Gunther: So what’s with the dress?
Lamia: Excuse me?
Gunther: The dress, toots. Yah frippery shit. Ah know Pussy got yah riding his cock ‘n all, but binding yah sizeable breasts in somethin’ so restrictive is, how do Ah put it…retarded.
Lamia: I—this—it’s part of the outfit. It makes me stand out. Unlike the rest of you (she eyes Gunther’s shoddy, mud-stained overcoat). Especially you. Christ! Why not just go nude if you’re going to treat your outfit like that?
Gunther: Pockets! Can’t get enough of them. Keep all kinds of tasty things inside. (a pocket jiggles and a matted field mouse tries to crawl out. Gunther quickly smacks the mouse, exploding the tiny creature all over his side pocket).
Lamia: UGH! WHY?
Gunther: What, don’t like puddin? (he licks his fingers clean of gore). So then where’s your pockets, bitchy? Where do you keep all yah—uh—secrets? (he leers)
Lamia: I don’t have any secrets, you awful cretin.
Gunther: Oh come on, everyone has pockets. Is it here? (he grabs at Lamia’s hip. She jumps away) Nope! Then here! (he jams his hand between her breasts. She’s stunned for a millisecond, then smacks his hand away)
Lamia: Manners! Come on, seriously?!!
Gunther: Oh mah bad. Guess that’s Pussy’s pocket then. It’s where he’s stashing all his goods, yeah?
Gunther: Then Ah guess y’all’s secrets in yah other pocket…(he reaches for under her dress)
Lamia: (punches Gunther square in the face, snapping his glasses and jamming wire into one eye).
Gunther: (he rolls back, calmly removing the damaged eyewear from his face and, reaching into one of his pockets, replaces them with an identical pair. Carefully balancing the glasses on his nose once more, blood still dripping down his face from a damaged socket, he leers at Lamia). Excellent. Ehehe, and ‘ere Ah thought Pussy Cat was the only one full o’ fun…