Bad Boys II Page #4

from souped-up X.

l do not want these animals

taking over my city.

Do you understand?

So l want you guys to do whatever you

do, whatever it takes, but do it now.

lt's not good, boss.

Oh, my God.

F***ing ratones eating

my f***ing money.

Carlos, this is a stupid

f***ing problem to have.

But it is a problem nonetheless.

Rat f***ers.

Rat f***ers.

Boss, it ended up crazy.

This black chica working for the

Russians was a maniac lunatic.

She saved your money.

She wasted some Haitians

and got the load to the drop.

Also, Roberto saw these two

crazy gangbanger homeys.

-Oh, sh*t.

-Yeah. Chasing and shooting.

Old days, did l have

this problem? No.

Just fly the drugs in

and ship the money out.

Now American security's

so goddamned tight over the water...

...and in the sky...

...that the rats eat my money

before l can get it to Cuba.

-You see?

-Fiery crash....

l can't even get my money across town

without making the news.

Hey, man. Man.

Tell me...

...should l be worried?

-No, boss.

-Shut the f*** up.

People is trying to jack my loads

here in Miami.

l own this f***ing town. You see?

This is my town.

Oh, my God. Pink.

Pink, nia, pink. Pink.

No powder blue.

Pink is prettier.

But the lady at the store

said l look like a model.

You're lucky your mother

was my mother's cousins.

Don't pay attention to Roberto.

Besides, models are filthy creatures.

You look more like an angel.

-What do you think, Carlos?

-Of course.

-Roberto, what do you think?

-lt's f***ing beautiful.

Talk polite in front

of my little bonbon...

...or l'm gonna chop your balls off.

For real, l'm straight with all your

spiritual enlightenment and that sh*t.

But l need to know if a crackhead rolls

to me with a .9, you'll cook that fool.

No question about it.

Shoot him in the leg.

Come on with that leg sh*t.

-Everybody deserves a little dignity.

-What about my dignity?

Your crackhead will be missing

a kneecap. l'll be in a body bag.

-So sad.

-What's so sad?

Your untreated control issues.

lt's not your fault.

What in the hell

is that supposed to mean?

Your mama probably refused you

her tit when you were a baby.

You grew up a malnourished

high-school softie.

Got your gun, little tight T-shirt...

...and became

a overcompensating tough guy.

That is the last time you will ever

refer to my mother's titties.

l don't even want them

up in your head.

You know, l said all that, Mike,

and all you heard was ''titties.''

Man, you can't keep suppressing

my spiritual growth, Mike.

You need to suppress my mother's

titties out of your psychoanalysis.

You just remember one thing,

my friend. l may not always be here.

What's up, lcepick?

Jesus is the way, my brothers.

Step inside.

You just went number one

on Uncle Mike's sh*t list.

-We got two lousy bags, man.

-My brothers.

Haitian blond with dreads.

Where is he?

Blondie Dread?

He's very expensive.

You and you

have to do something for me.

Oh, you trying to get gangster

on me like that?

-Yeah, he went gangster.

-So we should probably--

-So we want to do the-- You got them?

-Yeah, sure.

Me and my partner, we're on

the Miami PD tandem dance team.

We got a routine.

We won all the local talent shows.

We thinking about going national.

You want to show him

some of the routine?

Warm it up. Don't hurt nothing.

Yo, yo, watch this. Watch this.

This the sh*t right here.

This is the sh*t.

-What you doing to my shop?!

-Watch this spin.

Wait.

-What are you doing?!

-Oh, give me some.

You're ruining my shop. Stop!

-Do the dance thing.

-l'm gonna bring the house down.

Stop! Stop!

He lives in a pink house

eight blocks from here on Carl Street.

One....

-Police! Get down.

-Police!

Who that? Who in my house?!

-l'm the devil, who's asking?!

-The devil is not welcome here!

You got to call yourself the devil

in his house?! Sh*t!

You're in my house!

This is all your fault!

-You're in my country, though.

-F*** you, how's that?

-l'm gonna kill you, motherf***er!

-Your country, my ass!

-F*** you.

-F*** me? F*** you!

You no problem!

Mike, do you have to be

so combative?

F***ing--!

You calling me a b*tch?!

Do or die, man!

A bullet in the head'll

really mess up your extensions.

Take your bullet

and eat that sh*t, man.

How about that?

What the f***?

Sir, we just want to talk.

You want to talk?! Well, go ahead.

Go ahead.

We're not lmmigration.

They can't hear you because

they're still shooting at you.

F***ing Haitians in

a f***ing little-ass room...

...with f***ing guns. Sh*t!

Got to make it home to my babies.

Damn, now.

Motherf***er! You killed my brother!

That's a b*tch!

Shoot them. F***ing shoot them.

They shot me.

They got me, man. Yo!

Got you.

Oh, sh*t! Motherf***er!

They killed the boy!

They kill me!

They're killing everybody!

Motherf***er!

My eyes!

l'm gonna kill you, motherf***er!

Come. Come kill me, motherf***er.

Come. You don't take me alive.

You got three seconds

to drop your weapon!

l got a present for you!

-A nice present for you!

-One!

-Two!

-l'm gonna kill you.

Don't shoot. Don't shoot, man.

Don't kill me.

-Bullets and all-- Excuse me.

-You all right, man?

Apologize to that man.

Apologize to that man.

Apologize! Apologize.

Hey, listen, l owe you--

lt's just that, you know,

you was disrespect--

But that don't mean it give me

the right, though. lt don't.

Excuse me. Whoosah. Whoosah.

Whoosah, motherf***er!

See, the interesting thing is he's

the one of us that's not pissed off.

-l don't know nothing.

-l didn't ask you no question yet!

-l don't know nothing.

-Lying already?

-No, get--

-How'd you know about the drop?

-l don't know nothing!

-Stop lying!

Do you know anything?

l'm gonna be nice about it.

Do you know anything?

Let's ask some other suspects.

-Hey, look, man, f*** it.

-Let's try this. Let's talk to his homeys.

Hey, look here, man.

Can you tell me who was driving

the black Suburban?

Oh, he don't know nothing.

His brains is under the end table.

He can't tell us sh*t, Mike.

-He's all f***ed up.

-What's your point?

Dead suspects can't say sh*t.

lt seems like live suspects don't say

sh*t either, so l'll hot this dude here.

-Save us the paperwork.

-l don't know nothing!

l don't do motherfucking surveillance,

man. He do surveillance.

He don't let nobody

touch his camera.

-What's on that camera?

-Trigger Mike strikes again.

Hi, welcome to Phat's.

How can I help you?

-Miami PD.

-Whoa. Cops. l love that show.

-We need to see what's on this video.

-Absolutely.

You got a little bullet hole in there.

You guys tell me about it?

Guess not. We'll put this

in our central floor model.

lt has kick-ass bass.

You like hip-hop? l love it.

We freestyle in the break room. lf you

guys ever want to kick it, we'll flow.

We're gonna set you up on

the wide-screen. Correct ratio.

There you go.

''Spanish Palms Mortuary.''

Why would they be doing

surveillance at a funeral home?

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