“What’s your name, boy?”
“My name is Timmy, Mr. Davis.”
“Fuck you, Timmy. I’m gonna make this out to Opie, cause you’re an Opie-looking motherfucker.”
Please be nice to children.
“Fuck children. They don’t buy records and you can’t fuck them. No use at all.”
They’re not supposed to be useful.
“Me and Brando used to hang out.”
You never actually listen to me, do you?
“Knew him for a while. Back when he wasn’t so fucking fat. Always a slob, though. Used to go over his apartment. Pizza boxes and shit all over the place. Be wearing that white tee-shirt from the movies. Think he stole it off the set cause he’s the cheapest motherfucker you ever met. Got his tee-shirt on and no drawers. Dick hanging out. Then he’d start trying to make me eggs. Motherfucker’s cracking eggs and his dick’s flopping into the fucking pan.”
Did you have the eggs?
“I ain’t eating dick eggs, motherfucker.”
“Always been very particular about my food. Like it a certain way. Frances knew how to make my food.”
Your first wife.
“Yeah. Cooked real good. Not too heavy on the spices. Gotta have a little bit. Can’t be eating that bland white shit. You know white people just boil a chicken and eat that shit?”
I do, yes.
“Fuck is wrong with you people?”
“Gotta have some flavor, but just a bit. Can’t be playing trumpet with a heavy stomach. Burping into your horn and shit. Not right. I fired Steve Grossman for that shit.”
Could Cecily Tyson cook the way you liked?
“She could order the shit I liked from room service. That’s about it.”
“Mr. Davis, may I have your autograph, please?”
“That’s nice. Respectful. What’s your name, white boy?”
“You look familiar.”
“Yeah, uh, we shared a bill two years ago when I was 22.”
“What the fuck is happening?”
“Well, it’s sort of a floating timeline around here. Are you, uh, familiar with the concept of semi-fictionality?”
“Next motherfucker that asks me that stupid bullshit is getting shot!”
Please don’t shoot the children, Mr. Davis.
“I shoot whoever the fuck I want.”
Bobby, just run.
“I want my autograph.”