You know, when you started getting invited to your ten year high school reunion, time is catching up.

They all have husbands & wives & children & houses & dogs, and, you know, they've all made themselves a part of something and they can talk about what they do. What am I gonna say?

I was hired to kill you, but I'm not going to do it. It's either because I'm in love with your daughter or because I have a newfound respect for life.

You got any ideas how you wanna wax this guy?

Why are you so interested in me going to my high school reunion?

* What have you been doing with your life? * Uh... professional killer.

Whatever I'm doing you don't like... I'll stop doing it.

You're a psychopath.

I'm a professional killer.

Don't kill anybody for a few days. See what it feels like.

I visualised you in a haze as one of those slackster, flannel-wearing, coffee-house misanthropes I've been seeing in Newsweek.

You wanna kill the good guy but not be the bad guy. Doesn't work like that. You gotta wait until the bad guy kills the good guy, then when you kill the bad guy, you're the good guy

We all got to go sometime, sir, but we can choose when.

You can take care of business and stop by Grosse Pointe for your reunion...

I'm sorry if I f***ed up your life.

I should have worn a skirt.

You're a f***ing *psycho*.

You're on some sort of therapeutic assignment, and you want to sort things out with me. So the question now becomes, do I allow you access to me or... do I call security?

It's a Greenpeace boat. It'd be so easy.

It was supposed to look like a heart attack! He was supposed to die in his sleep!

I had the yearbook pictures put on so everybody knows who everybody was!

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