Sam's buggin' the shit out of me about being too violent. Listen to this, diary: We were driving down some fuckin' road last week, on our way to a dump off. Sorry, diary, I forgot you don't know all the hitman slang. A dump off means "to dump off." As in dead people bodies. Yeah, we had seven stiffs in the trunk (I've always been good at packing for vacations) and a corpse under the floor mats. So then Sam brings up the fact that it's my fault that we have all these homicides to deal with. Which is gonna make us late for a date with a couple of hosebags. Him and his fuckin' facts. The fact is, the whole thing was a simple goddam accident! I was in a truck stop bathroom, trying to piss. Eight miles before this, my dick was telling me "I gotta piss!" So I get onboard and say "Yeah, I do gotta piss!" It's the whole reason we stopped at the fuckin' truck stop! Now I'm not pissing. There's nothin' coming out. I feel like drinkin' the urinal water just to urge it along. My dick isn't pissing! So that's when I get tough. I say to my dick "Look, faggot. You been bitchin' at me for eight miles. You are going to piss!" Nothing. Not a trickle. It's treatin' me like a half a fag here. So I pull out my other gun. I say "You got balls, buddy. But not for long, you don't do some squirtin' pretty fuckin' soon!" Nothing. I'm like a fruit wearin' makeup here. So I start shooting. I don't know, maybe I didn't really want to hit my dick in the first place (cuz after all, it is my dick), but the next thing I know there's eight dead dudes in the men's room. All of 'em were either pissing or shitting. So you see, diary, it was totally an accident. I think Sam has blame issues.