How may I help you? –You can start by wiping that fucking dumb-ass smile off your rosy fucking cheeks. And you can give me a fucking automobile. A fucking Datsun, a fucking Toyota, a fucking Mustang, a fucking Buick. Four fucking wheels and a seat! –I really don't care for the way you're speaking to me. –And I really don't care for the way your company left me in the middle of fucking nowhere with fucking keys to a fucking car that isn't fucking there. And I really didn't care to fucking walk down a fucking highway and across a fucking runway to get back here to have you smile in my fucking face. I want a fucking car right fucking now. –May I see your rental agreement? –I threw it away. –Tsk. Oh boy. –'Oh boy,' what? –You're fucked.
The fact of the matter is that war changes men's natures. The barbarities of war are seldom committed by abnormal men. The tragedy of war is that these horrors are committed by normal men in abnormal situations. Situations in which the ebb and flow of everyday life have departed and have been replaced by a constant round of fear and anger, blood and death.
So don't speak to me. Ever. And while you're not ever speaking to me, jump up your own ass and die!