Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

Fact is, your nephew is gonna get out in no time.

I'm gonna tell you what your options are.

Is it in your mattress? Is it in a jelly jar buried in the side yard?

The price is the price, yo.

You know, I don't really burn much anymore.

First of all, he's not gonna do eight years.

Yeah. "Morally outraged," he said.

You're not his pal. You're his boss.

All right? Badger will not identify anyone to anybody.

I don't get it. What's the holdup?

So that everything you say is strictly between us.

- God. - Take it easy.

Come on, make it official.

- Here we go. Public masturbation. - What?

They all want a pipe-hitting member of the tribe, so to speak.

Heisenberg, huh?

I don't want him banging the hell out of my dryer.

I'm blinded by white.

I was out partying, minding my own business...

Wrong guy, wrong guy. Other bench.

I mean, everything's going through me like crap through a tinhorn.

I mean, if Badger--

Your satellite is on, by the way.

Textbook bust, sir. Yes, sir.

Honey, I'm home!

- We're not killing Badger, yo! - Then you got real problems, okay.

So you wanna go grab some dinner?

Both times, they had him dead to rights, yo. And then, poof.

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Eighty thousand dollars for eight years of his life, huh?