Dill Fiction

Marcellas Wallace:
I think you are gonna find, when this shit is over … I think you're gonna find yourself one smiling motherfucker. The thing is, Bicks, right now, you've got flavour. But painful as it may be, flavour don't last. And your days are just about over. Now, that's a hard motherfucking fact of life. But it's a fact of life your ass is gonna have to get realistic about. See, this business is filled to the brim with unrealistic motherfuckers. Motherfuckers who thought their ass would age like wine. If you mean it turns to vinegar, it does. If you mean it gets better with age, it don't. Besides, Bicks, how many bites you think you got left in you anyway? Two? Pickles don't have an "old timer's league". You came close, but you never tasted it, and if you were gonna taste it, you would have tasted it before now.

Bicks:
There's a lotta mothaf*cking salt, in a mothaf*cking pickle.

Feel free to submit your own.

Romeo:
But soft, what light through yonder pickle breaks?
It is the east, and Bicks is the sun.
Arise, fair Bicks, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with blandness.
That thou, her maid, art far more tasty than she.

Juliet:
It hath been said that there art a lot of salt in yon pickle