HR: You dance around the issue, man. Out with it. Pull the plug or not? How do you wanna go out?
EG: You first.
HR: I'm not going out in no hospital, dog. If I know I'm gonna buy it soon, I'm going to dress up in a black ninja suit, and spend my last weeks hunting down and destroying every bastard who done me wrong. If the cops find me, I'm gonna blow myself up, Quaeda style. Hyaaeh! Boom! Take that, swine!
EG: That's, um, inspiring, man.
HR: Your turn.
EG: I'm thinking I might pack a few days of food and water and walk off into the Utah desert alone, try to find God one last time.
HR: Again? Give up, man. He's so not into you.
EG: You think?
HR: I know. He couldn't give a shit what happens to you. Look around.
EG: I suppose you're right. So, revenge?
HR: Unless I'm old and weak. Or, you know, my enemies have already tasted my wrath and all that.
EG: Outliving your enemies is the best revenge?
HR: No, I can think of much better. There's impalement, for starters, and public humiliation . . .
EG: Maybe I'd just want to spend me last days in the place that feels most like home to me.
HR: A bar? Good idea. Instead of being strapped down on a morphine drip, we could just OD on . . .
[in unison]: Whiskey.
HR: Now that's what I call death with dignity.
EG: Buy you a shot?
HR: Any time, anywhere.
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