Pulp Fiction Page #3

YOUNG WOMAN:

Well, what else is there, day jobs?

YOUNG MAN:

(laughing)

Not this life.

YOUNG WOMAN:

Well what then?

He calls to the Waitress.

YOUNG MAN:

Garcon! Coffee!

Then looks to his girl.

YOUNG MAN:

This place.

The Waitress comes by, pouring him some more.

WAITRESS:

(snotty)

"Garcon" means boy.

She splits.

YOUNG WOMAN:

Here? It's a coffee shop.

YOUNG MAN:

What's wrong with that? People never

rob restaurants, why not? Bars, liquor

stores, gas stations, you get your

head blown off stickin' up one of

them. Restaurants, on the other hand,

you catch with their pants down.

They're not expecting to get robbed,

or not as expecting.

YOUNG WOMAN:

(taking to idea)

I bet in places like this you could

cut down on the hero factor.

YOUNG MAN:

Correct. Just like banks, these places

are insured. The managers don't give

a f***, they're just tryin' to get

ya out the door before you start

pluggin' diners. Waitresses, forget

it, they ain't takin' a bullet for

the register. Busboys, some wetback

gettin' paid a dollar fifty a hour

gonna really give a f*** you're

stealin' from the owner. Customers

are sittin' there with food in their

mouths, they don't know what's goin'

on. One minute they're havin' a Denver

omelet, next minute somebody's

stickin' a gun in their face.

Rate this script:3.8 / 57 votes