Soap: Can we lock up and get drunk now?
Barry the Baptist: Lock, stock, the f**kin' lot.
J: I've a strong suspicion we should have been rocket scientists, or Nobel Peace Prize winners or something.
Charles: Peace Prize? Ooh. Be lucky to find your penis for a piss, the amount you keep smoking.
Soap: Rory Breaker? That psychotic black dwarf with an Afro?
Tom: That would be the same man, yes.
Soap: You're not funny, Tom. You're fat, and look as though you should be, but you're not.
Gary: Shotguns? What, like guns that fire shot?
Barry the Baptist: Oh, you must be the brains of the operation. Yes, guns that fire shot.
Winston: We grow copious amounts of ganja here, and you're carrying a wasted girl and a bag of fertilizer. You don't look like your average horti-f**king-culturalist.
Plank: Ah! They shot me!
Dog: Well, shoot em back!
Big Chris: It's been emotional.
Tom: There's no money, there's no weed. It's all been replaced by a pile of corpses.
"Hatchet" Harry: I don't want to know who you use, as long as they're not complete muppets.
Soap: A minute ago this was the safest job in the world. Now it's turning into a bad day in Bosnia.
Winston: Charles, get the rifle out. We're being fucked.
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