Mr. Frying Pan: Well now, here we all are. Ike, Mike and Mustard.
Harry: What the hell does that mean?
Mr Mustard: You know, I'm with him on this one man, that's pretty fuckin' obscure.
Mr Frying Pan: Horseshit, I hear that all the time.
Mr Mustard: You do?
Mr Frying Pan: Yeah, sure.
Mr Mustard: Where, at the 1942 club?
Mr Frying Pan: Hey, just cause you didn't get in...
Mr Mustard: Motherfucker I could've gotten in- (notices Harry making a break for it) HEY! Slow your roll, man!
Harry: This is bullshit! What are you gonna do, take me out here? There's security OW!
Mr Mustard: Keep talking. Keep talking.
Mr Frying Pan: You wanna know who we are? I'm the frying pan, see? And my boy over here, he's-
Mr Mustard: Mustard. (Smiling gleefully) I'm Mustard, baby.
Mr Frying Pan: He's the fire. Fuck you, Mr. Mustard.