 What a chump. Can't you see what we're walking out on? The grind. 365 days a year. How many are there? Thirty-six. Counted them myself. Thirty-six! Well, lost you! Lost you! I had 37! God, this place is a mess. Mess? You're worried about a little mess? There's nothing here a little spit-shine wouldn't fix. I ought to kill you right now. Not a very private place for a murder?