(Para ser lido com pronúncia italiana...
e com esta banda sonora)
«(Interior. Dia. Um homem remexe em papéis enquanto insere números numa máquina calculadora, sendo interrompido por dois homens que entram na divisão)
- You... Here?
- Have you thought of selling this to me, Joey?
- Swedish... Please, don't...
- You know... You're starting to annoy me, Joey. And you know I love you.
- Think of my wife and kids, Swedish. If there's love in your heart, I know you'll find it to forgive me!
- You know, Joey... They don't call me Mike "The Swedish" Ikea just for the hair, Joey. You know I can be stone cold if people disrespect me...
- I'm not disrespecting you, Swedish.
- Call me Mr. Ikea. And give me a reason not to shoot you like you'd do to a dog in the city pound, Joey...
- I'll give you four: my wife Ana and my 3 kids, Hughie, Louie and Joey Jr.
- You should have thought of them before, Joey. You disappoint me. Fredo, give me the shotgun.
- Here you go, Boss.
- Any last thoughts, Joey?
- No, Swedish. NOOO...
POW! POW! POW! POW! POW! POW!
(Swedish pontapeia repetidamente o agora inerte Joey até que pára e cospe na direcção do sangue que cobre o chão)
- Awww, Fredo. Now I'm sad. These small shots... When will they learn? When?... Take me home, Fredo. I must rest, now... And clean up this mess.
(Fredo leva um abatido Swedish embora, enquanto o reconforta.
FADE OUT)»
- You know... You're starting to annoy me, Joey. And you know I love you.
- Think of my wife and kids, Swedish. If there's love in your heart, I know you'll find it to forgive me!
- You know, Joey... They don't call me Mike "The Swedish" Ikea just for the hair, Joey. You know I can be stone cold if people disrespect me...
- I'm not disrespecting you, Swedish.
- Call me Mr. Ikea. And give me a reason not to shoot you like you'd do to a dog in the city pound, Joey...
- I'll give you four: my wife Ana and my 3 kids, Hughie, Louie and Joey Jr.
- You should have thought of them before, Joey. You disappoint me. Fredo, give me the shotgun.
- Here you go, Boss.
- Any last thoughts, Joey?
- No, Swedish. NOOO...
POW! POW! POW! POW! POW! POW!
(Swedish pontapeia repetidamente o agora inerte Joey até que pára e cospe na direcção do sangue que cobre o chão)
- Awww, Fredo. Now I'm sad. These small shots... When will they learn? When?... Take me home, Fredo. I must rest, now... And clean up this mess.
(Fredo leva um abatido Swedish embora, enquanto o reconforta.
FADE OUT)»
