I'm prepared to scour the Earth for that motherfucker. If Butch goes to Indo-China, I want a nigga hidin' in a bowl of rice ready to pop a cap in his ass.

Butch: So, what now?
Marsellus: What now? Let me tell you what now. I'ma call a couple of hard, pipe-hittin' niggas to go to work on homes here with a pair of pliers and a blowtorch. You hear me talkin' hillbilly boy? I ain't through with you by damn sight. I'ma get medieval on your ass.
Butch: I meant "what now" between you and me.
Marsellus: Oh, that "what now." I tell you "what now" between me and you. There IS no "me and you". Not no more. Two things: One, don't ever tell no one about this. This thing here is between me, you, and Mr. Soon-To-Be-Living-The-Rest-Of-His-Short-Ass-Life-In-Agonizing-Pain rapist here.Two, you leave town tonight, right now, and when you're gone, you STAY gone or you'll BE gone. You lost all your L.A. privileges.

I think you are gonna find, when this shit is over... I think you're gonna find yourself one smilin' motherfucker. The thing is Butch, right now, you've got ability. But painful as it may be, ability don't last. And your days are just about over. Now that's a hard motherfuckin' fact of life. But it's a fact of life your ass is gonna hafta get realistic about. See this business is filled to the brim with unrealistic motherfuckers. Motherfuckers who thought their ass would age like wine. If you mean it turns to vinegar, it does. If you mean it gets better with age, it don't. Besides Butch, how many fights you think you got left in you anyway? Two? Boxers don't have an "old timer's pension." You came close, but you never made it, and if you were gonna make it, you woulda made it before now.

Zed's dead baby, Zed's dead.

Sorry baby, I had to crash that Honda.

Butch: You ok?
Marsellus: Nah, I'm pretty fuckin' far from 'ok'.

It's a chopper, baby.

I'm American, honey. Our names don't mean shit.