- [first lines]
- Voice of The Reaper: The ocean, huh? Never fails to provoke a person to musing on philosophical shit. Heavy shit, like life and death, and fate, and all that bewildering shit. The fuckin' universe. The individual's seeming insignificant in it. But are we insignificant? I mean take, for example, this individual. Wears the name of Michael McCrea. Last night he imbibed to beat the band. And today he's paying the seedy price. It's evening. He's having himself a little siesta, yeah? Little catnap. Now relax yourself and pay close attention. There's a point to all this drivel.
- Jim McCrea: Is he dead?
- Michael McCrea: Man, what the fuck do you think?
- Jim McCrea: What do I think? I think you need to dispose of the body.
- Michael McCrea: The wise man advises. You gonna help?
- Jim McCrea: I wouldn't be makin' the suggestion otherwise.
- The Mull: Well done, man. What the fuck was that about?
- Michael McCrea: I wouldn't like to say.
- The Mull: And I wouldn't like to hear you say, cos that'd mean you'd a big fuckin' mouth.
- Clamper: You're illegally parked.
- Orlando: Take it fucking off.
- Clamper: Once it's on, man, it doesn't come off, unless you pay the fine. Then, if we've time...
- Lar - clamper 2: ...which we may well not.
- Clamper: Correct. May be a delay even after you pay. A day, man, could be as much as two. Do you get it?
- Jim McCrea: Na... son... he
- [death]
- Jim McCrea: was just a bit fucking late, that's all... the cunt
- [dies]
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