[At night, after searching all day for the way to Messiah Kings, Zia and Mikal suddenly come upon what appears to be an ocean]
Zia:
Holy shit. [They stop in astonishment and he looks at her]
Zia:
Let's go. How come no one in camp mentioned the beach is so close?
Mikal:
Maybe they don't know. Maybe we're the only ones who know. [They make their way down and start to pick their way along the rocky shore. Romantic music starts to play and she look his way]
Mikal:
Hi.
Zia:
Hi. You remember the other day when you were talking about missing things from life and, uh... and how you wanted to go back and I told you I didn't miss anything?
Mikal:
Yeah.
Zia:
Well... when I'm here... with you, I kind of miss myself the way I used to be.
Mikal:
What were you like? I was... I was happy at a time. Obviously before I came here, but...
Mikal:
Yeah.
Mikal:
something about being here with you reminds me of that. It's just, I don't know, it's just weird to me that you can feel that in a place like this. We're all... We're all dead.
Mikal:
You know what? Most of the people that I knew before I got here were either half dead or just completely dead already. You know, completely dead. And you're doing pretty good, Zia.
Zia:
You think so?
Mikal:
Yeah, definitely. [Long awkward silence follows and they look at each other. Zia finally leans in to kiss her and they make out. We see a shot of light reflecting off the water and then see, in the daylight, the two of them, still full clothed, spooning together on the rocks. The camera starts to pull back and we notice unused condoms in various colors as well as used syringes strewn all over the place with discarded beer bottles]
Kneller:
[We hear shouting from afar] Zia! Mikal!
Zia:
[groggily, just starting to move] Kneller. Freaking out. [He looks up and around as she see Kneller approaching]
Zia:
Fuck. Fuck! Mik, get up. [They are both startled by their surroundings]
Zia:
Oh, my God. Oh, God.
Kneller:
Zia. There they are. I've just been worried sick about you.
Zia:
[to Mikal] Careful. Careful. Don't step on it. Put your shoes on.
Kneller:
I hope you didn't sleep *here.*
Zia:
Well, yeah.
Kneller:
Ah! This is where intravenous drug users and prostitutes congregated. It was too revolting for them. Can we get the hell out of here?
Jake Tyler Brigance:
[in his summation, talking about Tonya Hailey] I want to tell you a story. I'm going to ask you all to close your eyes while I tell you the story. I want you to listen to me. I want you to listen to yourselves. Go ahead. Close your eyes, please. This is a story about a little girl walking home from the grocery store one sunny afternoon. I want you to picture this little girl. Suddenly a truck races up. Two men jump out and grab her. They drag her into a nearby field and they tie her up and they rip her clothes from her body. Now they climb on. First one, then the other, raping her, shattering everything innocent and pure with a vicious thrust in a fog of drunken breath and sweat. And when they're done, after they've killed her tiny womb, murdered any chance for her to have children, to have life beyond her own, they decide to use her for target practice. They start throwing full beer cans at her. They throw them so hard that it tears the flesh all the way to her bones. Then they urinate on her. Now comes the hanging. They have a rope. They tie a noose. Imagine the noose going tight around her neck and with a sudden blinding jerk she's pulled into the air and her feet and legs go kicking. They don't find the ground. The hanging branch isn't strong enough. It snaps and she falls back to the earth. So they pick her up, throw her in the back of the truck and drive out to Foggy Creek Bridge. Pitch her over the edge. And she drops some thirty feet down to the creek bottom below. Can you see her? Her raped, beaten, broken body soaked in their urine, soaked in their semen, soaked in her blood, left to die. Can you see her? I want you to picture that little girl. Now imagine she's white.
Jean Girard:
[has Ricky in an arm lock] I will let you go, Ricky. But first, I want you to say..."I... love... crepes."
Cal Naughton, Jr.:
Don't you say it, Ricky. These colors don't run.
Ricky Bobby:
I'm not gonna say it.
Cal Naughton, Jr.:
Good.
Ricky Bobby:
Hey, look, Frenchy, I thought about it. So why don't you go ahead and break my arm?
Jean Girard:
I do not want to break your arm, Monsieur Bobby, but I am a man of my word.
Ricky Bobby:
Here's the deal. He's not gonna break it because I'm gonna slip out of it right now. Houdini! [he tries unsuccessfully to get free]
Jean Girard:
Whoa! Get down, you little pancake.
Ricky Bobby:
Someone might as well get me a beer while I'm down here.
Jean Girard:
But you have forced me to do this. You are now mocking me and making me look ridiculous. Just say, "I love crepes."
Cal Naughton, Jr.:
You know, just to put this in there, I had a whole mess of crepes this morning. They're just like pancakes, maybe even better.
Ricky Bobby:
Wait, are they the really thin pancakes?
Cal Naughton, Jr.:
Yeah.
Jean Girard:
Yes they are. They are the really thin pancakes. It's just a French word for them.
Ricky Bobby:
Oh, my god, I love those.
Cal Naughton, Jr.:
Put any syrups you want on them. I'm just saying, think about it.
Ricky Bobby:
They come with cheese sometimes?
Jean Girard:
Yes, of course, a fromage-crepe.
Ricky Bobby:
Well, why didn't someone yell that right-right away?
Jean Girard:
Do you know what's in the crepe suzette?
Ricky Bobby:
Oh, I love the crepe suzette.
Jean Girard:
With the sugar and lemon juice...
Ricky Bobby:
Yeah, the sugar and the lemon juice. Sure.
Jean Girard:
Grand Marnier.
Ricky Bobby:
I wo - I wish I could crawl into one of those right now. I'd eat my way out from the inside.
Preston's Mother:
[Preston's parents are just heading out for the weekend] Now Preston, I left some money on the kitchen counter. Oh and the emergency numbers are by the phone.
Preston's Father:
And remember son, *no parties*.
Keg Guy:
[Two guys walk by carring a beer keg] Keg commin' through! Hey Preston.
Preston:
Whats up, man?
Preston's Father:
We're really trusting you here, Preston.
Roadie:
[Behind them two more guys roll in a huge set of speakers] Where to you want these speakers set up, Preston?
Preston:
Yeah, just move all the shit in the dinning room. [to his parents]
Preston:
Well, you guys really should hit the road, huh? Because I'm about to take your antique Ferrari to the inner-city to buy some hookers.
Preston's Mother:
Well, alright, sweetie. We'll call you later to check in.
Preston:
Oh, mom. By that point I'll be so high I won't even know where the phone is.
Preston's Mother:
Haha! Thats my boy.
Bill:
As you know, l'm quite keen on comic books. Especially the ones about superheroes. I find the whole mythology surrounding superheroes fascinating. Take my favorite superhero, Superman. Not a great comic book. Not particularly well-drawn. But the mythology... The mythology is not only great, it's unique.
The Bride:
[who still has a needle in her leg] How long does this shit take to go into effect?
Bill:
About two minutes, just long enough for me to finish my point. Now, a staple of the superhero mythology is, there's the superhero and there's the alter ego. Batman is actually Bruce Wayne, Spider-Man is actually Peter Parker. When that character wakes up in the morning, he's Peter Parker. He has to put on a costume to become Spider-Man. And it is in that characteristic Superman stands alone. Superman didn't become Superman. Superman was born Superman. When Superman wakes up in the morning, he's Superman. His alter ego is Clark Kent. His outfit with the big red "S", that's the blanket he was wrapped in as a baby when the Kents found him. Those are his clothes. What Kent wears - the glasses, the business suit - that's the costume. That's the costume Superman wears to blend in with us. Clark Kent is how Superman views us. And what are the characteristics of Clark Kent. He's weak... he's unsure of himself... he's a coward. Clark Kent is Superman's critique on the whole human race. Sorta like Beatrix Kiddo and Mrs. Tommy Plimpton.
The Bride:
Aso. The point emerges.
Bill:
You would've worn the costume of Arlene Plimpton. But you were born Beatrix Kiddo. And every morning when you woke up, you'd still be Beatrix Kiddo. Oh, you can take the needle out.
The Bride:
[does so] Are you calling me a superhero?
Bill:
I'm calling you a killer. A natural born killer. You always have been, and you always will be. Moving to El Paso, working in a used record store, goin' to the movies with Tommy, clipping coupons. That's you, trying to disguise yourself as a worker bee That's you tryin' to blend in with the hive. But you're not a worker bee. You're a renegade killer bee. And no matter how much beer you drank or barbecue you ate or how fat your ass got, nothing in the world would ever change that.
[Courtcase of Snively versus Framm, just started and Timberwolves coach, Arthur Chaney just walked into the courtroom, un-expectedly]
Arthur Chaney:
Why not let the dog choose, Your Honor? They say a dog is man's best friend. If that's the case, shouldn't the dog be able to choose who he wants to be friends with?
Judge Cranfield:
Who are you, Barnum or Bailey?
Arthur Chaney:
Arthur Chaney, Your Honor.
Judge Cranfield:
Mister Chaney, do you reali... [Judge Cranfield stammered, in shock]
Judge Cranfield:
Arthur Chaney? New York Knicks, '56? Huh, I was at that Celtics game where you did the turn around jumper, at the buzzer. [light chuckle]
Judge Cranfield:
I spilt beer all over my wife. [light laughter in the courtroom]
Bailiff:
Your Honor?
Judge Cranfield:
What? Oh, yes, yes, yes. [Judge Cranfield then cleared his throat]
Arthur Chaney:
Well, I've been thinking. This dog is what, three, four years old. That makes him an adult, in our years. I say let Buddy decide. [court members mummur after hearing this advice]
Judge Cranfield:
Mister Chaney, during my forty years on the bench, I have heard a lot of lamebrain cockamanie proposals. But this one I like. [Norm Snively and Josh Framm were then both sent outside, to see who Buddy would respond to and be Buddy's permanent owner]
Stacey, American Dreamgirl:
[points to beer bottle] What do you call that?
Colin:
Uh, Bottle.
Stacey, American Dreamgirl, Jeannie, American Angel, Carol-Anne, American Goddess:
[giggling, mimicking accent] BOHT-el!
Jeannie, American Angel:
[points to straw] What about this?
Colin:
Uh, straw.
Stacey, American Dreamgirl, Jeannie, American Angel, Carol-Anne, American Goddess:
[mimicking accent] Strohw!
Carol-Anne, American Goddess:
[points to table] What about this?
Colin:
Uh, table.
Stacey, American Dreamgirl, Jeannie, American Angel, Carol-Anne, American Goddess:
[starting to repeat] Tab - Oh, the same. It's the same. [Colin nods apologetically]
Skylar:
Well, let's see if you can get this one. I've got a little story for you. All right. There's an old couple in bed. Mary and Paddy. And they wake up on the morning their... fiftieth anniversary. And Mary looks over and gazes adoringly at Paddy, she's like, "Aw, Jesus, Paddy. You're such a good lookin' feller. I love you. I want to give you a little present. Anything your little heart desires, I'm going to give it to ya'. What would you like?" And Paddy's like, "Aw, gee, Mary, that's a very sweet offer. Now, in fifty years, there's one thing that's been missing. And uh... I would like you to give me a blow job. I would like that." And Mary's like, "All right." She takes her teeth out, puts them in the glass and she gives him a blow job. And afterwards, Paddy's like, "Ah, geez, now THAT's what I've been missin'. That was the most beautiful, Earth-shatterin' thing ever. Beautiful Mary, I love ya'! Is there anything that I can do for you?" And Mary looks up at him and she goes, [letting beer spill out of her mouth]
Skylar:
"Give us a kiss!"
[first lines]
Erica:
[voiceover, doing her radio show] I'm Erica Bain. And as *you* know, I walk the city. I bitch and moan about it. I walk and watch and listen, a witness to all the beauty and ugliness that is disappearing from our beloved city. Last week took me to the gray depths of the East River where Dmitri Panchenko swims his morning laps, like he has every morning since the 1960s. And today I walked by the acres of scaffolding outside what used to be the Plaza Hotel. And I thought about Eloise. Remember Kay Thompson's Eloise? Eloise who lived in the Plaza Hotel with her dog Weenie, and her parents were always away, and her English nanny who had eight hair pins made out of bones. That Eloise. The adored brat of my childhood. [indistinct overdubs for a few lines here]
Erica:
... li'l punk kids... Sid Vicious spewing beer from his teeth in the Chelsea Hotel... Andy Warhol, his sunglasses reflecting... Edgar Allan Poe, freeing live monkeys from the crates of a crumbling schooner on the oily slips of South Street. Stories of a city that is disappearing before our eyes, its people swept over the Williamsburg of those stories. So what are we left of those stories? Are we going to have to construct an imaginary city to house our memories? Because when you love something, every time a bit goes, you lose a piece of yourself. Where's Eloise going to sleep tonight? Can you hear her ghost wandering around the collapsing corridors of her beloved Plaza, trying to find her nanny's room? Calling out to the construction workers, in a voice that nobody hears, "Has anyone seen my turtle, Skipperdee?" This is Erica Bain, and you've been listening to Streetwalk, on WKNW.
Old Man:
So there's this man, and he lived his whole life on Earth, and his name was Mr. Stevenson. When Mr. Stevenson was eight years old, he asked another little boy if he would like a Hurts Donut. The other boy said yes. So he hit him on the arm and he said, "Hurts Donut." Five years later, Mr. Stevenson asked another boy about his same age at that time if he would like a Hurts Donut. when the boy said yes, Mr. Stevenson stabbed him over and over again in his eye and his cheek with a pencil, saying "Hurts Donut." Over the years, Mr. Stevenson did very well in school. On graduation day, he was sat next to another young man, who, like Mr. Stevenson, had earned high marks. When he asked the boy if he would like a Hurts Donut, the boy said, "Not if you're gonna stab me in the eye with a pencil." "I wouldn't even touch you," said Mr. Stevenson. So when the boy agreed, he presented him with a photograph of the young man's fiancée at a bachelor party, on some guy's table, fucking herself with a beer bottle. As tears filled the young man's eyes, Mr. Stevenson was heard to say, "Hurts Donut." A few years later, Mr. Stevenson got a job as a sales clerk in an electronics store. Within a year, he was caught stealing and immediately incarcerated. When he asked his cellmate if he would like a Hurts Donut, his cellmate said yeah. So... he gave him a Hurts Donut. Over the years, Mr. Stevenson grew too old to take care of himself, so they put him in a hospital. One day, he asked the new nurse if she would like a Hurts Donut. In anticipation of her response, Mr. Stevenson began humming and making smacking noises with his mouth. When the nurse smiled and said, "I know about you, Mr. Stevenson," Mr. Stevenson blurted out something totally incoherent and... and began to laugh. [the bar patrons are laughing uproariously]
Old Man:
I've never understood this joke. But then, I've never been to Earth.
Randal Graves:
Since when did porch monkey suddenly become a racial slur?
Dante Hicks:
When ignorant racists started saying it a hundred years ago!
Randal Graves:
Oh, bullshit! My grandmother used to call me a porch monkey all the time when I was a kid because I'd sit on the porch and stare at my neighbors!
Dante Hicks:
Despite the fact that your grandmother might've used it as a term of endearment for you, it's still a racial slur! It'd be like your grandmother calling you a little kike!
Randal Graves:
Oh, it is not. Plus, my grandmother had nothing but the utmost respect for the Jewish community. When I was a kid she told me to always treat the Jewish kids with the utmost respect, or they'd put the sheni curse on me.
Dante Hicks:
What the fuck, man?
Randal Graves:
What?
Dante Hicks:
Sheni's a racial slur, too!
Randal Graves:
Oh, it is not.
Dante Hicks:
Yes, it is!
Randal Graves:
She never called any Jews 'sheni', she just used to say sheni curse a lot. It was cute!
Dante Hicks:
It wasn't cute! It was racist!
Randal Graves:
I disagree, man, she was just an old timer, that's the way people talked back then! Didn't mean they were racist... Although my grandmother did refer to a broken beer bottle once as a nigger knife... You know, come to think of it, my grandmother was kind of a racist.
Dante Hicks:
You think?
Randal Graves:
Well,I still don't think porch monkey should be considered a racial term. I mean, I've always used it to describe lazy people, not lazy black people! I think if we really tried, we could re-claim it, and save it.
Dante Hicks:
It can't be saved, Randal! The sole purpose for its creation, the only reason it exists in the first place, is to disparage an entire race! And even if it could be saved, you can't save it because you're not black!
Randal Graves:
Well listen to you! Telling me I can't do something because of the color of my skin! You're the racist! I'm taking it back, you watch! [customers enter]
Randal Graves:
Hey, what can I get for you, you little porch monkey? [beat]
Randal Graves:
Its cool, I'm taking it back.
