"The book made me do it," he says to her.
"Do what?" She asks.
"Everything. Blame the book. Ankle deep is my misery."
Shouting lies into a coffee can, the outlaw reaches home to the promised land, and she screams out "You are running away with my soul."
"I never looked back. When I was there, all you said was that you were alone."
"You just have to understand that a lady has limitations to her patience. Every wandering profit deserves a home under my mattress."
"Now you are just trying to give me the Creepin' Willies."
"You said that you wanted to get into my bed, didn't you?" She has a mischievous sneer that dances flirtatiously through the cigarette smoke.
"You are the usher of destruction, and the hostess of doom, aren't you?"
"I plan to expose your lies for what they are, fictions! I am going to break your eye open until your chakras bust! Everything is falling into place!"
"Thanks for listening to me complain about my cushy, alienated life!"
"Do you speak American?" She asks. "What exactly is your cultural identity?"
"American is the engine that drives the cyberlinguistical constructs of the world."
"There you go, getting all abstract, again," she replies. "Don't you ever wonder if you are turning people off with your jibber-jabber? Why don't you just write something that everybody could understand?"
"Are you really what you speak?" He retorts.
"You are what you eat, and you, sir, are making me hungry. Feed me! Fill me with your stuffing! Stuff me with your filling! Do me, baby, do me!"
"Butter my butt and call me a biscuit," he mumbles, as the disdain spills from his lips.
"You are making me hungry."