Jules and Vincent from Pulp Fiction,
lots of stuff like this in there;
Background: Jules tells Vincent that [thier boss] Marsellus had someone thrown off a fourth-floor balcony for giving his wife a foot massage.
Jules: Whoa, whoa, whoa. Stop right there. Eating a bitch out and giving a bitch a foot massage ain't even the same fucking thing.
Vincent: It's not, it's the same ballpark.
Jules: Ain't no fucking ballpark neither. Now, look, maybe your method of massage differs from mine, but you know touching his wife's feet and sticking your tongue in the holiest of holies ain't the same fucking ball park. It ain't the same league. It ain't even the same fucking sport. Look, foot massages don't mean shit.
Vincent: Have you ever given a foot massage?
Jules: Don't be telling me about foot massages, I'm the foot fuckin' master.
Vincent: Given a lot of them?
Jules: Shit, yeah! I got my technique down and everything, I don't be tickling or nothing.
Vincent: Would you give a guy a foot massage?
Jules: [pause] Fuck you.
Vincent: You give them a lot?
Jules: Fuck you.
Vincent: You know, I'm getting kinda tired, I could use a foot massage myself.
Jules: Yo-yo-yo, man, you best back off, I'm getting pissed here. Look, just 'cause I wouldn't give no man a foot massage don't make it right for Marsellus to throw Antoine into a glass motherfucking house fucking up the way the nigga talks. That shit ain't right. Motherfucker do that shit to me, he better paralyze my ass because I'd kill the motherfucker, know what I'm saying?
Vincent: I ain't saying it's right. But you're saying a foot massage don't mean nothing, and I'm saying it does. Now, look, I've given a million ladies a million foot massages, and they all meant something. We act like they don't, but they do, and that's what's so fucking cool about them. There's a sensuous thing going on where you don't talk about it, but you know it, she knows it, fucking Marsellus knew it, and Antoine should have fucking better known better. I mean, that's his fucking wife, man, he ain't have no sense of humor about that shit. You know what I'm saying?
Jules: That's an interesting point. [pause] C'mon, let's get into character.
<Their expressions go grim and they draw their pistols>
Jules has the best lines though;
Brett: [to Jules] Look, I'm sorry, I-I didn't get your name. I got yours, uh, Vincent, right? But-But I-I never got your...
Jules: My name is Pitt, and your ass ain't talking your way outta this shit.
Brett: [rising] No, no, no. I just want you to know how – [Jules motions him to sit down] I just want you to know how sorry we are that-that things got so fucked up with us and-and Mr. Wallace. I-I-It, we-we got into this thing with the best intentions. Really. I never inte–
[Jules shoots Flock-of-Seagulls, Brett recoils in horror]
Jules: Oh, I'm sorry. Did I break your concentration? I didn't mean to do that. Please, continue. You were sayin' something about "best intentions"? [silence] What's the matter? Oh, y-you were finished? Oh, well, allow me to retort!
It's not that they're so violent, it's that they're so caviler, eloquent and stylish about it.
...do I know psychos, or what?
