Julian: I brought my own specialized cleaning fluid for the exterior polish.
Marcus: That isn't polish, Mr. Vance. That looks like waste oil.
Julian: It's whatever I want it to be on my own property.
At an American auto repair shop with a subtle American flag visible, a fair-skinned American man in an expensive suit pours dark liquid over a grease-covered mechanic standing beside a red sports car[cite: 1].
Marcus: Are you out of your absolute mind?!
Julian: Don't touch my car with those dirty hands! See? My baby deserves to shine![cite: 1]
Dark motor oil dripped slowly from the brim of Marcus's cap, running down the bridge of his nose onto his work shirt.
Marcus: You just dumped a quart of dirty crankcase oil all over my head.
Julian: Consider it a mandatory lesson in hygiene, mechanic.
Marcus: You think because you inherited your father's hedge fund you can treat human beings like furniture?
Julian: I think you belong outside sweeping the asphalt rather than touching a machine worth more than your entire life savings.
Shop foreman Tom dropped his clipboard, rushing out from the back office with wide eyes.
Tom: Julian Vance! What on earth do you think you're doing in our shop?
Julian: Teaching your subordinate some respect for high-end clientele.
Tom: Get off our property right this second before I call the county sheriff.
Julian: Go ahead and call them. My corporate lawyers own half the municipal judges in this county.
Marcus wiped the dark sludge from his eyes, his breathing turning heavy and deliberate as he stepped closer.
Marcus: You've made a massive mistake today, Julian.
Julian: The only mistake was bringing my sports car to a garage populated by peasants.
Will Tom and Marcus find a legal way to hold this arrogant billionaire accountable for his humiliation?
Marcus: Let's see how much you smiling when you look at the title deed.