Mr. Pink: “Hey, why am I Mr. Pink?”

Joe: “Because you’re a faggot.”

Mr. Pink: “Why can’t we pick our own colors?”

Joe: “No way, no way. Tried it once, doesn’t work. You got four guys all fighting over who’s gonna be Mr. Black, but they don’t know each other, so nobody wants to back down. No way. I pick. You’re Mr. Pink. Be thankful you’re not Mr. Yellow.”

Mr. Brown: “Yeah, but Mr. Brown is a little too close to Mr. Shit.”

Mr. Pink: “Mr. Pink sounds like Mr. Pussy. How ‘bout if I’m Mr. Purple? That sounds good to me. I’ll be Mr. Purple.”

Joe: “You’re not Mr. Purple. Some guy on some other job is Mr. Purple. You’re Mr. PINK.”

Mr. White: “Who cares what your name is?”

Mr. Pink: “Yeah, that’s easy for your to say, you’re Mr. White. You have a cool-sounding name. Alright look, if it’s no big deal to be Mr. Pink, you wanna trade?”

Joe: “Hey! NOBODY’S trading with ANYBODY. This ain’t a goddamn, fucking city council meeting, you know. Now listen up, Mr. Pink. There’s two ways you can go on this job: my way or the highway. Now what’s it gonna be, Mr. Pink?”

Mr. Pink: “Jesus Christ, Joe, fucking forget about it. It’s beneath me. I’m Mr. Pink. Let’s move on.”

(Reservoir Dogs, 1992)