Damn it, damn it, damn it! I can't believe it. Believe it. Your angel with the dirty wings...

Dutch: [Dutch and Doyle run out of the diner to notice the two hookers stole their car] Damn it, damn it, damn it! Doyle: I can't believe it. Dutch: [tersely] Believe it. Your angel with the dirty wings flew, taking my luggage, my wallet, my last cigar. Doyle: She was so understanding about my problems. Dutch: Stuff your problems! Doyle: Stuff YOUR problems! Dutch: If you weren't such as a spoiled little worm, such a whiny little rodent, I wouldn't had to come down here for you! Doyle: You asked for it, you got it. Dutch: True. Doyle: It's not my fault. Dutch: True. It's not your fault, it's your mother's fault. Doyle: Why is it her fault? Dutch: Because she gave birth to you. Doyle: And what about your mother? Dutch: My mother's a saint. Doyle: [mockingly] For what, having puppies? [Dutch angrily shoves him] Doyle: [taunting] Oh, you want more, huh? Dutch: Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. Doyle: [makes a martial-arts pose] Come and get it. [Dutch looks at him and walks away in disgust] Doyle: Chicken! [Dutch turns around and kicks his leg, ejecting his shoe in the air and he hits the ground on his back. The shoe then falls back down, landing on Dutch's face] Doyle: God, you're pathetic.