Mitch Henessey

— How'd you find us?
— There may be reasons not to kill you but among them is not that you'll be missed by NASA. I found the address in your coat. Here. Between the address of a topless bar and the picture of what looks like a man's penis.
— That's a duck, not a dick.

— Dad, Mom, she gets weird. Like on my birthday, when you gave me that Schwinn... she called the bicycle store to see if there's been any robberies.
— Look, tell her I don't steal them locally, all right? Ha, ha.

— Eight years ago, this guy was on the hit list.
— Budget cuts, dear. Congress blinded us overseas. I was forced to turn to any eyes and ears I could find even if that meant recruiting the quote-unquote "bad guys" here.
— Budget cuts, is that what this is about? Operation Honeymoon. Fuck me. You're running a fundraiser.
— Fundraiser?
— 1993. World Trade Center bombing, remember? During the trial, one of the bombers claimed the CIA had advanced knowledge. The diplomat who issued the terrorists' visa was CIA. It's not unthinkable they paved the way for the bombing purely to justify a budget increase.
— You're gonna fake some terrorist thing just to scare some money out of Congress?
— Well, unfortunately, Mr. Henessey, I have no idea how to fake killing 4000 people. So we're just gonna have to do it for real. Oh, blame it on the Muslims, naturally. Then I get my funding.

— Okay, let's say I buy it. You are a trained killer. I can't even say that with a straight face. So Samantha, she, um...
— Never really existed. Like Nathan said, she was a total fabrication. I made her up.
— Mm. So now she's just, uh, gone forever and ever?
— Thank God. Look at my inordinately large ass. Look what she did to me. <...> Change the subject. Better yet, bring me that bottle.
— Here you go. Drink up. So, what's next? What do we do now?
— I contact Chapter. I come in for debriefing bury the last eight years get back to work. Cheers.

— Hey, Mitch. You're awake. Uh-oh. You're seeping. Here. Look at this.
— Ow! Shit. Mm! Ow, that hurt like shit.
— I know. That's why I distracted you first. Same principle as deflowering virgins.
— What? Virg...? What?
— I read it in this Harold Robbins book. Guy bites her on the ear, distracts from the pain. You ever try that?
— No, no. I sock them in the jaw and yell, «Pop goes the weasel».