Last modified on 14 April 2014, at 13:30

Reservoir Dogs

Reservoir Dogs is a 1992 film about a group of ruthless criminals who gather at their warehouse hideout after a botched diamond store heist, which left two of their number missing or dead, and soon begin to realize that there is a police informant among them.

Written and directed by Quentin Tarantino.
Every "dog" has its day.Taglines


DialogueEdit

Mr. Orange: What happens if the manager won't give you the diamonds?
Mr. White: When you're dealing with a store like this, they're insured up the ass. They're not supposed to give you any resistance whatsoever. If you get a customer, or an employee, who thinks he's Charles Bronson, take the butt of your gun and smash their nose in. Everybody jumps. He falls down screaming, blood squirts out of his nose, nobody says fucking shit after that. You might get some bitch talk shit to you, but give her a look like you're gonna smash her face next, watch her shut the fuck up. Now if it's a manager, that's a different story. Managers know better than to fuck around, so if you get one that's giving you static, he probably thinks he's a real cowboy, so you gotta break that son of a bitch in two. If you wanna know something and he won't tell you, cut off one of his fingers. The little one. Then tell him his thumb's next. After that he'll tell you if he wears ladies underwear. … I'm hungry. Let's get a taco.

Mr. Brown: Let me tell you what Like a Virgin is about. It's all about a girl who digs a guy with a big dick. The entire song. It's a metaphor for big dicks.
Mr. Blonde: No, no. It's about a girl who is very vulnerable. She's been fucked over a few times. Then she meets some guy who's really sensitive...
Mr. Brown: Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa... Time out Greenbay. Tell that fuckin' bullshit to the tourists.
Joe: Toby... Who the fuck is Toby? Toby...
Mr. Brown: Like a Virgin is not about this sensitive girl who meets a nice fella. That's what True Blue is about, now, granted, no argument about that.
Mr. Orange: Which one is True Blue?
Nice Guy Eddie: True Blue was a big ass hit for Madonna. I don't even follow this Tops In Pops shit, and I've at least heard of True Blue.
Mr. Orange: Look, asshole, I didn't say I ain't heard of it. All I asked was how does it go? Excuse me for not being the world's biggest Madonna fan.
Mr. Blonde: Personally, I can do without her.
Mr. Blue: I like her early stuff. You know, Lucky Star, Borderline - but once she got into her Papa Don't Preach phase, I don't know, I tuned out.
Mr. Brown: Hey, you guys are making me lose my... train of thought here. I was saying something, what was it?
Joe: Oh, Toby was this Chinese girl, what was her last name?
Mr. White: What's that?
Joe: I found this old address book in a jacket I ain't worn in a coon's age. What was that name?
Mr. Brown: What the fuck was I talking about?
Mr. Pink: You said 'True Blue' was about a nice girl, a sensitive girl who meets a nice guy, and that 'Like a Virgin' was a metaphor for big dicks.
Mr. Brown: O.K., let me tell you what Like a Virgin's about. It's all about this cooze who's a regular fuck machine, I'm talking morning, day, night, afternoon, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick.
Mr. Blue: How many dicks is that?
Mr. White: A lot.
Mr. Brown: Then one day she meets this John Holmes motherfucker and it's like, whoa baby, I mean this cat is like Charles Bronson in The Great Escape, he's digging tunnels. Now, she's gettin' the serious dick action and she's feeling something she ain't felt since forever. Pain. Pain. It hurts her. It shouldn't hurt her, you know her pussy should be Bubble Yum by now, but when this cat fucks her it hurts. It hurts just like it did the first time. You see the pain is reminding the fuck machine what it once was like to be a virgin. Hence, "Like a Virgin."

Nice Guy Eddie: C'mon, throw in a buck!
Mr. Pink: Uh-uh, I don't tip.
Nice Guy Eddie: You don't tip?
Mr. Pink: I don't believe in it.
Nice Guy Eddie: You don't believe in tipping?
Mr. Blue: You know what these chicks make? They make shit.
Mr. Pink: Don't give me that. She don't make enough money, she can quit.
Nice Guy Eddie: I don't even know a fucking Jew who'd have the balls to say that. Let me get this straight: you don't ever tip, huh?
Mr. Pink: I don't tip because society says I have to. Alright, I mean I'll tip if somebody really deserves a tip. If they put forth the effort, I'll give them something extra. But I mean, this tipping automatically, it's for the birds. As far as I'm concerned they're just doing their job.
Mr. Blue: Hey, this girl was nice.
Mr. Pink: She was OK. But she wasn't anything special.
Mr. Blue: What's special? Take you in the back and suck your dick?
Nice Guy Eddie: I'd go over twelve percent for that.
Mr. Pink: Look, I ordered coffee, alright? And we been here a long fucking time and she's only filled my cup three times. When I order coffee I want it filled six times.
Mr. Blonde: Six times? Well, what if she's too fucking busy?
Mr. Pink: The words "too fucking busy" shouldn't be in a waitress' vocabulary.
Nice Guy Eddie: Excuse me Mr. Pink, but the last fucking thing you need is another cup of coffee.
Mr. Pink: Jesus Christ I mean, these ladies aren't starving to death. They make minimum wage. You know, I used to work minimum wage and when I did I wasn't lucky enough to have a job the society deemed tipworthy.
Mr. Blue: You don't care if they're counting on your tips to live?
Mr. Pink: [rubbing his middle finger and thumb together] You know what this is? The world's smallest violin playing just for the waitresses.
Mr. White: You don't have any idea what you're talking about. These people bust their ass. This is a hard job.
Mr. Pink: So is working at McDonald's, but you don't see anyone tip them, do ya? Why not?, they're serving you food. But no, society says don't tip these guys over here, but tip these guys over here. That's bullshit!
Mr. White: Waitressing is the number one occupation for female non-college graduates in this country. It's the one job basically any woman can get, and make a living on. The reason is because of their tips.
Mr. Pink: Fuck all that.
Mr. Brown: Jesus Christ.
Mr. Pink: I mean I'm very sorry the government taxes their tips, that's fucked up. That ain't my fault. It would appear to me that waitresses are one of the many groups the government fucks in the ass on a regular basis. If you show me a piece of paper that says the government shouldn't do that, I'll sign it, put it to a vote, I'll vote for it, but what I won't do is play ball. And this non-college bullshit you're givin' me, I got two words for that: learn to fuckin' type, 'cause if you're expecting me to help out with the rent you're in for a big fuckin' surprise.
Mr. Orange: He's convinced me. Gimme my dollar back!

Mr. White: You better start talkin' asshole! Cause we got shit we need to talk about. We're already freaked out, we need you actin freaky like we need a fuckin' bag on our hip.
Mr. Blonde: [calmly] Ok, let's talk.
Mr. White: We think we got a rat in the house.
Mr. Pink: I guarantee we got a rat in the house!
Mr. Blonde: What makes you say that? [starts laughing]
Mr. White: Is that supposed to be funny?
Mr. Pink: We don't think this place is safe.
Mr. White: This place ain't secure anymore either. We're leaving, you should come with us.
Mr. Blonde: Nobody's going anywhere.
Mr. White: [about Mr. Blonde] Piss on this fucking turd! [To Mr. Pink] We're outta here.
Mr. Blonde: Don't take another step, Mr. White.
Mr. White: [screams] Fuck you maniac! It's your fuckin' fault we're in so much trouble.
Mr. Blonde: [calmly to Mr. Pink] What's this guy's problem?
Mr. White: What's my problem? Yeah, I gotta problem. I gotta big fuckin' problem with any trigger-happy madman who almost gets me shot!
Mr. Blonde: What the fuck are you talking about?
Mr. White: That fucking shooting spree in the store, remember?
Mr. Blonde: [shrugs] Fuck 'em. They set off the alarm. They deserve what they got.
Mr. White: You almost had me killed! ASSHOLE! If I had any idea what type of guy you were, I never would've agreed to work with you.
Mr. Blonde: Are you gonna bark all day, little doggie, or are you gonna bite?
Mr. White: What was that? I'm sorry I didn't catch that. Would you repeat it?
Mr. Blonde: Are you gonna bark all day, little doggie, or are you gonna bite? [throws away his drink]
Mr. Pink: Both of you two assholes calm the fuck down! Cut the bullshit, we ain't on a fuckin' playground! [pause] I don't believe this shit, both of you got ten years on me, and I'm the only one actin like a professional. You guys act like a bunch of fuckin' niggers. You ever work a job with a bunch of niggers? They're just like you two, always fightin', always sayin' they're gonna kill one another.
Mr. White: [to Mr. Pink] You said yourself you wanted to take him out!
Mr. Blonde: [menacing] You fuckin said that, Mr. Pink?
Mr. Pink: Yeah, I did alright? That was then. That time has passed. Right now, Mr. Blonde is the only one I completely trust. He's too fuckin homicidal to be workin with the cops.
Mr. White: You takin his side?
Mr. Pink: NO! Fuck sides! What we need is a little solidarity here. Somebody's stickin' a red hot poker up our asses and we gotta find out whose name is on the handle. Now I know I'm no piece of shit... [referring to Mr. White] And I'm pretty sure you're OK... [referring to Mr. Blonde] And I'm fuckin positive you're on the level. So let's figure out who's the bad guy.
Mr. Blonde: [calming down, chuckling] Wow, that was really exciting. I bet you're a big Lee Marvin fan aren't ya? Me too, I love that guy. My heart's beatin' so fast,I'm about to have a heart attack here.

Mr. Orange: This is a very weird situation. 'Cause I don't know if you remember back in '86 there was a major fucking drought. Nobody had anything. People were living on resin... -smoking the wood in their pipes for months. This chick had a bunch. And she's begging me to sell it. So I told her I wasn't going to be Joe the potman anymore, but I would take a little bit and sell it to my close, close, close friends. She agreed to that, said we'd keep the same arrangement as before; 10%, free pot for me, as long as I helped her out that weekend. She had a brick of weed she was selling, she didn't want to go to the buy alone. Her brother usually goes with her, but he's in county unexpectedly.
Mr. White: What for?
Mr. Orange: His traffic tickets. Got a warrant. They stopped him for something, found warrants on him, took him to county. Now she doesn't walk around alone with all that weed. I don't want to do this. I have a very bad feeling about it. But she keeps asking me, keeps asking me, keeps asking me, finally I said OK 'cause I'm sick of hearing it. Now, we're picking the guy up at the train station...
Nice Guy Eddie: Wait a minute. You go to the train station to pick up the buyer with the weed on you?
Mr. Orange: The guy needed it right away. Don't ask me why. Anyway, we're get to the station and we're waiting for the guy. I'm carrying the weed in one of those little carry-on bags. I got to take a piss. So I tell the connection I'll be right back, I'm going to the boys' room. So I walk in the mens' room, and who's standing there? Four Los Angeles county sheriffs and a German shepherd.
Nice Guy Eddie: They're waiting for you?
Mr. Orange: No, they're just a bunch of cops hanging out in the men's room, talking. When I walked through the door, they all stopped what they were talking about and they looked at me.
Mr. White: [laughs] That's hard, man. That's a fucking hard situation.
Mr. Orange: German shepherd starts barking. He's barking at me. I mean, it's obvious. He's barking at me. Every nerve-ending, all my senses, blood in my veins, everything I have is screaming, "Take off, man! Just bail, just get the fuck out of there!" Panic hits me like a bucket of water. First there's the shock of it--BAM, right in the face. I'm standing there drenched in panic. All these sheriffs looking at me, and they know, man. They can smell it. Sure as that fucking dog can, they can smell it on me.

Joe: So, you guys like to tell jokes, huh? Gigglin' and laughin' like a bunch of young broads sittin' in a schoolyard. Well, let me tell a joke. Five guys, sittin' in a bullpen, in San Quentin. All wondering how the fuck they got there. What should we have done, what didn't we do, who's fault is it, is it my fault, your fault, his fault, all that bullshit. Then one of them says, hey. Wait a minute. When we were planning this caper, all we did was sit around tellin' fuckin' jokes! Get the message? Boys, I don't mean to holler at ya. When this caper's over - and I'm sure it'll be a successful one - we'll get down to the Hawaiian Islands, hell, I'll roll and laugh with all of ya. You'll find me a different character down there. Right now, it's a matter of business. With the exception of Eddie and myself, whom you already know, we're going to be using aliases on this job. Under no circumstances do I want any one of you to relate to each other by your Christian names, and I don't want any talk about yourself personally. That includes where you been, your wife's name, where you might've done time, or maybe a bank you robbed in St. Petersburg. All I want you guys to talk about, if you have to, is what you're going to do. That should do it. Here are your names... [pointing to each respective member] Mr. Brown, Mr. White, Mr. Blonde, Mr. Blue, Mr. Orange, and Mr. Pink.
Mr. Pink: Why am I Mr. Pink?
Joe: Because, you're a faggot, alright?!
[Mr. Brown laughs]
Mr. Pink: Why can't we pick our own colors?
Joe: No way, no way. Tried it once, doesn't work. You got four guys all fighting over who's gonna be Mr. Black, but they don't know each other, so nobody wants to back down. No way. I pick. You're Mr. Pink. Be thankful you're not Mr. Yellow.
Mr. Brown: Yeah, but Mr. Brown is a little too close to Mr. Shit.
Mr. Pink: Mr. Pink sounds like Mr. Pussy. How 'bout if I'm Mr. Purple? That sounds good to me. I'll be Mr. Purple.
Joe: You're not Mr. Purple. Some guy on some other job is Mr. Purple. You're Mr. PINK.
Mr. White: Who cares what your name is?
Mr. Pink: Yeah, that's easy for your to say, you're Mr. White. You have a cool-sounding name. Alright look, if it's no big deal to be Mr. Pink, you wanna trade?
Joe: Hey! NOBODY'S trading with ANYBODY. This ain't a goddamn, fucking city council meeting, you know. Now listen up, Mr. Pink. There's two ways you can go on this job: my way or the highway. Now what's it gonna be, Mr. Pink?
Mr. Pink: Jesus Christ, Joe, fucking forget about it. It's beneath me. I'm Mr. Pink. Let's move on.
Joe: I'll move on when I feel like it... All you guys got the goddamn message?... I'm so goddamn mad, hollering at you guys I can hardly talk. Pssh. Let's go to work.

Nice Guy Eddie: Let me say this out loud, 'cause I wanna get it straight in my head. You're saying that Mr. Blonde was gonna kill you, then when we got back, he was going kill us, take the satchel of diamonds, and scram. I'm right about that, right? That's correct? That's your story?
Mr. Orange: I swear on my mother's eternal soul that's what happened.
Nice Guy Eddie: The man you just killed was just released from prison. He got caught at a company warehouse full of hot items. He could've fuckin' walked. All he had to do was say my dad's name, but he didn't; he kept his fucking mouth shut. And did his fuckin' time, and he did it like a man. He did four years for us. So, Mr. Orange, you're tellin' me this very good friend of mine, who did four years for my father, who in four years never made a deal, no matter what they dangled in front of him, you're telling me that now, that now this man is free, and we're making good on our commitment to him, he's just gonna decide, out of the fucking blue, to rip us off? Why don't you tell me what really happened?
Joe: [walks in] What the hell for? It'd just be more bullshit.

Joe Cabot: This man set us up.
Nice Guy Eddie: Dad I'm sorry but I really don't know what's going on here.
Joe Cabot: That's all right Eddie, I'll fill in the blanks for you.
Mr. White: What are you talking about?
Joe Cabot: That lump of shit's working for the LAPD.
Mr. Orange: Joe, I don't have the single, slightest fucking idea what you're talking about.
Mr. White: Joe I don't know what you think you know, but you're wrong.
Joe Cabot: The hell I am.
Mr. White: Joe, trust me on this, you're making a mistake, I understand you are super pissed, we are all very emotional here, but I know this man, he wouldn't do that.
Joe Cabot: You don't know jack shit I do the cocksucker tipped off the cops and got Mr. Brown and Mr. Blue killed.
Mr. Pink: Mr. Blue is dead?
Joe Cabot: Dead as Dillinger.
Mr. White: How do you know all of this?
Joe Cabot: He was the only one I wasn't a hundred percent on. I should have my fucking head examined going in when I wasn't a hundred percent sure.
Mr. White: That's your proof?!
Joe Cabot: You don't need proof when you got instinct. I ignored it before but no more. [Draws a gun and aims at Orange]
[Mr. White draws a gun and aims at Joe. And Eddie draws a gun and aims at White.]
Nice Guy Eddie: Have you lost your fucking mind?
Mr. White: Joe you are making a mistake, I won't let you do it.
Mr. Pink: Come on guys. We're supposed to be acting like fucking professionals.
Nice Guy Eddie: Larry, there's no needing for this man. Let's all just put our guns down and settle this with a fucking conversation.
Mr. White: Joe you shoot that man, you die next. Repeat: You shoot that man, you die next.
Nice Guy Eddie: Larry, it's been a long time, a lot of jobs. We've been through a lot of shit. You respect my father and I respect you, but I will put bullets in your heart if you don't put that fucking gun down now.
Mr. White: Goddamn you, Joe. Don't make me do this.
Nice Guy Eddie: LARRY YOU STOP POINTING THAT FUCKING GUN AT MY DAD!
[White, Eddie, Joe and Orange are all shot simultaneously.]

TaglinesEdit

  • Every "dog" has its day.
  • Five Total Strangers Team Up For The Perfect Crime. They Don't Know Each Other's Name. But They've Got Each Other's Color.
  • Four perfect killers. One perfect crime. Now all they have to fear is each other.
  • Let's go to work.
  • Let's get the job done.

CastEdit

External linksEdit

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