Terminal Page #3

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you're gonna

gather your things,

you're gonna give me the key,

and then you're going

to run for your life.

You've no idea who I am,

what I do,

or who I work for.

Au contraire,

Mr. Nigel Illing.

I know exactly who you are.

I know exactly

what it is you do.

And I know exactly

who you work for.

I also know that you're 44,

5'11", 12 stone,

AB Negative,

a drinker and a smoker,

and you have a healthy appetite

for young hookers

in kinky suspenders.

And when you combine

the information

I have gathered on you

and your habits,

one can deduce exactly

how many drops of laudanum

it requires to render you

unconscious

and relatively docile.

I need a teeny-weeny bit

of information from you

and a small donation.

Okay, what do you want?

You want money?

You want the car?

Listen, you can take it.

You can take it.

Take whatever you want.

Oh, that's a very poor

choice of words.

Help! Help!

Help!

[muffled screaming]

[rock]

Bless me, Father,

for I have sinned.

So there's this guy, right?

He's creeping

through this house.

It's dark, sinister, creepy.

You get the picture.

Pulls out his gun,

and he goes into the room

with it

held arm's length

in front of him, Vince.

I don't know what to tell you.

It's the pictures.

Right. You walk

into the room, right?

In like a shot.

You clear your corners.

Cleared.

The room is yours, easy.

You don't f***ing ease

your gun into the room

without being able

to see anything,

waiting to be shot.

It's stupid.

It's a film, Alf.

It's make-believe.

It's factually inaccurate.

They actually make it up.

It's not as though they've got

some hit man consultant

talking them through

the finer points

of assassinating

other fictitious people.

Yes, but why not?

It would be factually accurate

if they did.

I just realized something.

You're a f***ing moron.

Two teas, love!

Oy, bottle blonde!

Two teas.

What's the magic word?

To be fair,

you didn't say "please."

Please, could we have

two tea cups of lovely tea,

a little bit of milk,

two sugars, both builder's,

please, if you don't mind?

Thank you very much.

It will be my pleasure.

Wanker.

Watch this.

Excuse me.

Could I have one of your...

lovely-looking

sticky buns, please?

It's dinner and drinks

at the very least

before you get your hands

on my buns, handsome.

I mix a mean martini,

sugarplum.

In that case,

I'll even butter them for you.

Alfred, would you mind terribly

rejoining me at the table,

pretty please?

Before I break

your f***ing neck.

Duty calls.

On the job, are you?

Is there the remotest chance

that you could possibly

calm down a bit?

And what kind of a shithole

is this then, eh?

You said somewhere quiet,

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