You're soo ambitious, aren't you?
You know what you look like to me, with your good bag and your cheap shoes? You look like a rube. A wild scrub hustling the road, with a little taste...
Good nutrition has given you some lenght of bone, but you're not more than one generation from poor white trash, are you, agent Starling? And that accent that you've tried so desperetaly to shed. "Pure west-Virginia". What was your father, dear? Was he a coal miner, did he stink of the lamb?
And oh, how quickly the boys found you, all those tedious sticky fumblings in the backseats of their cars while you could only dream of getting out...
Getting anywhere...
Getting all the way to the
F
B
I
...
You fly back to school now, little starling...
Fly, fly fly... Fly, fly, fly... Fly, fly, fly...