Don't matter how much perfume a corpo sprays on mornings, by lunch that's replaced by the stench of skullduggery.

V: Doesn't it bother you?
Ozob: What?
V: The grenade. You know, the one on your face?
Ozob: Eh, you get used to it. I just gotta be carefull not to pull the pin when I wanna pick my nose.

V: You Sergei?
Sergei: Nice of you to ask. Lately I feel there is neon sign over my head that says "Sergei who fuck with Tiger Claws."

The wind whistling through boarded-up windows. Tumbleweeds scratching across dry, sandy tracks. That's how towns die. Not with a bang, but with whispers and whimpers.

Oh V, V... got no sense of reverence... Expect if you found the goddamn Holy Grail, you'd fill it with caramel and Pop-Turds.