Who Says 'Youre Too Late Mr White' In Breaking Bad?

On our wedding day, my bride insists on wearing an old, beat-up watch with the million-dollar wedding dress I buy her. I call off the wedding on the spot. She looks at me in shock. "You called off the wedding just because of a watch?" I take out the divorce agreement and tell her to sign. "Yes. Because of that watch." Everyone calls me crazy. They cannot believe I would end a ten-year relationship over something so worthless and file for divorce in front of everyone. Dad walks up and slaps me across the face. "Get on your knees, you disgrace." My mother-in-law shrieks that I have ruined her daughter's future by returning her like damaged goods. I look at the watch on her wrist, which is stopped at 3:07, and I smile. Then, I phone my assistant. "It's time. Release everything. I want a divorce."

I was the real son, finally found and brought back by my billionaire parents, only to be diagnosed with leukemia right after. The only person who matched my bone marrow was the adopted son, Doug Daniel. So my parents rushed to bring him back into the family, making him my donor. To make it up to him, they did everything they could for him. My parents handed over the inheritance. My fiancée, Moira Stevens, hovered around him every day. When the pain got so bad that I could barely stand it, my parents pointed at me and snapped, "Jay! You keep bringing up your illness. Are you really that eager to take away Doug's health?" Moira, a medical school professor, didn't hold back either. "I'm a doctor. You think I don't understand your condition? You act like you're dying every single day. You just can't stand that we're being nice to Doug." On the day of the transplant, I lay on the operating table and waited. But Moira, the one in charge of harvesting Doug's marrow, never came in. I closed my eyes and waited for death. None of them knew I had already signed up to donate my body.

In the eight years since my wife handed our daughter over to her widowed brother-in-law, I went to court eight times. This time, the judge asked me the same question she always did: was I here to sue for custody again? I corrected her. "I'm here to withdraw the suit. I'm giving up custody. I'm agreeing to the divorce." Ten years married to my wife, Vivian Simpson, and eight of those years spent in courtrooms. I'd become the whole city of Northbridge's favorite joke. Now, I'd finally endured enough to let go. From now on, the most spineless man in Northbridge would never have to show his face in front of them again.

After we lost our baby just three days after birth, I dropped every habit that made Julian frown. I stopped asking where he went. Even when he stayed out all night, I could still sleep soundly. Even when a stray bullet grazed my wrist during a street shootout and the doctor asked me to notify my next of kin, I simply said, "I don't have any family." A nurse recognized me. "You're Mrs. Marchetti, right? Mr. Julian's motorcade is parked downstairs. Should I go let him know?" I lowered my eyes and told her not to bother. Half an hour later, Julian pushed the door open anyway. He was dressed in an expensive suit, his voice a low murmur. "You're hurt. Why didn't you call me?" I looked down at the bandages. "It's just a scratch. The Capo has better things to do." My indifferent tone only seemed to irritate him. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the hushed gossip of his men drifted in from the hallway. "Heard about Mia? The Capo really has a thing for her. She twisted her ankle at the casino, and he sent three bulletproof SUVs to clear the block. Carried her out himself. Her shoes didn't even touch the ground." Julian's jaw tightened. He shot a guarded glance my way, as if waiting for me to fly into a rage and demand answers, just like I used to. But I remained perfectly quiet, leaning against the hospital bed without moving an inch. He thought I was finally done causing trouble. He didn't realize I was quietly preparing to disappear from his life forever.

15 years ago, my father fell severely ill. Out of desperation, I sold one of my kidneys to raise the 300,000 dollars required for his treatment. Who would've thought that the moment the money reached my bank account, my wife, Isabella Marten, would transfer it all away? With the money meant to save my father's life, for which I'd sacrificed a kidney, she bought her brother-in-law, Phil Gentry, a luxury car. Dad passed away on the very night his surgery was scheduled because I couldn't afford the fees. Yet, with Phil at her side, Isabella chose that moment when I was at my most anguished to bring up the topic of divorce. My mother, Gloria Sonnier, was so enraged that she suffered a heart attack right then and there. The medical personnel on scene also hurled insults at Isabella in righteous anger. However, I readily agreed to Isabella's demands and even voluntarily walked away from the marriage with nothing. Thanks to my actions, Mom severed ties with me on the spot, and I became notorious among our relatives for being a wretched ingrate. I never bother to explain myself. It's not until 15 years later that I hear of Isabella and Phil's daughter getting accepted into the police academy. I contact the Office of Personnel Management. My opportunity for revenge, for which I've waited 15 years, is finally at hand.

Outside the police tape surrounding a fancy hotel, a police officer can be seen blocking my way. "There seems to be a bomb hidden in the hotel! Unauthorized personnel are not allowed to get any closer!" I'm just about to dig out my work badge when the intern next to me, Christine Wyatt, covers her mouth in a pretentiously shocked manner. "Officer, there's a detonator and a timer in his bag! Those things look so scary!" The entire scene goes eerily silent. Almost immediately, I see a few guns getting aimed at my forehead. Anxiety begins overwhelming me. "I'm a bomb disposal expert from the Headquarters Explosive Ordnance Disposal Unit! My bag contains all the tools necessary to dispose of a bomb!" "Throw your bag over to me and keep your hands where I can see them!" Captain Scott Hunter roars at me. My bag is opened afterward. Things like an insulated cutter, a bomb suppression blanket, and a liquid nitrogen cooling tank are scattered across the ground. Before I can explain myself, Christine suddenly points at me while screaming, "Why are you still playing dumb? You just told me that you wanted to set off an explosion in that hotel! "What, now that the police are here, you dare not admit what you just said, huh? You're a terrorist through and through!" Scott reacts quickly by pinning me on the hood of the police cruiser with my hands folded behind my back. "We're taking you back for a thorough interrogation!" My heart almost stops at those words. The bomb that's packed with enough firepower to take out half a street has already gone on a countdown in the hotel lobby. But I, the only bomb disposal expert who can get rid of the bomb, have handcuffs put on me because of Christine's nonsensical accusations. Right now, there are only 29 minutes left before the bomb goes off.