The Joker: Let's wind the clocks back a year. These cops and lawyers wouldn't dare cross any of you. I mean, what happened? Did, did your balls drop off? Hm? You see, a guy like me... Gambol: Freak! [mobsters laugh] The Joker: [ignoring] A guy like me... Look, listen. I know why you choose to have your little... [clears throat] The Joker: ...group therapy sessions in broad daylight. I know why you're afraid to go out at night... The Batman. See, Batman has shown Gotham your true colors, unfortunately. Dent? He's just the beginning. [indicates Lau on the video phone] The Joker: And as for the television's so-called "plan?" Batman has no "jurisdiction." He'll find him and make him squeal! I know the squealers when I see them, and... [He indicates Lau again, who hurriedly turns off the picture]
Annie Cantrell: [voice over] Those were not welcome days. We buried sons, brothers, mothers, fathers, fiancés. Clocks ticked, but time did not pass. The sun rose and the sun set, but the shadows remained. When once there was sound, now there was silence. What once was whole, now was shattered.
Will: So, when did you know, like, that she was the one for you? Sean: October 21st, 1975. Will: Jesus Christ. You know the fuckin' date? Sean: Oh yeah. 'Cause it was Game 6 of the World Series. Biggest game in Red Sox history. Will: Yeah, sure. Sean: My friends and I had, you know, slept out on the sidewalk all night to get tickets. Will: You got tickets? Sean: Yep. Day of the game. I was sittin' in a bar, waitin' for the game to start, and in walks this girl. Oh, it was an amazing game, though. You know, bottom of the eighth, Carbo ties it up at 6-6. It went to twelve. Bottom of the twelfth, in stepped Carlton Fisk. Old Pudge. Steps up to the plate, you know, and he's got that weird stance. Will: Yeah, yeah. Sean: And BAM! He clocks it. High fly ball down the left field line! Thirty-five thousand people, on their feet, yellin' at the ball, but that's not because of Fisk. He's wavin' at the ball like a madman. Will: Yeah, I've seen... Sean: He's going, "Get over! Get over! Get OVER!" And then it HITS the foul pole. OH, he goes apeshit, and 35,000 fans, you know, they charge the field, you know? Will: Yeah, and he's fuckin' bowlin' police out of the way! Sean: Goin', "God! Get out of the way! Get 'em away!" Banging people... Will: I can't fuckin' believe you had tickets to that fuckin' game! Sean: Yeah! Will: Did you rush the field? Sean: [surprised at the question] No, I didn't rush the fuckin' field; I wasn't there. Will: What? Sean: No - I was in a bar havin' a drink with my future wife. Will: You missed Pudge Fisk's home run? Sean: Oh, yeah. Will: To have a fuckin' drink with some lady you never met? Sean: Yeah, but you shoulda seen her; she was a stunner.
[first lines] Narrator: He was growing into middle age, and was living then in a bungalow on Woodland Avenue. He installed himself in a rocking chair and smoked a cigar down in the evenings as his wife wiped her pink hands on an apron and reported happily on their two children. His children knew his legs, the sting of his mustache against their cheeks. They didn't know how their father made his living, or why they so often moved. They didn't even know their father's name. He was listed in the city directory as Thomas Howard. And he went everywhere unrecognized and lunched with Kansas City shopkeepers and merchants, calling himself a cattleman or a commodities investor, someone rich and leisured who had the common touch. He had two incompletely healed bullet holes in his chest and another in his thigh. He was missing the nub of his left middle finger and was cautious, lest that mutilation be seen. He also had a condition that was referred to as "granulated eyelids" and it caused him to blink more than usual as if he found creation slightly more than he could accept. Rooms seemed hotter when he was in them. Rains fell straighter. Clocks slowed. Sounds were amplified. He considered himself a Southern loyalist and guerrilla in a Civil War that never ended. He regretted neither his robberies, nor the seventeen murders that he laid claim to. He had seen another summer under in Kansas City, Missouri and on September 5th in the year 1881, he was thirty-four-years-old.
The Joker: [the Joker interrupts a meeting between Lau and Gotham's criminals] Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha oh hee hee ha ah ooh hee ha ha. And I thought my jokes were bad. Gambol: Give me one reason why I shouldn't have my boy here pull your head off. The Joker: How about a magic trick? [pulls out a pencil] The Joker: I'm gonna make this pencil disappear. [slams Gambol's thug's head into pencil] The Joker: Ta-da! It's... it's gone. Oh and about the suit. It wasn't cheap. You oughta know: you bought it. [Gambol gets up in anger] The Chechen: Sit. I want to hear proposition. The Joker: Let's wind the clocks back a year. These cops and lawyers wouldn't dare cross any of you. I mean what happened? Did... did your balls drop off? Hmm? You see a guy like me... Gambol: [interrupts] A freak. The Joker: A guy... like me... Look, listen. I know why you choose to have your little group therapy sessions here in broad daylight. I know why you're afraid to go out at night; the Batman. You see, Batman has shown Gotham your true colors unfortunately. Dent, he's just the beginning. And, and as for the television's so-called plan? Batman has no jurisdiction. He'll find him, and make him squeal. I know the squealers when I see them and... [points at Lau] The Chechen: What do you propose? The Joker: It's simple: We, uh, kill the Batman. [everyone laughs] Salvatore Maroni: If it's so simple, why haven't you done it already? The Joker: If you're good at something, never do it for free. The Chechen: How much you want? The Joker: Uh... half. [everyone laughs again] Gambol: You're crazy. The Joker: I'm not. No, I'm not. If we don't deal with this now, soon little uh, Gambol here won't be able to get a nickel for his grandma. Gambol: Enough from the clown! The Joker: [reveals the inside of his jacket, which has five hand grenades with the pins attached to a thread tied to the Joker's finger] Ah-ta-ta-ta-ta! Let's not "blow" this out of proportion. Gambol: You think you can steal from us and just walk away? The Joker: Yeah. Gambol: I'm puttin' the word out: 500 hundred grand for this clown dead. A million alive so I can teach him some manners first. The Joker: Alright, so listen. Why don't you give me a call when you want to start taking things a little more seriously? Here's my card. [leaves joker card on the table and walks away]
Don't ever get your speedometer confused with your clock, like I did once, because the faster you go, the later you think you are.
I object to being told that I am saving daylight when my reason tells me that I am doing nothing of the kind... At the back of the Daylight Saving scheme, I detect the bony, blue-fingered hand of Puritanism, eager to push people into bed earlier, and get them up earlier, to make them healthy, wealthy, and wise in spite of themselves.
The Clock on the Morning Lenape Building Must Clocks be circles? Time is not a circle. Suppose the Mother of All Minutes started right here, on the sidewalk in front of the Morning Lenape Building, and the parade of minutes that followed--each of them, say, one inch long-- headed out that way, down Bridge Street. Where would Now be? This minute? Out past the moon? Jupiter? The nearest star? Who came up with minutes, anyway? Who needs them? Name one good thing a minute's ever done. They shorten fun and measure misery. Get rid of them, I say. Down with minutes! And while you're at it--take hours with you too. Don't get me started on them. Clocks--that's the problem. Every clock is a nest of minutes and hours. Clocks strap us into their shape. Instead of heading for the nearest star, all we do is corkscrew. Clocks lock us into minutes, make Ferris wheel riders of us all, lug us round and round from number to number, dice the time of our lives into tiny bits until the bits are all we know and the only question we care to ask is
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