and that... that was just complete shit.
Yes, you *taught gym* in Couron. I believe that's the term? Taught gym at a high school. You were a high school gym teacher.
No, Harry -- FUCK YOU. You already fucked us -- I've already explained this shit to Pryce *twice*. To Berdyayeva -- *four times*. I'm your partner. I answer for you when you're not there.
Funny apery. (Vicquemare finally manages to pull his gloves on. There's a small tear along the inside seam of the left glove.) Male-centric workplace humour. Have you seen him?
Did you? Or did you think I was a god damn MALE NURSE?
*Far Out* Son of Liver Failure -- the supercop who voluntarily enters an alcohol induced delirium to solve crimes.
(“The damage alcohol has done to my mind *is* extensive...”) No shit.
Perfect, great, I don't give a shit! (He shakes his head.) Now leave us alone and do your thing... and I don't mean get drunk and piss yourself, right? You realize that, don't you?
Fucking deranged lunatic... (The sunglass-wearing man pushes through his teeth.)
He's been on about Mike again? (The detective shakes his head.) I hate that guy.
*You're* an asshole! (He pauses.) You know what, maybe we're both assholes...
Oh, you think it was *cool* -- you saying that? *Aesthetic* somehow? You were crying when we got here. Breaking things. You said we were going 'into the abyss'. None of us wanted to see the abyss, so we fucked off. (He sighs.) Like you told us to.
Son of fucking Lung here! Detective Far Out Son of Lung on the case!
Yeah -- Major Crimes Unit, under Lieutenants Du Bois and Vicquemare -- ring any bells?
He's too old. He's been like this for too long. I've seen him try many times. It's a farce by now.
Bugs everywhere. *Plants* turning into bugs. It's a typical hallucination. Every drunk past the age of forty has seen it.
Son of fucking Lung here! Detective Far Out Son of Lung on the case!
Other people have left too. Good, smart people. People we won't get back. Only me and this *really patient* patrol officer are still here. And Trant -- because I'm *forcing* him to stay.
(‟Fine”.) No, not entirely. (It's impossible to say what his eyes behind the shades are doing.)
But as you're still staring at me like a calf stares at a freshly made gate... I assume there was something else.
I don't know. I zoned out. Harry -- (He turns you.) Did you just pick up some island bum and pin it on him?
You're a *worry-fest*. She's worried about you. I'm worried about you. Even Special Consultant Backpedal is worried about you.