LEMMY. Orl right. Give it a rest!
PRESS. Your sentiments are familiar to me. I've got a friend on the Press who's very keen on Christ and kindness; and wants to strangle the last king with the—hamstrings of the last priest.
LEMMY. [Greatly intrigued] Not 'arf! Does 'e?
PRESS. Yes. But have you thought it out? Because he hasn't.
LEMMY. The difficulty is—where to stop.
PRESS. Where to begin.
LEMMY. Lawd! I could begin almost anywhere. Why, every month abaht, there's a cove turns me aht of a job 'cos I daon't do just wot 'e likes. They'd 'ave to go. I tell yer stryte—the Temple wants cleanin' up.
PRESS. Ye-es. If I wrote what I thought, I should get the sack as quick as you. D'you say that justifies me in shedding the blood of my boss?
LEMMY. The yaller Press 'as got no blood—'as it? You shed their ile an' vinegar—that's wot you've got to do. Stryte—do yer believe in the noble mission o' the Press?
PRESS. [Enigmatically] Mr. Lemmy, I'm a Pressman.