Hey, Mr. Davis. You look…I don’t know how you look. I can’t read your expression.
“Pissed off at white motherfuckers.”
That’s a given.
“Nah. Got a special anger right now. Hey, you’re a Jew.”
No good conversation has ever started this way.
“You must know motherfuckers at the New York Times.”
I don’t. I know people who write for music magazines.
“Yeah, some of my friends are losers, too.”
That’s just rude.
“I wake up. Do my stretches. Go downstairs. John got my breakfast the way I like it.”
How do you like it?
“Small lines. Motherfuckers wanna lay out big-ass rails the size of Hercules’ dick. Show they’re tough or something. I don’t appreciate that. Low class. Gimme six itty-bitty lines. And some fruit. Gotta start the day healthy.”
“And a Heineken. Love that shit.”
Sounds like your day began well.
“Then I opened the fucking paper. And I found it. The shit I been looking for all my life.”
“Proof that the white man is the fucking devil.”
The blowjob about the Nazi?
“What the fuck is wrong with you motherfuckers? How many chances you motherfuckers give each other? N—-r sits down for some fucking song and he can’t get a job. White man wants to kill everything darker than a fucking cuticle, and you talk about his favorite fucking teevee shows.”
I have no defense.
“The fuck is wrong with you motherfuckers?”
Again: I do not know.
“I start shooting off my mouth about how I wanna kill all the honkies, you think the fucking Times is gonna be so nice to me?”
“This angered me. Then I finished my Heineken and there wasn’t another one there for me. That angered me, as well. I needed to do something with my feelings.”
“I shot and killed my wife, John Mayer.”
“You knew it was coming.”
I didn’t think it would happen off-screen.
“This dialogue bullshit don’t lend itself to fucking action scenes.”
Oh, Mr. Davis. Is he really dead?
“If he isn’t, then he’s in for a hell of a surprise when he wakes up in that landfill.”
You dumped John Mayer in a landfill? He’s a Grammy winner!
“I know. I traded his awards for pills.”
You’re a horrible man.
“Don’t listen to him, Miles! Everyone’s wanted to shoot Josh for years. Grab your racket and let’s hit around.”
“Who the fuck is that?”
“I don’t know if we’ve met. I’m Mickey Hart.”
“Yeah. Airto told me about you. Said you crazy. Like crashing sports cars and getting in fights and sniffing cocaine.”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“I like that. Fuck tennis, though. Let’s just take the balls and throw ’em at old Chinese ladies.”
“That sounds much better, honestly.”
“Gimme five minutes to change.”