When I left, I joined the army, and when I took the service exam my psych profile fit a certain... moral flexibility would be the only way to describe it... and I was loaned out to a CIA-sponsored program, and we sort of found each other. That's how it works.
I know what I do isn't... moral, per se...
You can never go home again, Oatman... but I guess you can still shop there.
I just honestly don't know what I have in common with those people anymore... or with anyone, really. I mean, they'll all have husbands and wives and children and houses and dogs, and, you know, they'll have made themselves a part of something, and they can talk about what they do. And what am I going to say? "I killed the president of Paraguay with a fork. How have you been?"
[to himself, rehearsing] "Hi! I’m Martin Blank, do you remember me? I’m not married, I don’t have any kids, and I’d blow your head off if someone paid me enough."
A thousand innocent people get killed every day, but a millionaire's pet gets detonated and you're marked for life.
Marcella: Sir, it's out of my hands. The gods want you to go back home, and they want you to delete someone while you're there.
Paul Spericki: I'll see you at the "I've-Peaked-and-I'm-Kidding-Myself" party.
Agent Steve Lardner: You want to kill the good guy but not be the bad guy. It doesn't work like that. You've got to wait until the bad guy kills the good guy. Then when you kill the bad guy, you're the good guy.
Ultimart Clerk: [after the convenience store blows up] No, I'm NOT all right! I'm hurt, I'm pissed... I gotta find a new job!
Bob Destepello: You wanna do some blow?
Paul Spericki: Wow. Just looking for a little validation for my life but apparently came up SHORT!
Martin's target: Whatever it is i'm doing that you don't like... I'll stop doing it.
Martin Blank: It's not me. [shoots him dead]
Martin Blank: Why are you so interested in me going to my high school reunion?
Marcella: I just find it amusing that you came from somewhere.
Marcella: You know, when you started getting invited to your ten year high school reunion, time is catching up.
Martin Blank: Are you talking about a sense of my own mortality or a fear of death?
Marcella: Well, I never really thought about it quite like that.
Martin Blank: Did you go to yours?
Marcella: Yes, I did. It was just as if everybody had swelled.
Dr. Oatman: Go see some old friends. Drink some punch, visit with what's-her-name. Don't kill anybody for a few days; see what it feels like.
Martin Blank: I'll give it a shot.
Dr. Oatman: No, don't give it a shot! Don't shoot anything!
Martin: I'm a professional killer.
Paul: Do you have to do post-graduate work for that, or can you just jump right in?
Martin: Debi's house.
Paul: Kinda crept up on you, didn't it?
Martin: No, you drove us here.
Debi Newberry: So, is there a Mrs. Mysterio?
Martin Blank: No, but I have a cat.
Debi Newberry: It's not the same thing.
Martin Blank: Well, you don't know my cat. It's very demanding.
Debi Newberry: "It"? You don't know if it's a boy or a girl?
Martin Blank: I respect its privacy.
Agent McCullers: You got any ideas how you wanna wax this guy?
Agent Lardner: Can't you just say "kill"? You always gotta romanticize it.
[Martin's secretary has discovered that several enemies are in town]
Marcella: [on phone] Sir, I'm becoming concerned for your safety.
Martin: I have to go.
Marcella: Yeah, well, we all have to go sometime, sir, but we can choose when.
Martin: Nobody chooses when.
Martin Blank: Whole grain pancakes and an egg-white omelette, please.
Waitress: What would you like in your omelette?
Martin Blank: Nothing in the omelette. Nothing at all.
Waitress: Well, that's not technically an omelette.
Martin Blank: Look, I don't want to get into a semantic argument about it, I just want the protein, all right?
Mr. Newberry: So, what have you been doing with your life?
Martin Blank: Um... professional killer.
Mr. Newberry: Oh, good for you! Growth industry.
Mr. Newberry: Did I have you figured wrong?
Martin: I don't know; I mean, I hope so.
Mr. Newberry: I visualised you in a haze as one of those slackster, flannel-wearing, coffee-house misanthropes I've been seeing in Newsweek.
Martin: No, no, no, I went the other road. Six figures, doing business with lead-pipe cruelty, mercenary sensibility. You know... sport sex, no real relationships. How about you, how have the years been treating you?
Mr. Newberry: Well, you know me, Martin; still the same old sell-out, exploiting the oppressed...