Disclaimer: I don't own Reservoir Dogs. As point of fact, my copy is currently lent out to a friend of mine, so I don't even own RD in the most consumer-y sense. (And yes, the withdrawals have started.)

A/N: If you've seen Reservoir Dogs, the language contained herein shouldn't bother you…but for the uninitiated who might stumble into this fic just because I wrote it, be forewarned: it is harsh.

Secondly, writing Pink always makes me nervy. I worry a lot about getting his voice right. Let me know what you think, huh?


Fuckin' unfair, man, that's what it is.

Nah, man, sit down. I don't mind. I'd relish the opportunity to tell you my story. You hear me? Fuckin' relish it. You buy me a drink and I'll be fuckin' ecstatic to tell you.

Scotch, neat? You're too kind. Have a seat, we'll talk, one washed up lush to another, huh?

Yeah, I know your face. How could I not? You used to be big shit around here, didn't you? Me too. Big fish in little ponds, that was us. Damn, how'd it go so wrong?

I know your story…your partner took a couple in the chest, didn't he? Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that. That was fuckin' brutal. I don't blame you for gettin' out of the business after that mess. I heard they had to give him a closed casket and everything. Didn't his ma have a nervous breakdown and take a bunch of pills? I mean, shit, she lost two sons in as many years…

I worked with his brother, you know. I mean, I didn't know they were brothers at the time; I didn't even know Vic's name until after the whole thing went down but…

Nah, it's cool. We can change the subject. I just gotta tell you I admire your professionalism, is all. You retired while you were on top of your game; in your fuckin' prime.

I was gonna retire, too, one day. Thirty five is fuckin' old for a hands-on thief. Conmen can get away with that shit, they don't have to actually run from the cops; hitmen can go long into their sixties. Thieves, though, we got an expiration date.

I had it all planned out, too. Aw, it was a thing of beauty. There was this heist from a couple years back, went real wrong, see? I don't mean like ha-ha, someone's timing is off by ten seconds wrong, I mean end of my fuckin' career wrong. Damn thing was bloodier than the St. Valentine's Day massacre. I was the only one that walked away, literally.

And I fuckin' walked away with a shitload of ice.

I was gonna be fuckin' set for life, man. Get me? Set for life. I coulda had anything, man. An. Eee. Thing. I had six whole months of livin' fat. Shit, I can still picture some of the women I had drippin' off me in Vegas. I couldn't take a fuckin' step without a piece of ass fallin' into my lap. Dined in the best restaurants, slept in the most expensive hotels, got smashed in all the trendiest nightspots, never tipped a waitress in all that time…fucked a few, sure, never tipped 'em.

That was my thing, you know? Like, my little way of giving the finger to society. Fuck the established order of things, right? Fuck tipping. It's not a fuckin' institution, it ain't in the fuckin' bill of rights…fuck you, wait staff, more money for me.

Those were the best six months of my life…

Then it all went to shit. Then again, when has anything perfect not gone to shit, right? Jesus Christ, you saw me limp in here, didn't you? That limp ain't the result of fuckin' recreational activities. The mob, man. Messed with the wrong Don's daughter. Those bitches should come with warning labels.

Good old rebar to the kneecaps; they took me for every penny I had and dumped me in the desert. I probably woulda died out there if some family in a station wagon hadn't found me. That was a fuckin' fun ride to Reno. Broken knees, crammed into somebody's backseat with a brat sittin' on my chest.

Docs patched me up well enough, I guess; took three months of sleepin' on old buddy's couches and running credit card scams before I could even think about getting' back into the work force again, you know?

You wanna freshen this drink up for me, man? Oh, sorry, Jules…didn't know we're on a first name basis all of a sudden. Me? Shit, you can call me Pink. Everyone does, now…

Thanks...appreciate you havin' pity on a down and out comrade in arms. I'll drink to you.

So…yeah, I went to an old broker friend of mine. Asked him to set me up with a heist that had a juicy take.

Guess what? Word of that botched job spread fast. Nobody, I mean fuckin' nobody would touch me, like I was some kind of a leper or somethin'. Old connections stopped answerin' my calls. Friends stopped recognizin' me on the street.

I even relocated. It didn't fuckin' matter. I couldn't get a job on the circuit. Opportunities just…dried up. I was broke, I was desperate, I was in forced retirement.

You know what thieves do when they can't steal anymore, Jules? You know what thieves do when they can't steal and they ain't in the joint and they're bust? I got it on good authority they usually blow their fuckin' heads off.

Not me, though…too much of a coward for that. Yeah, I fuckin' said it: coward. I got nothin' and I'm too much of a chickenshit to give that up.

So, here I am, alive and well, if you can call it that, in this fuckin' monkey suit, spendin' my nights servin' fuckin' hipsters in some fuckin' trendy flavor-of-the-month nightclub. I'm a fuckin' waiter, man. Jack Rabbit Slim's. Jack Rabbit Jack-Offs, more like…

And the fuckin' cheapskate hipster patrons, in their fuckin' trendy clothes with their fuckin' burstin' wallets? They don't tip worth shit.

I tell you, Jules, irony is a son of a bitch.