|Yo yo yo, whut up mah bitches?!|
|What have you done to your poor head now, Youngblood?|
|I'm flying the battleflag, motherfuckers. They's 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.|
|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?|
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!
SHIT IT'S A DRIVEBY! HIT THA DIRT!
Let's see if you maintain your volume now that there ain't so much pressure in you! AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
|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!
|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.|