You keep saying it doesn't fucking matter about you, like you don't fucking matter at all. Is that what you think? Because that's bullshit, man, that's bullshit. You matter just as much as everyone else.

[It's like a twisted fucking version of a pep talk, in a weird way, and he's not sure why he's giving it, except it really kind of pisses him off that this guy never seems to want to talk about himself, that he just wants to say this fucking crazy shit (is it crazy? Is it really? Probably not, and that scares the fuck out of Chef) and talk about trading fucking memories and... Well, on the other hand, this guy had been stuck in that fucking compound for a long time, hadn't he? Wouldn't anyone go crazy there?

And who the fuck is Chef to judge anyone for going fucking crazy anywhere, right? He'd gone crazy on that goddamned river, and he knows it. Maybe he'd been a little crazy before the fucking tiger had nearly killed him, but that had been the last fucking straw. He knows he's verifiably, completely, one hundred percent fucking crazy now.]

I don't think I wanna trade memories with you, man. No offense, but fuck, you've got some stuff in there that I don't think I ever wanna see. And I sure as fuck don't wanna trade deaths with you, either.

[Or does he? Which death is better? Shit, it turns out the same way in the end anyway, so does it really fucking matter? Probably not.]