R.S.V.P.

Aah!

No!

No!

Metro needs 2 units on Flamingo.

Copy that.

Agents inside the tape, stand by for a search out.

Well, a perfect crime scene, or so it seemed,

until Vegas Metro and their esteemed detectives contaminated the structure

with their misguided diligence.

The quick brown fox was nowhere to be found.

Now, when the F.B.I. Finally made an appearance,

the fox was long gone,

without a trace of admissible evidence.

Drinks before the party, man?

Sure.

2 down, with 11 more to go.

The quick brown fox went on to terrorize

the southwest for the next 3 years.

When asked why he did it...

The fox replied...

I take your point, Nick, but clearly

it's the consistency has to be admired more.

It's not about body count, man, it's about how long

you can continue without losing your edge.

Or your mind. Precisely.

In short, there's vastly more skill involved in serial killing.

You know what? You're doin' it again.

You're pigeonholing all mass murderers

into this homogenous group of spur-of-the-moment thrill killers.

I'm saying that if, and only if,

one wanted to pull off a mass murder,

the chances of gettin' away with it

would be far less than that of your average serial killer.

Well, thus, you know,

it's by far a much more difficult and impressive feat

to kill a group of people

without "a," getting killed yourself,

or "b," getting caught, tried, and most certainly fried.

And that, my friend, is the crown Jewel of macabre accomplishment.

But you're forgetting the golden rule.

Murder is qualitative, not quantitative.

I mean, it's the style that's remembered, man, not the body count.

So, this guy was on the loose for 8 years, huh?

8 years. They caught him at a fucking traffic stop.

That's the problem with these guys.

They don't have any planning.

I mean, to... to...

To do this thing, you need to have a plan.

You need to be... to be...

Hey! Whoa!

Whoa, woman.

Fancy meeting you here.

What's up, baby?

Hey, Nicky.

Yo, man, so what time's this gig kickin' off tonight?

8:00, 8:30.

How you doin', Nicky?

I'm doin' just fine.

Come on, darlin'.

Excuse me, guys. Hey, manners.

I guess tonight's the last

they're gonna see of each other, huh?

He's flying out tomorrow afternoon.

So, you two cool nowadays? You and, uh...

What's not to be cool about?

You cool, though?

Fine. All right.

So, what's on the agenda

for our last night of collegiate bliss?

Nick and I are supposed to grab some cocktails

with Evans, our, uh, psych professor.

You wanna go?

Hmm. No. You... you fellas go do your fella thing.

Just give me a call later.

If not, I guess I'll just meet you at the party.

All right.

Ooh, look-it. Check... check...

Check... check out his eyes.

Oh, what up?

He's a little killer, you can just tell.

Hey, jackass!

You smack my baby again, you'll never see another sunrise.

Success.

Glad to see we didn't die of thirst, gentlemen.

Don't you understand that's the beauty of it?

That's the art.

The art of all art. Yes, indeedy.

In medium of flesh and bone.

I was just thinking that if one was to go

through with the whole killing thing,

at least have the common decency

to kill the right goddamn people.

If you're gonna step up to the plate

and start taking some people out,

I mean, at least put some effort into choosing your victims.

Prostitutes and homeless?

Where is the challenge in that?

I dig it, man.

You know, I think I'd start with, like, uh,

like, airline executives or, uh,

fucking, uh, cigarette manufacturers

or, like, uh, like, meter maids, man.

Traffic cops.

Lawyers. Fuckin' tax men.

Poli-fuckin'-ticians, man.

Used car dealers.

Cab drivers.

Dentists. Stock brokers.

Fuckin' lawyers. Wait, did somebody say lawyers?

Yeah, I believe so.

Fuckers. I'm killin' 'em again.

Forty-Niners fans.

Umpires. Talk show hosts.

Black Jack dealers. Boy bands.

Women sports announcers, man.

Americans. Just wipe out the whole country.

How about mimes?

Fuckin' mimes!

Th-there's so much to choose from.

I mean, how does one decide where the axe is gonna fall?

That is the question, isn't it?

I'm headin' out, man.

Wait, wait, wait. You're forgettin' something.

It's not mine, pal.

Let's go, man.

There you go.

Once again, man, the art of murder.

What else is he supposed to talk about?

The guy's still a freak.

Without a doubt.

But you've gotta admit, he's one goddamn entertaining freak.

The other day, he was telling me about one of his favorite films,

by Hitchcock, called rope. Have you seen it?

Yeah, it's the... the one-take film.

Anyways, it was originally this play

loosely based on the Leopold and Loeb murders

about these couple of queers that end up

killing their buddy just for the thrill of it.

Make things more complicated,

after they waste him, they stuff his body

in this huge chest, and they throw a party. Party of all parties.

They put this thing dead-smack in the center of the room.

They even invite the guy's parents.

I mean, Christ, these guys waste this guy,

put him in a fuckin' chest,

and then they serve hors d'oeuvres over his cold, dead body.

It's masterful.

Precisely.

Well, shit, man, what time's my party start?

I'd say as far as you and I are concerned, it already has.

Tonight's the night.

Wouldn't have it any other way.

What the fuck is that?

What it be! What it be! What it be!

Let me get some bitches.

Let me in this place. Come on.

Come on.

What up? What up? What up?

You tell me, bud.

You're a half hour early, my man.

Ah, I was in the neighborhood.

Besides, I figured I'd stake out some territory.

Any good talent coming tonight?

Just the usual suspects.

Cricket, Leigh, Jordan.

Shit. If Jimmy don't show, Jordo's fair game.

My sentiments exactly.

Hmm. Nice selection of cocktails.

Funky mood lighting.

Thought-provoking tunes.

Do I have your seal of approval?

All depends what you can match up with this.

Sha-dink!

The big green buds.

You know, I think I just might have

something to meet your needs.

Hey, beauty chest, man.

Yeah. I'm kinda partial to it myself.

Listen, I'll be right back.

Don't touch anything.

Unh!

7:30.

7-fucking-30.

Oh!

Wabbit season.

Ay, carumba.

Weapon of choice.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

You pack it.

Damn man.

Plastic surgery must be treating

your uncle Atticus good.

When's he getting back?

Never.

Any bitches out there?

Nick's pleasure palace of pain and worship.

What's the secret pass code, please?

Wow. I didn't realize.

Do I need an appointment

or can you take me as a walk-in?