Ryder: Yeeaahh, CJ... Hey, CJ, tell me why I didn't finish high school.
Carl Johnson: Because you been dealing drugs, man, since the age of ten!
Ryder: No, that ain't it.
Carl Johnson: Because you went and put hands on that teacher for wearing Ballas colors!
Ryder: No, that ain't it either. It's 'cause I'm too intelligent for this shit, man. I am the real deal, fool. Oh yeah. A genius.
Carl Johnson: Oh, oh yeah...
Ryder: Who has more straps than anybody? Who has all the straps, huh?
Carl Johnson: A man with a lot of guns? Shit, I give up.
Ryder: The army, my nigga, the army! Let's go.
Carl Johnson: Yeah... Yeah!
Ryder: Go hit the wet, nigga.
Carl Johnson: Get that outta my face, man.
Ryder: Go hit the wet!
Carl Johnson: You know I don't fuck with that, man. C'mon!
Ryder: Busta!(not actually in subtitles.)
(While in the van)
Ryder: You think you can roll this van without killing us both?
Carl Johnson: Hey, Ryder, where we going?
Ryder: Ocean Docks.
Carl Johnson: How we get this van? It wasn't outside when I came through.
Ryder: My homie LB, he's like a clockwork ninja! Real dependable. Unlike some of you motherfuckers...
Ryder: Don't matter how much shit this city throws at you, CJ, you gotta stick by your homies!
Carl Johnson: Yeah, I guess...
(They arrive at the destination)
Ryder: This is the spot - National Guard Depot.
Carl Johnson: Man, this shit look real serious. Are we up for this?
Ryder: It's National Guard, fool! Weekend soldiers! Ain't no match for Grove Street OGs!
(Soldier spots Carl)
Soldier #1: Hey, stop where you are!
Ryder: Nice job, CJ, thought that was a suicide mission for sure!
(Ryder goes inside)
Ryder: Quit trying to kill yourself under the van! Now open the warehouse and keep these motherfuckers busy!
(Carl opens the warehouse)
Carl Johnson: OK, we're in, move it, Ryder!
(Ryder maneuvers the van, and gets out)
Ryder: I'll watch our backs while you use the forklift to collect the crates. OK, homie, let's load this shit up!
(Once crates inside the warehouse are stocked up)
Ryder: They got more crates outside, CJ!
(Once six crates have been stocked up)
Ryder: C'mon, CJ, we got enough! CJ, get up front and drive us outta here.
(While in the van)
Ryder: LB's got us a spot in Willowfield - hit the gas! Damn, man, these idiots just don't give up!
Carl Johnson: What's happening back there?
Ryder: These part time soldiers got a chip on their shoulders!
Carl Johnson: Nice rhymes, man! Hey, we're real heavy, toss some crates!
Ryder: A'ight, check it out. Sound the horn, I'll throw a crate at 'em.
(Later, while still in the van)
Carl Johnson: I ain't rolling with you no more, man, 'til you off that water, homie. It mess with your mind.
Ryder: Whatever you say, fool. You don't know what's going on.
Carl Johnson: And what that mean?
Ryder: I ain't listening to no more of your bullshit. We got the guns. You ain't no gangster, homie. You want it smooth? You don't want no trouble. I keep it real.
Carl Johnson: You wouldn't know real if it came and hit you in your cheeks, homie, which it could do, if it gave you a hit first.
Ryder: I ain't listening to you, Carl.
(Once they have arrived at the lockup)
Ryder: That shit was tight.
Carl Johnson: Tight? Man, that shit was shit.
Ryder: Man, you say you're down for the homies, but all you do is complain.