Hugh Grant credited as playing...
Fletcher
- Fletcher: Enter our protagonist. He's good looking. He's gorgeous. He's golden age. He's a proper handsome cunt. His name is Mickey Pearson. Unique background has our Mickey. American born, Rhodes scholar. So he's born clever, but poor. Now that's quite a leap from a trailer park in Americana to the thousand year-old university in old Angleterre, where he studies the dark art of horticulture. But he never finished his education, never went home, because he found his vocation. A naughty vocation. He's a bad boy. He starts dealing the dirty wonder weed to his rich, British, upper-class uni pals, and realizes he's rather good at it. But now the plot begins to thicken. He has reached a crossroads in his life. The middle class and the middle age, they've got to him. They've corrupted his appetite for the horrors. He's gone soft. He wanted to cash in his chips, and get out of the game, and he seems to have found the perfect customer.
- Fletcher: I think the time has come for me to introduce you to our queen. A Cockney Cleopatra to Mickey's cowboy Caesar. The only weak link, in his otherwise impregnable armor, is his devotion, his passion, some would say his obsession, with his beauteous lady wife.
- Ray: [Fletcher puts a cigar in his mouth] If you're thinking of smoking that in here... don't.
- Fletcher: I find that confusing. Do you mean don't smoke or don't think?
- [Clicks lighter and Ray jumps out of his seat]
- Fletcher: Oh...
- Fletcher: [Ray motions towards Fletcher] Oh, all right, all right, it's going out!
- Ray: I should stab you with that fucking rolling pin!
- Fletcher: Oh, don't be cunty. I was just hoping we could have a cozy little drink together. So, I've got a meeting on Saturday at your favorite newspaper. As the best private investigator in this smoky little town, good evening, ladies and gentlemen, they are ready to put a hundred and fifty grand in my pocket to give them some filth. Good for me, that, but in this case, it's bad for you.
- Fletcher: He explodes on the scene like a millennial fucking firecracker. Bang, bang, bang, bang!
- Ray: I'm going to have to stop you right there, Fletcher. That doesn't sound like the Dry Eye I know.
- Fletcher: Just making sure you're paying attention, Raymond. So let's cut instead to a somewhat anticlimactic, but suave and debonair Dry Eye, like a Chinese James Bond.
- Fletcher: He wants to ruin him, but I am here to do you a favor. And it's not like you're not getting something for your money. You could even turn that script into a feature film, Raymond. We could make it together. We could be partners. I have learned off you lot. You got to look after number one, and now it's my turn. The sun is not going up for me, Ray. It's going down.
- Mickey Pearson: Making a splash with the gentry.
- Matthew: Oh, I like to make a splash whenever possible.
- Mickey Pearson: Well, you also seem to understand the significance of a proper attire.
- Matthew: Indeed I do. I believe a sense of ownership is vital in every aspect of life, perhaps never more so than when it comes to wardrobe. For every look there is a season, and for every season a strategy.
- Fletcher: [voice over] Now starts the alpha dance. They're not really talking about clothes, Raymond. Oh, f**king no. They're like a pair of old doggies sniffing round one another's intellectual a**holes. It's a good old-fashioned C**k-off, Raymond.