Oh, Agent Starling, do you think you can dissect me with this blunt little tool? No. I thought that your knowledge... You're so ambitious, aren't you? You know what you look like to me with your good bag and your cheap shoes? You look like a rube, a well-scrubbed hustling rube with a little taste. Good nutrition has given you some length of bone, but you're not more than one generation from poor white trash, are you, Agent Starling? That accent you're trying so desperately to shed, pure West Virginia. What was your father, dear? Was he a coal miner? Did he stink of the lamp? And oh, how quickly the boys found you, all those tedious, sticky fumblings in the back seats of cars, while you could only dream of getting out, getting anywhere, yes, getting all the way to the FBI. You see a lot, Dr. Lecter, but are you strong enough to point that high-powered perception at yourself? How about it? Look at yourself and write down the truth, or maybe you're afraid to. A census taker once tried to test me. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. You fly back to school, little starling. Fly, fly, fly. Fly, fly, fly. Fly, fly, fly.

Alright, movie guy. This one's creepy. You did that too well. Too well. Too creepy. Creepy. Creepy.