This is not a dictatorship. This is America. Give me liberty, or give me meth.


Funeral Director: Have you had a chance to consider what sort of arrangements you'd like to make for your loved one?
Fiona: Yeah, how do we get her into the ground as soon as possible?

Fiona: What can you give me for $500 or less?
Funeral Director: A cardboard refrigerator box and a gallon of gasoline in our parking lot out back.
Fiona: I'll take that one.
Funeral Director: No love lost, huh?
Fiona: It was an eventful childhood.

Debbie: What the hell is going on, Frank?
Frank: Your mother told me she had something valuable for you kids, but that it might be dangerous to retrieve it.
Carl: How dangerous?
Debbie: On a scale of one to ten?
Frank: Said the DEA could be involved.

Fiona: Get out of my kitchen!
Lip: My sentiments exactly.

Ian: No, you gotta... it's the other-
Mickey: Do I tell you about EMT shit? Leave the god damn stealing to the experts.

Frank: All I had to do was pull out and you would have never been born.
Fiona: You were too high to pull out.

This place is a shit hole.


If you want to piss away every single chance that comes your way, that's your problem, but don't drag me into it.


Liam: I'm doing CPT.
Fiona: CPT?
Liam: Coloured people time.

As long as it's under a dollar, they don't care what we charge them.


Waitress: Your boy is in bad shape.
Sierra: He's not my boy.