Lorne: Speakin' of moot, what about us? Anyone else feel like the last feisty wife in Stepford?
Gunn: Well, I ain't eatin' no rats.
Angel: Good. Neither am I.
Fred: I can't. I don't care what he says.
Lorne: I know, kitten. It's strange, but under that blood-feeding creature of the night facade, he seems a bit heartless lately.
Angel: Hearts get in the way.
Lorne: Hearing as good as ever, though, boss!
Wesley: Seems strange now. A being of her immeasurable age. You think she'd already have a name.
Lorne: Well, maybe it was embarrassing, like Hester or Peanut.
Wesley: And how does your kind define "love"?
Demon: Same as all bodies. Same as everywheres. Love is sacrifice.
Gunn: Definitely heard splashin'. It's gotta be him.
Fred: Unless it was another one of those skittering creatures.
Gunn: Yeah, well, it better skitter its hindquarters outta my way, 'cause I ain't in the mood.
Fred: Or it could just be rats.
Gunn: Now what did you have to go and say that for? Damn!
Fred: What we did, I felt it. Every bit of it. And, you know, sometimes when I allow myself to think about it, it eats me up inside.
Gunn: Yeah, me, too.
Fred: Well, I don't know about you, but... I'd take that over being a shell any day.
Demon: You is talky meat. Don't make me come down there.
Demon: I tear your guts all inside out. I stitch your guts every all over. Why don't you go dead?
Demon: I just messenger from the ones who love truly.
Angel: Well, then... I guess it's time to shoot the messenger. Or, you know, chop the messenger into little bitty pieces. Whatever.
