Elvis: God damn it. Is there a Dove chocolate bar down by your feet?
Buddy: What. I mean…what?
Elvis: Dove. It’s a kind of chocolate bar.
Buddy: Dove is soap. What the fuck are you talking about? Are you talking about soap?
Elvis: No. I’m talking about my fucking chocolate bar that seems to be like fucking MIA right now, and I would really like to eat it, and I would like to eat it right now. I need some motherfucking chocolate. I’m talking about a chocolate bar.
Buddy: You’re talking about chocolate.
Elvis: I’m talking about a particular kind of chocolate. A dark chocolate bar made by company called Dove. It’s the only kind of chocolate bar I ever eat. I put one of these chocolate bars in the car here, before all the shit…
Buddy: Before all the shit.
Elvis: Yes. And now I cannot find my fucking Dove chocolate bar. I am fucking craving a chocolate bar, and I put a chocolate bar in this car before we left on this fucking wild goose chase of a fucked-up plan, and now all I am asking is for you to check down by your feet to see if this chocolate bar has like maybe rolled down under the seat? Is that so complicated?
Buddy: You want me to look down by my feet and see if I see a Dove chocolate bar?
Elvis: Yes. I cannot look all over the place while I drive and expect to keep this vehicle running at high speeds down this crooked fucking barren stretch of highway, though beautiful the scenery may be, without maybe veering off and over a fucking cliff to send both of our most unfortunate asses plummeting downward to the rocks and the sea. So, please, look down there by your feet.
Buddy: I don’t see anything. You know chocolate contains a good amount of caffeine. It might not be the best thing right now for you anyway, right now…I mean…
Elvis: Shut the fuck up! Look harder. It has to be here somewhere.
Buddy: I am looking. There’s all kinds of goddamn shit down here. Man, there is like a fucking tier of trash that I’m trying to dig through, a fucking sedimentary layer of shit.
Elvis: I’ve had enough of your penny-ante petulance. Quit your fucking bellyaching and look.
Buddy: I’m looking.
Elvis: Jesus.
Buddy: what, what, what, what, what….what?
Elvis: I’m sitting here, sweating like a goddamn stuck pig…
Buddy: Pig’s don’t sweat.
Elvis: Shut the fuck up! I’m sitting here driving your dumb ass down this fucking highway…Fuck. I’m driving this fucking car, this car that does not belong to me, this car that has been pilfered for us by a some dumbfuck in Sacramento, and I’ve been really much more than fucking agreeable to all of this fucked-up bullshit you’ve put us through in the last 4 to 6 hours, and I’m sitting here checking the rearview every 15-30 seconds for flashing sirens, and I am like taking these hairpin turns at much more than the recommended speed, and I have no fucking clue where the hell we are going to end up, or even why the fuck I am still being so damn agreeable to all of this when you’ve gone and really fucked our shit up way beyond any kind of repair, and I’m being nice. Me. Fucking nice. I can’t believe it. Me. Being nothing but nice about all this shit, and now you are going to start giving me shit, when all I want is a small favor, a little token, something to calm my nerves, to give me a tiny bit of satisfaction, and, hell, maybe just bring me back to a fucking warm safe place where I don’t have to worry about all this bullshit and can continue driving at a rapid pace without killing us—a goddamn Dove chocolate bar.
Buddy: Ah. Eureka. Here it is.
Elvis: Thank you.
Buddy: No problemo. That’s not a very large chocolate bar.
Elvis: Just over 1.3 ounces of pure dark and unadulterated pleasure. Roll your window down. Let’s get a little cross breeze going in here.
Buddy: Nah. I wanna hear the radio. I wanna listen to music. I can’t hear so well with the windows down.
Elvis:
Buddy: Okay. Okay. Jesus, shit, Christ. Here. I am rolling the window down. Eat your fucking chocolate bar and quit being so damn touchy.
Elvis: Ah. That’s the ticket. Wind in my hair. Sometimes I think that’s all I need to be happy. A chocolate bar and wind in my hair.
Buddy: Shut up. I can’t hear the radio with all your blabbering over there.
Elvis:
Buddy: It’s too loud with the damn windows down. Hey. Come on. It’s too fucking loud in here. Hey!
Elvis:
Buddy: Okay. Okay. I get it. Go ahead. Drive away. Eat your damn chocolate. Fucking Lawn Wrangler.
Elvis: What? What the hell did you just call me? What the fuck? Okay, shit. Roll the fucking windows up, and turn off the radio because I want you to hear this. I’m sitting here, driving this fucking stolen vehicle, dragging your dumb ass all over the damn place, after you have like completely and absolutely fucked the hell out of all of my shit for like a good ten-year period—we’re talking some long span of fucking time where I am going to have to like go around using a god damn alias and getting fake credit cards and getting paid under the table and having to purchase some fucking heavy-duty locks or alarm system on whatever shit hole that I am able to finagle my way into renting—and you’re going to start calling me names? Me? You should be…you should be the one who is…god damn it! All I’m saying is that, well, you should be at least a little grateful.
Buddy: I’ll try to be nicer.
Elvis: Fuck you. Here. I’m turning radio back on. I’m tired of listening to your shit. I should just pull over and…
Buddy: Okay. Okay. I get it. You are doing me one incredible fucking favor. Thanks. Hey and by the way, I’m not feeling so hot all of a sudden
Elvis: All of a sudden?
Buddy: Oh. Shit…fuck…oh, I think I might vomit blood here in a second.
Elvis: What? Where? What?
Buddy: What, what, what, what, what…Look.
Elvis: I am looking. What?
Buddy: I don’t know. Hold on. Slow down. Hey. Right out there by that old farm house.
Elvis: You want me to slow down?
Buddy: I want you to fucking stop this car. Now!
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