Lionel Shabandar: You may not realize it, Miss Puznowski, but Harry Deane knows Monet like I know... actually, I don't know anything quite like that.
The Major: [narrating] This is the story of my brave, foolish friend Harry Deane. Mr. Deane's work as a art curator in London had gone, he felt, largely unappreciated. He told me of countless insults suffered at the hands of his employer, Lionel Shabandar, media tycoon, art collector, and an absolute brute of a fellow.
Lionel Shabandar: [covered in mud] Do not touch my person! You, idiot...
Man: Yes, my lord.
Lionel Shabandar: ...give me your boot.
The Major: [narrating] Forty years ago I'd have called this Shabandar a cad. Now the prevailing parlance for a fellow of this type is, I believe... shitbag.
The Major: [narrating] Mr. Deane, for all his talents, was given to one particular flaw. He saw the world as he wished to see it. But as we know, an optimist is simply a man who hasn't heard the news. As my time in the African Rifles had taught me, one ignored the elephant in the room at one's peril.
[bar fight erupts]
PJ Puznowski: Like mama always said, if you can't tell the difference between a pig and a javelina, well, you could lose a big old chunk out of your ass.
Harry Deane: Excuse me. We were given to understand that there was an equestrian tourney in this area.
Gas Station Cashier: Well, we got a law attorney. Don't know his religion. Up downtown Alpine. He's a fairy. Moved here from Albuquerque. It'll be five, no six years ago come May. Not that I judge.