I think you gonna find... when all this shit is over and done... I think you're gonna find yourself one smilin' motherfucker.
The thing is, Butch, right now... you got ability.
But painful as it may be, ability... don't last.
And your days are just about over.
Now, that's a hard motherfuckin' fact of life.
But that's a fact of life your ass is gonna have to get realistic about.
You see, this business is filled to the brim with unrealistic motherfuckers.
Motherfuckers who thought their ass would age like wine.
If you mean it turns to vinegar... it does.
If you mean it gets better with age... it don't.
Besides, Butch,
how many fights you think you got in you anyway? Hmm?
Boxers don't have an old-timers' day.
You came close, but you never made it.
And if you were gonna make it, you would have made it before now.
You my nigger?
Certainly appears so.
The night of the fight, you may feel a slight sting.
That's pride fuckin' with you.
Fuck pride!
Pride only hurts. It never helps.
You fight through that shit.
'Cause a year from now, when you kickin' it in the Caribbean, you gonna say to yourself, "Marsellus Wallace was right."
I got no problem with that, Mr Wallace.
In the fifth, your ass goes down.
Say it.
In the fifth, my ass goes down.
Yo, Vincent Vega. Our man in Amsterdam. Jules Winfield, our man in Inglewood. Get your asses on in here.
-Goddamn, nigger, what's up with them clothes? -You don't even want to know.
-Where's the big man? -The big man's right over there takin' care of some business.
Why don't you hang back a second or two.
You see the white boy leave, go on over.
-Howya been? -I been doin' pretty good. How 'bout yourself?
All right.
So I hear you're takin' Mia out tomorrow.
At Marsellus's request.
-Have you met Mia? -Not yet.
-What's so fuckin' funny? -Not a goddamn thing.
I got to piss.
Look, I'm not a fuckin' idiot, all right?
It's the big man's wife. I'm gonna sit across from her,
chew my food with my mouth closed, laugh at her fuckin' jokes, and that's it.
Hey, my name's Paul, and this shit's between y'all.
Then what'd you fuckin' ask me about it for? Asshole.
-Gimme a pack of Red Apples. -Filters? -No.
-You lookin' at somethin', friend? -You ain't my friend, palooka.
-What was that? -I think you heard me just fine, punchy.
Vincent Vega's in the house?
My nigger, get your ass over here.
-What's up? -Man, I'm really sorry.
You shouldn't worry about it.
Pack of Red Apples. $ 1. 40.
And some matches.