Hey, Mrs. Donna Jean. Whatcha doing?
“Mah part, sugah! Ah’m th’ getaway pilot.”
“F’r the Murder Heist.”
“Ah’ll poke out y’r eyes if’n you blaspheme anymore.”
Sorry, ma’am. I’m just a bit frustrated by the durability of this stupid idea.
“Nothin’ stupid ’bout an old-fashioned Murder Heist.”
Why is it capitalized?
“Cuz it’s so proper, sugah.”
And you’re the getaway pilot?
“Mm-hmm. Course, Ah also provide a platform for th’ wingsuited ninjas.”
I suppose you can’t have a Murder Heist without wingsuited ninjas becoming involved.
“Be like peach cobbler without th’ peaches! Simply won’t do.”
Do we know the wingsuited ninjas?
“The Busboys from Terrapin Crossroads.”
“Between you an’ me, them boys don’t have their papers, but they Christians.”
What precisely is getting heisted, and who is getting murdered?
“Oh, that ain’t how we do it ’round here. Compartmentalization is th’ key. Ah just know Ah land on Wilshire Boulevard right outside the Tar Pits at exactly 3:18 PM.”
“I pick up mah passengers and get t’ scootin’.”
Your passengers? You don’t know who you’re picking up?
“Need t’ know, sugah. Ah was told that Ah’d recognize ’em. Prob’ly gonna be Elvis. Maybe Billy. Y’gotta admit this whole plan stinks o’ Billy.”
It does. I want to lodge my formal complaint about this storyline.
“They can’t all be winners, sugah.”
I guess not.