SCOTT: Would you stop vomiting? For fuck’s sake, William. I’m the one who should be puking. You’d think you’ve never been on a transatlantic flight before.
WILLIAM: Ugh. I haven’t.
DIRK: The stench is unbearable.
WILLIAM: I think it was the eggplant, ugh.
SCOTT: Never order the vegetarian entrée on a plane. Stewardess, another barf bag, please. And another gin and tonic for me. And some Lysol. And paper towels. Dirk?
DIRK: Another peach nectar and vodka, please.
STEWARDESS (Jane Kelly): Terribly sorry, but we’re out of peach nectar, sir, you’ve quaffed our last can.
DIRK: Damn. Whose idea was it to fly BA? Can I ask you that? Whose idea? My steak was too tough, and the sautéed mushrooms were cold and my biscuit was stale. Well please bring me a Coke, a glass of ice water, and some bourbon. You do have bourbon?
STEWARDESS: We have scotch, sir.
DIRK: Fine. Single Malt Barrel Aged 20 years?
STEWARDESS: Yes, sir.
DIRK: Well, chop, chop, then.
STEWARDESS: Right away.
DIRK: If you’d have let me bring some of my acolytes, we would not have encountered such diff—
SCOTT: Look, Dirk, I’m telling you that kind of shit is bringing us negative publicity. This is meant to be a literary movement not a cult of—a cult of—what am I thinking a cult of—
WILLIAM: Personality. A cult of personality. Ugh. Water.
DIRK: You can’t protest that I’ve not brought us somewhat into the limelight.
SCOTT: Limelight? Dirk? Hard Copy is not fucking limelight. It’s lime-green-shitlight. It’s notoriety. Fucking enquiring minds want to know—I don’t want to get harrassed at every fucking airport we—We don’t need a bunch of fucking guys in robes following us around spouting your poetry as if it were the fucking word of—Goddamn is it hot in here. I’m sweating like a fucking pig—
SCOTT: You know it, fucking methadone. Why did you ever get me on this stuff—It’s been hours—
STEWARDESS: Your sixth round of drinks, gentlemen.
SCOTT: It’s great that they’re free, Jane, right? Jane, could I get another handful of those great English chocolates?
STEWARDESS: I’ll have to charge you sir, you’ve already had—
SCOTT: Right, whatever, just please bring me those chocolates, bill me, no? I’ve got cash, whatever, and can you take that—away, sorry about that, he’s—
SCOTT: Not accustomed to flying. We usually drive but—
STEWARDESS: Not to worry, sir, it’s my job.
WILLIAM: Ugh, we appreciate.
SCOTT: Would you, Dirk, would please fucking stop the goddamn fucking humming?
DIRK: It’s my mantra.
SCOTT: Look, Dirk, I don’t give a solid fuck if that’s your chant or your chakra, or your mumbled satori, or some kind of acid reflux reaction or your mother’s fucking maiden name, okay, it’s just driving me fucking nuts, is what it is, alright? The movie’s about to come on.
SCOTT: Shit. Shit William. This is a brand new suit, dammit.
SCOTT: Oh great, another fucking talking animal movie. I can’t watch that. Fucking Hollywood. Jane, sorry, sorry Jane.
STEWARDESS: Your handful of chocolates, sir.
SCOTT: Thanks, Jane.
STEWARDESS: That will be ten pounds, sir.
SCOTT: Right, whatever, here, keep the change. And I’m sorry, could I get some, I don’t know, more towels, and some, shit, some English Leather, or whatever. For the stink. And, ah, do you have anything that would, you know, sort of, uh, put him out, for the remainder of the flight.
STEWARDESS: A tranquilizer sir?
SCOTT: Excellent. Yes he needs one, and yes, I’ll, uh, yeah, I’ll take one as well, Dirk?
DIRK: May as well.
STEWARDESS: Gladly, gentlemen. No charge for that, courtesy of British Airways.