Scanlon:
I'm not actually here for forgiveness, Britt.
Britt Reid:
I don't understand.
Scanlon:
You understand nothing, so l'm gonna explain it to you very simply. If you ever come across any article regarding a major crime, a man named Benjamin Chudnofsky, or anything that makes this city think I am not the fine line protecting the light from the darkness, you're gonna bring it to me. You're gonna bring it to me and l'll tell you if it's okay to print in your stupid little newspaper. That's how I did it with your dad. And that's how you and l are gonna do it.
Britt Reid:
[feigning disbelief]
Scanlon, are you saying you want me to let you write the news?
Scanlon:
Finally. You understand.
Britt Reid:
Here's what I understand. That you, son, just got played... by a playa!
[Britt pulls out a hidden USB recorder disguised as a piece of sushi]
Britt Reid:
Recording device. USB. No, you can't have it, it's mine! You stupid schmuck! I got you by the balls, Scanlon. I own a newspaper, genius. This'll be front-page.
Scanlon:
I'm impressed.
Britt Reid:
You should be.
Scanlon:
It won't do you any good.
Britt Reid:
How could it not? Are you gonna kill me in this restaurant?
Scanlon:
Yes.
Britt Reid:
What, you're gonna murder me?
Scanlon:
Yeah. Like I murdered your father.
Britt Reid:
I don't think so. My dad was not murdered. He died of a bee sting.
Scanlon:
No, no, your father died of an overdose of apitoxin, most commonly found in a bee sting, which he happened to be allergic to. But that apitoxin was administered by me.
