“Mr. Waturi, Frank. I quit….I’ve been working here four and a half years. The work I did I probably could have done in six months. That leaves four years left over. Four years. If I had them now, like gold in my hand. Here, this is for you. Goodbye, DeDe. This life. Life, what a joke! This situation, this room. You look terrible, Mr. Waturi. You look like a bag of shit stuffed in a cheap suit. Not that anybody could look good under these zombie lights. I can feel them sucking the juice out of my eyeballs. Suck suck suck suck suck. $300 bucks a week. That’s the news. For $300 bucks a week, I’ve lived in this sink, this used rubber. … Don’t you think I know that, Frank? Don’t you think I’m aware that there is a woman here? I can smell her, like a flower. I can taste her like sugar on my tongue. When I’m 20 feet away, I can hear the fabric of her dress when she moves in her chair. Not that I’ve done anything about it. I’ve gone all day, every day, not doing, not saying, not taking the chance, for $300 dollars a week. And Frank, the coffee, it stinks. It tastes like arsenic. These lights give me a headache. If they don’t give you a headache, you must be dead, so let’s arrange the funeral. You’re not tellin’ me nothin’. Why, I ask myself, why have I put up with you, I can’t imagine. But I know. It’s fear. Yellow freakin’ fear. I’ve been too chickenshit afraid to live my life, so I sold it to you for $300 freakin’ dollars a week! You are lucky I don’t kill you! You’re lucky I don’t rip your freakin’ throat out! But I’m not going to! And maybe you’re not so lucky at that. ‘Cause I’m gonna leave you here, Mr. Wahoo Waturi. And what could be worse than that? … DeDe?… How about dinner tonight?”