Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

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

Your satellite is on, by the way.

The price is the price, yo.

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

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

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

Honey, I'm home!

Wrong guy, wrong guy. Other bench.

I'm blinded by white.

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

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

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

Textbook bust, sir. Yes, sir.

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

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

Heisenberg, huh?

I'm gonna tell you what your options are.

Yeah. "Morally outraged," he said.

So you wanna go grab some dinner?

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

All right? Badger will not identify anyone to anybody.

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

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

- Here we go. Public masturbation. - What?

So that everything you say is strictly between us.

- God. - Take it easy.

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

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

Come on, make it official.

I mean, if Badger--