Ned: What better place to nurture romance than the Pie Hole? Warmth, pie, snuggly booths.
Olive: So what you're saying is, I shouldn't run away from Randy.
Olive: That Randy might be just what I need right now.
Olive: A quick fling to heal the scars and and rub ointment on the burns from us, and then rip off and toss away like a used square of gauze.
Ned: Not yes.
Olive: He's Randy Rebound.
Ned: No he's not.
Amelia Stingwell: Forgive me, but your door was ajar.
Emerson: Well, just because it was ajar doesn't change the fact that it was a door before it was ajar, which would indicate to most people to a-knock before a-entering.
Chuck: How can yo not tell me that you have a daughter? We buried bodies together.
Narrator: With each passing thermos, the private investigator grew more blind to the fact that he was fast approaching the thin line between "stake out" and "make out."
Detective Puget: Never known you to share, Cod. What's your angle?
Emerson: Maybe I wouldn't mind a little help bringing down the hammer of justice on whatever lowlife did this. Doesn't matter to me if the hammer is public or private, long as the nail gets hit on the head. You catch my drift?
Detective Puget: I do not.
Emerson: Catch the bitch.
Olive: Well, signals are like nuts--mixed are better. And who wants all the same kind, right?
Olive: Some things are so absurd that I can't even hear them. Like you just blew a dog whistle full of crazy, and I'm not a dog.
Michael Brunt: Now, when is your birthday, precious?
Michael Brunt: Hmmm. Funny, I would have bet you were an autumn birthday. See, the deep orange of orchid embers and Asiatic lilies make your skin tone glow.
Chuck: Well, actually, I have two birthdays, and my second one's in the fall, so actually you're right.
Michael Brunt: Your gibberish is sweet, honey. Keep the flowers.
Narrator: As he considered the power of the hydroelectric plant he had designed, Stingwell was struck by the irony, then by the water.