Dom Hemingway Page #2

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You don't know the

revolution going on...

inside of it.

F***ing insurgents inside my brain.

Cossacks sodomising my cranium.

- Here.

- What's that? A hand grenade?

- Hair of the dog.

- That dog shat on my soul.

Drink it. It's mother's

little helper.

My mother left me when I was

three. F*** my mother.

Oh...

F***, I'm dying.

I'm dying. I'm gonna

die on this train.

If dying on this train will

shut you up, I'm all for it.

Some f***ing friend you are.

You can't make up for 12

years in three days, Dom.

Well, I tried.

I f***ing tried.

Mr Hemingway?

Mr Dom Hemingway?

What?

I've been sent by Monsieur

Fontaine. Follow me.

Oi, lardo!

If you're sent by Mr Fontaine,

then carry my f***ing bag.

Someone's feeling

his old self again.

Damn right. Now let's go

get my f***ing money.

It's interesting, the

French countryside.

Looks like a barmaid's snatch

after a Cup Final weekend.

Fontaine better have

a well-stocked bar.

He was raised in a Russian orphanage

and kills people for a living.

Of course he has a

well-stocked bar.

South of France.

Afternoon.

Dom, don't think what

you're thinking.

That's Mr Fontaine's property.

Property is a relative

term for a thief.

- Still.

- I'm just looking.

Admiring.

- She's rather fit.

- Not her, not Paolina.

- Fit to fiddle, I'd say.

- Dom!

- You don't admire that.

- Bugger off, Dickie.

I'll admire what I wanna admire,

think what I wanna think.

Fiddle who I wanna fiddle.

Domingo Hemingway!

As I live and breathe,

the Ghost of Christmas Past.

Mr Fontaine.

Call me Ivan. Are you crazy?

Ivan Anatolivich Fontanov,

like the old days.

I never called you Ivan

Anatoli in the old days.

Well, you will now.

Do you hunt, Dom?

No, I don't, Ivan.

I only use a gun to

hold up a place,

or threaten someone, or rob 'em,

or pistol-whip 'em, or scare 'em.

- But, no, no hunting.

- Shame.

It is the sport of princes.

Well, I'm a peasant at heart.

A petty serf with nice

hair and a strong liver.

I'll eat what you hunt,

unless it's rabbit.

Rabbits are pets. I don't eat pets.

Oh, these French rabbits are

something else, though, Dom.

I think you'll like 'em.

They taste like a revolution.

If that's an advert,

I'm not sure it's working.

It's good to see you, Dom.

Dom Hemingway is free!

Dom Hemingway is free!

Dom Hemingway is free!

You look good, Dom, you really do.

Well, what can I say?

I'm an handsome f***er.

I see you've retained your vanity

and your sense of humour.

Lefty was right.

- Lefty?

- Yeah, Lefty, he was right.

- Who's Lefty?

- Who's Lefty?

You serious, Dom?

You blind?

You lost your eyesight in prison?

What?

Lefty! Lefty, your best friend,

Dickie, with one f***ing hand.

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