HAROLD: I’m not stupid, Murray. Okay? I’m not an idiot. I wouldn’t have done this if I hadn’t considered every possible move you might make, what I’d do if you did this or that, there are a multitude of scenarios playing out in my head. If we’re locked in a game of crazy chess, I’m ten moves ahead. Your king is trapped, my queen’s breathing down his neck, my knight’s running him down like a pig, and my bishop’s bashing his fucking brains in all over the chess board. There’s no way out. I didn’t leave anything to chance. Nothing. Okay? We documented the whole thing, from the beginning, planted evidence, well, most of it you practically gift-wrapped, actually. I should thank you. You made things not only very easy but also kind of entertaining in a goofy, bumbling, Three Stooges sort of way. It was like a little in-flight movie on our way to your money, where we’ll be landing in a just a few minutes. If you were to actually tell the truth, I mean, first of all, I’m not sure you even know what that is, the truth, but if you were to attempt to tell it, you would sound so unbelievably batshit crazy, no one would believe a single fucking word. No one. Not your closest friend. Not your mommy. Sign everything over to me. Everything. I’ll lock the evidence up someplace safe. No one will ever see it. You can live out the rest of your angst-ridden, tortured writer’s existence, signing autographs and banging starstruck fans at conventions and, who knows, maybe you could even write another book, you know, start over, new characters, new world. Completely unwritten. Brand new adventure. That wouldn’t be so bad—would it? I mean, don’t you kind of miss the old days? Be honest. Before you had it made? Back when everything was still an adventure? Don’t you miss that? Just a little bit?