We had just gotten away from the cops. He just got shot. It was my fault he got shot. He’s a fuckin’ bloody mess – he’s screaming. I swear to god, I thought he was gonna die right then and there. I’m tryin’ to comfort him, telling him not to worry, everything’s gonna be okay, I’m gonna take care of him. And he asked me what my name was. I mean, the man was dyin’ in my arms. What the fuck was I supposed to do? Tell him: “Sorry, I can’t give out that fuckin’ information! It’s against the rules! I don’t trust you enough!”? Or maybe I should’ve, but I couldn’t! Fuck you and fuck Joe!
When you’re dealing with a store like this, they’re insured up the ass. They’re not supposed to give you any resistance whatsoever. If you get a customer, or an employee, who thinks he’s Charles Bronson, take the butt of your gun and smash their nose in. Everybody jumps. He falls down screaming, blood squirts out of his nose, nobody says fucking shit after that. You might get some bitch talk shit to you, but give her a look like you’re gonna smash her in the face next, watch her shut the fuck up. Now if it’s a manager, that’s a different story. Managers know better than to fuck around, so if you get one that’s giving you static, he probably thinks he’s a real cowboy, so you gotta break that son of a bitch in two. If you wanna know something and he won’t tell you, cut off one of his fingers. The little one. Then tell him his thumb’s next. After that he’ll tell you if he wears ladies underwear. I’m hungry. Let’s get a taco.
All right, let’s run through what happened: we’re in the place and everything’s going fine. Suddenly the alarm get tripped. I turn around and there’s all these cops outside. Everyone starts going ape shit and starts shooting. Then Mr. Blonde goes psycho and starts shooting all those civilians in the head execution style…
