"Debase, the beef, canoe. Why does that strike me as not right?"
"Spike, come dance." "Give us some peace, would you? Can't you see I'm working?"
"I'm sorry, kitten."
"I'm sorry, kitten. It's just this manuscript. It's supposed to hold your cure, but it reads like gibberish. Even Dalton here, the big brain, he can't make heads or tails of it."
"You know I can't stand to see you like this. We're running out of time. It's that bloody Slayer. Whenever I turn around, she's mucking up the works."
"I'm not even sure it's a language, I--" "Then make it a language! Isn't that what a transcriber does?"
"I want the cure." "Don't." "Why not? Some people find pain very inspirational."
"Is that where we'll find this key?" "Yeah." "I'll send the boys pronto."
"Now will you dance?" "I'll dance with you, pet, on the Slayer's grave."
"Once you're well again, we'll have a coronation down Main Street, and invite everyone. And drink for seven days and seven nights." "What about the Slayer?"
"You don't say?"
"Trouble? She's the gnat in my ear, the gristle in my teeth, she's the bloody thorn in my bloody side!"
"We'll never complete your cure with that bitch breathing down our necks."
"I need to bring in the big guns. They'll take care of her once and for all." "Big guns?" "The Order of Taraka."
"Isn't that overkill?" "No. I think it's just enough kill."
"I think it's just enough kill."
"No worries. We're close to decoding the manuscript, we just need a bit more time."
"By George, I think he's got it. The key to your cure, ducks, the missing bloody link."
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