Pulp Fiction Page #2

YOUNG MAN:

What have we been talking about?

Yeah, no more-liquor-stores. Besides,

it ain't the giggle it usta be. Too

many foreigners own liquor stores.

Vietnamese, Koreans, they can't

f***in' speak English. You tell 'em:

"Empty out the register," and they

don't know what it f***in' means.

They make it too personal. We keep

on, one of those gook motherfuckers'

gonna make us kill 'em.

YOUNG WOMAN:

I'm not gonna kill anybody.

YOUNG MAN:

I don't wanna kill anybody either.

But they'll probably put us in a

situation where it's us of them. And

if it's not the gooks, it these old

Jews who've owned the store for

fifteen f***in' generations. Ya got

Grandpa Irving sittin' behind the

counter with a f***in' Magnum. Try

walkin' into one of those stores

with nothin' but a telephone, see

how far it gets you. F*** it, forget

it, we're out of it.

YOUNG WOMAN:

Well, what else is there, day jobs?

YOUNG MAN:

(laughing)

Not this life.

YOUNG WOMAN:

Well what then?

He calls to the Waitress.

YOUNG MAN:

Garcon! Coffee!

Then looks to his girl.

YOUNG MAN:

This place.

The Waitress comes by, pouring him some more.

WAITRESS:

(snotty)

"Garcon" means boy.

She splits.

YOUNG WOMAN:

Here? It's a coffee shop.

YOUNG MAN:

What's wrong with that? People never

rob restaurants, why not? Bars, liquor

stores, gas stations, you get your

head blown off stickin' up one of

them. Restaurants, on the other hand,

you catch with their pants down.

They're not expecting to get robbed,

or not as expecting.

YOUNG WOMAN:

(taking to idea)

I bet in places like this you could

cut down on the hero factor.

YOUNG MAN:

Correct. Just like banks, these places

are insured. The managers don't give

a f***, they're just tryin' to get

ya out the door before you start

pluggin' diners. Waitresses, forget

it, they ain't takin' a bullet for

the register. Busboys, some wetback

gettin' paid a dollar fifty a hour

gonna really give a f*** you're

stealin' from the owner. Customers

are sittin' there with food in their

mouths, they don't know what's goin'

on. One minute they're havin' a Denver

omelet, next minute somebody's

stickin' a gun in their face.

The Young Woman visibly takes in the idea. The Young Man

continues in a low voice.

YOUNG MAN:

See, I got the idea last liquor store

we stuck up. 'Member all those

customers kept comin' in?

YOUNG WOMAN:

Yeah.

YOUNG MAN:

Then you got the idea to take

everybody's wallet.

YOUNG WOMAN:

Uh-huh.

YOUNG MAN:

That was a good idea.

YOUNG WOMAN:

Thanks.

YOUNG MAN:

We made more from the wallets then

we did the register.

YOUNG WOMAN:

Yes we did.

YOUNG MAN:

A lot of people go to restaurants.

YOUNG WOMAN:

A lot of wallets.

YOUNG MAN:

Pretty smart, huh?

The Young Woman scans the restaurant with this new

information.

She sees all the PATRONS eating, lost in conversations. The

tired WAITRESS, taking orders. The BUSBOYS going through the

motions, collecting dishes. The MANAGER complaining to the

COOK about something. A smiles breaks out on the Young Woman's

face.

YOUNG WOMAN:

Pretty smart.

(into it)

I'm ready, let's go, right here,

right now.

YOUNG MAN:

Remember, same as before, you're

crowd control, I handle the employees.

YOUNG WOMAN:

Got it.

They both take out their .32-caliber pistols and lay them on

the table. He looks at her and she back at him.

YOUNG WOMAN:

I love you, Pumpkin.

YOUNG MAN:

I love you, Honey Bunny.

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