Walt Kowalski

Ever notice how you come across somebody once in a while that you shouldn't have fucked with? That's me.

— You don't know what you're talking about.
— You're wrong. I know exactly what I'm talking about. I may not be the most pleasant person to be around but I got the best woman that was ever on this planet to marry me. I worked at it. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. But you, you know, you're letting Click Clack, Ding Dong, and Charlie Chan just walk out with Miss What's-Her-Face. She likes you, you know? Though I don't know why.

And then I even fixed a door that hadn't even broken yet.

Walt Kowalski: — You could talk about a construction job you just came from and bitch about your girlfriend and your car. <...> Just talk about people who are not in the room. You could bitch about your boss making you work overtime when it's bowling night.
<...>
Thao: — Yeah, but I don't have a job, a car or a girlfriend.
Barber Martin: — Jesus. I should've blown his head off when I had the chance.
Walt Kowalski: — Yeah. Maybe so. Now, okay, I want you to turn around and go outside… and come back, and don't talk about having no job… no car, no girlfriend, no future, no dick.

Now, I got blood on my hands. I'm soiled. That's why I'm going it alone tonight.

— Yeah. Just keep your hands off my dog.
— No worries. We only eat cats.

Whatever it is, they won't have a chance.

— So… what do you want?
— I promised your wife I'd get you to go to confession.
— Now, why would you do that?
— She was very insistent. She made me.
— You're kind of fond of promising things you can't deliver on. Right, Father?

— What the fuck you looking at, old man?
— What the hell are you spooks up to?
— Spooks?
— You better get your ass on, honky, while I still let you. That's what you better do. That's right, bitch.
— Fuck you think you at?
— Ever notice how you come across somebody once in a while that you shouldn't have fucked with? That's me.

— There. You finally look like a human being again. You shouldn't wait so long between haircuts, you cheap son of a bitch.
— Yeah. Well, I'm surprised you're still around. I was always hoping you'd die and they'd get somebody who knew what they were doing. Instead you just keep hanging around like the doo-wop dago you are.
— That'll be 10 bucks, Walt.
— Ten bucks? Jesus Christ, Martin. What are you, half Jew or something? You keep raising the prices.
— It's been 10 bucks for the last five years, you hard-nosed, Polack son of a bitch.

— All right. What are you good at?
— Like what?
— Well, that's what I'm asking. If you're gonna work for me, I gotta know what you're good at. I gotta know what you can do.
— I don't know.
— Well, that's kind of halfway what I expected you to say. You see that tree right there? You just go over there and count the birds.
— You want me to count the birds?
— Yeah, you can count. All you slopes are supposed to be good at math, right?
— Yeah, I can count.
— Good.
— One, two…

Now, which brings us to our last item, and again… please excuse the language in Mr. Kowalski's will. I'm simply reading it the way it was written.
«And I'd like to leave my 1972 Gran Torino… to my friend, Thao Vang Lor on the condition that you don't chop-top the roof like one of those beaners don't paint any idiotic flames on it
like some white-trash hillbilly and don't put a big, gay spoiler on the rear end like you see on all the other zipperheads' cars. It just looks like hell. If you can refrain from doing any of that,
it's yours.»

Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, these Hmong broads are like badgers.