Highway

Nice work with Jilly.

What?

I said,

nice work with Jilly.

You heard, too?

Look, the thing

about owning a pecker...

is you've got to be

responsible with it.

Check it out, Bootie...

Clark's doling out

some fatherly advice.

He's drunk.

I'm not drunk.

Just a little happy.

Yo, Bootie.

I got to take off.

I know.

For a while.

Maybe a long while.

Yeah.

Late.

Late.

You know,

the inside of her thigh...

Texture like

I never came across again.

Hey, Mrs. Kelson.

Pilot ain't in.

He's at school.

He graduated two years ago,

Mrs. Kelson.

Whatever.

Where's your boy, Hayes?

Which boy

would that be?

Jack.

Everybody know

these fellas?

Work for Burt Miranda.

Used to call you

'Miranda's Pandas.'

What are we going to do?

Well, we're not

going to play...

the 'is it me?' game

again, all right?

Not again.

OK.

All right.

But is it me?

No.

What is it?

A war wound.

Really?

Maybe.

But you do think I'm hot.

Pilot!

Oh, sorry, Pi.

Pilot, I got

to talk to you.

Bye, Lucy.

Bye.

Pandas came

by Propane Lane.

Oh, let the games begin.

Look, he won't kill you,

all right?

That's for sure.

I mean, he's too rich...

he's paved

half the valley...

he's got major juice.

Every wiseguy

and high roller...

comes through Vegas knows

Burt Miranda.

So if he won't kill me,

what does he want?

You know, every hoodlum

has his thing.

Burt Miranda's is,

he has the Pandas...

break the feet

of his enemy.

Break my feet?

Break my feet?!

He ain't

breakin' my feet.

Broken feet are the worst,

like black death.

Totally gothic.

I mean, like,

you can't use crutches,

you can't sit

in a wheelchair...

because the weight

distribution...

making all the blood

flow to your ankles...

and making it worse.

You can't do shit.

I mean, you hobble.

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