Disclaimer: I don't own Pulp Fiction, or any of the characters contained within the film (more's the pity).
Sweet. That's the only word for you, really. So worried, and about a fuckin' story too. Honestly. You know, it always amazes me how you can go from fretting about some imaginary kid to waving a pistol and threatening to blow anyone that moves to Kingdom Come, in about five seconds flat. And you're still sweet while you're doing it. God, I'm lucky. To have a girl like you, I mean. I love you so much, you know that? So innocent, and yet so goddamn dangerous when you need to be. Like now. Ready? Fuck that, I know you are.
"I love you, Pumpkin."
"I love you too, Honey Bunny."
Shit. That's all I can think at the moment. There's some bastard pointing an automatic in my face, and all I can think is 'shit, I'm gonna die'. I don't wanna die, not like this. Gotta stay cool, gotta stay calm, and you ain't helping, shriekin' like that. I love you, baby, but right now when I got a gun in my face and the guy that's holdin' it there looks like a fuckin' professional, havin' you screamin' ain't helpin' my concentration one bit. Sweetheart, I need you to chill. I love you, but you gotta be cool, OK? Shit.
"Be cool, Honey Bunny! Be cool!"