Yo yo yo, whut up mah bitches?!


...what...what the...

What have you done to your poor head now, Youngblood?
I'm flying the battleflag, motherfuckers. They's mah colors.
Your colors.
Mah colors.
As in gang colors?
They ain't no other...wait...

Is they any other...uh...


You joined a gang. Pray tell, which gang did you join?
The Carlton Royals. Not that I needs to tell you that. You'll be reading all 'bout my killin' spree in the morning papers, bitch.
Carlton? Don't you mean Compton?
No, I mean Carlton. Look, mah man BB will tell you all about it when he get here.
Hello, I'm Robert Boyle. I'm looking for Mr. Trotsky.
Yo, BB!
Ah, there you are. Look, my dear fellow, you said that if I invited you to the next meeting, you would stop addressing me in that manner.

I say, has a washerwoman left a cleaning rag atop your head?

Robert Boyle? You're running a gang?
What? Gang? I don't know what you're talking about. I merely invited Mr. Trotsky here to attend the next round of lectures at the Royal Society. What's this about a gang?
*screeching tires*

Boyle! You done slipped up, motherfucker! You shouldn' be runnin' around in daylight wif a crazy motherfucker like me after yo' ass! It's time to blast!




Let's see if you maintain your volume now that there ain't so much pressure in you! AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

*screeching tires*

Oh dear. I seem to have been shot.
Oh shit! Oh shit! BB!

Leeuwenhoek, you microscopic-dicked Dutchie bastard, I'll get you if it's the last thing I eva' do! I'll avenge you, BB!

Look, I asked you not to call me that.
Hush, BB, save yo' stren'ff.


PV = nRT!
PV = nRT fo' life!

That's not even mine; that's the Ideal Gas Law.
Hush, BB. Hush.

Oh Lawdy, why'd you have to die? WHY GOD WHY?

Sir, it's just a flesh wound. Though it does rather sting.
Joe, would you get Robert a goddamn gauze pad or something? He's bleeding on the carpet.