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.
Cat R. Waul:
[after pulling to activate a trap door on stage which an opera singing mouse falls into] Terrible! Terrible! Absolutely, positively apalling. I must have a voice to match the occulence of this sal... [Fievel, scrambles up behind Cat R. Waul, picks up a fork and stabs him in the butt]
Cat R. Waul:
OON! [Jumps out of his clothes through the ceiling to an upper level saloon where a lady grabs him]
Lady at Saloon:
Oh, pussy, pussy, pussy, pussy! Pussy pussy! Oh, pussy! [Wriggles out, falls down the hole back into his clothes on the stage]
Cat R. Waul:
Humans! Yeeuk. So shiny and pleh! [to Chula]
Cat R. Waul:
Right. I want the subversive who tried to asassinate me found.
T.R. Chula:
I just love findin' subversives. Boss, what's a subversive?
Cat R. Waul:
Someone who doesn't have very long to live. [Fievel, with his shirt caught on the needle of a record player, tries to run and plays some music, which Cat R. Waul notices]
Cat R. Waul:
Ah. If it isn't my diminuitive friend from the train.
Fievel:
Cat R. Waul! I heard what you said about the Mouseburgers, and I'm gonna tell everyone. I'm gonna get Wily Burp. Cause he's the law.
Cat R. Waul:
The Wily Burp? [the saloon erupts in laughter]
Cat R. Waul:
That quaint historical figure? [Cat R. Waul picks him up on a fork]
Cat R. Waul:
Simply put, Mouseling. I am the law here. And you are a mere hors d'oeuvre.
[seeking approval for the calendar at the National WI Conference]
Chris:
I'm about to commit heresy. Look, I hate plum jam. [laughter]
Chris:
I only joined the WI to make my mother happy. I do, I hate plum jam. I'm crap at cakes, I can't make sponge. In fact, seeing as it's unlikely that George Clooney would actually come to Skipton to do a talk on what it was like to be in "ER", there seems very little reason for me to actually stay in the WI. Except suddenly... suddenly I want to raise money in memory of a man I loved, and to do that I'm prepared to take me clothes off for a WI calendar, and if you can't give us ten minutes of your time, Madam Chairman, well then, frankly, guys, I'm going to do it without council approval. Because there are some things that are more important than council approval. And if it means that we get closer to killing off this shitty, cheating, sly, conniving bloody disease that cancer is, oh God, I tell you, I'd run round Skipton market naked, smeared in plum jam, wearing nothing but a knitted tea cosy on me head and singing "Jerusalem". [laughter]
Mohtz:
That tattoo on your arm. Is that airborne?
Jonah:
The 182nd. Gulf War, 1991.
Mohtz:
Hmm. Mine here is the 405th Infantry. Outside of Da Nang, South Vietnam, 1968. Whole platoon got wiped out, but it wasn't Charlie.
Jonah:
You're shitting me. Friendly fire killed your whole platoon?
Mohtz:
No, no, not exactly. One night, me and the C.O. were pulling guard duty, and we're sharing a joint... Thai Stick. I'm really stoned. And all of a sudden, we see this streak of light across the sky. Zoom! Waaa! And it looks like it lands about two klicks northeast of camp. So the C.O. says, "I'm gonna check it out." I said, "go ahead, cap man". More doobie for me, you know. So off he goes and uh... it could have been 10 minutes or two hours. I don't know. I was stoned. But he comes back and I notice that he's acting weird. But now, oh... now, no problem, it's just the Thai Stick kicking in. Well man, pretty soon he starts jumping around like his pants are on fire. I'm not shittin' you. And he... off comes his pants. He rips them off. Rips his skivvies off. Now I got my C.O. standing there in front of me, buck naked from the waist down. And then something happened, man, that... uh... boot camp did not prepare me for. This guy's pecker... his dick, ripped itself off his body and slithered towards the tent. So, the C.O.'s screaming like hell before he expires. Pretty soon, I can't hear him because dozens of screams are coming from the tents where all the platoon was. Want to know what the hell it sounded like? I think it sounded like... 30 men getting massacred by a dick as it shoved itself through them in rapid speed. So, I went over and hid behind a rock for about an hour and had to listen to my whole platoon being murdered. I think I heard one guy getting a shot or two off, but he then screamed as he got killed too. So, after it stopped... I very cautiously, believe me, crept into the officers tent to get a radio to get some air support and... I see the dick lying there on a sleeping bag and it looks like it's looking right back at me. But it looked, you know, fucking weak, man. And it was like in this, you know, shriveled... what kind of period do you call it?
T.J.:
A refractory period. Happens just after sex.
Mohtz:
Yeah, yeah, you know, I could have killed it right then, but I was so stoned I was afraid that I'd miss. And on the other hand, I knew it was only a matter of time before... you know, it would be back in action again. So, without taking my eyes off it, I get on the radio and have them chopper in two Saigon whores. So, for the next half-hour, I'm holding my weapon on this dick lying on a sleeping back in the blood-splattered tent. Now, I figured it won't know I'm stoned, so he won't jump me, you know? So, the chopper arrived just in time, thank God, because now the dick was getting big and hard. So, I tell the two whores when they showed up in the tent, "look, hey, I'll do anything, man. I'll take you to the States, anything, if you just lie down there and spread your legs for me." Well, I guess "states" was the magic word because I never two Vietnamese whores taking off their panties and clothes so quickly in all your life. Now, the dick must have smelled dinner because... choo! It makes a beeline for the whores. So I watch, and I wait, and watch. Finally, finally it blows it's load, I grabbed it, and ran it outside the tent. I threw it in a bunker. God... Jesus Christ man! About 10 seconds later, out runs about 15 gooks. And I could have nailed any one of them but no, I made a priority decision. Threw in a grenade. Yelled, "fire in the hole!" Fa-foom! Well, guess what. Now it's raining dick. Yeah, raining dick! I crawled into a whisky bottle. I got back to the States and I've been in there ever since.
Metatron:
[Bethany hears a noise in her closet at night. She reaches under her bed and pulls out a baseball bat. Flames suddenly erupt in the middle of the room] Behold the Metatron, herald of the Almighty and voice of the one true God. Behold the Metatron, herald of the Almighty and voice of the one true God. [Bethany runs to her closet, pulls out a fire extinguisher]
Metatron:
Behold the Metatron, herald of the Almighty and voice of the one true G - [Bethany douses the fire]
Metatron:
Oh, G - [Metatron coughs repeatedly and emerges from the smoke as Bethany rushes back to the bed and grabs the bat again]
Metatron:
Agh! Sweet Jesus, did you have to use the whole can?
Bethany:
[brandishing the bat] Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing in my room?
Metatron:
I'm the one that's soaked and she's the one that's surly, that's rich. Stupid fucking... Christ...
Bethany:
Get the fuck out of here! NOW!
Metatron:
Or you'll do what, exactly? Hit me with that ffffffish? [Bethany realizes she's holding a large fish, and drops it in shock]
Metatron:
Now, just sit down on the bed and shut up. Jesus wept... look at my suit!
Bethany:
Look, just take whatever you want, but don't kill or rape me.
Metatron:
Oh, get over it, will you? I couldn't rape you if I wanted to. Angels are ill-equipped. [he drops his pants to show blank skin where his genitals should be]
Metatron:
See? I'm as anatomically impaired as a Ken doll. Now make yourself useful and gimme that towel, will you? [Bethany tosses it to him and he starts wiping his clothes dry]
Metatron:
Honestly, you bottom feeders and your arrogance, you think everybody's just trying to get in your knickers.
Bethany:
What are you?
Metatron:
I'm pissed off, is what I am! Do you go around drenching everybody that comes into your room with flame-retardant chemicals? No wonder you're single.
Like all of my important memories, it has a potency that has influenced the pocket of time that holds it, so I can remember that particular Saturday afternoon, even though in many ways it was no different from any other. I can remember, for example, what van der Glick was wearing as she stepped out of the elevator, which was a dress covered with clownish polka dots. Rainie would make these heartbreaking stabs at femininity; indeed, she still does. It's not that she doesn't possess a woman's body now, and didn't posses a girl's body then. But clothes never seemed to fit her correctly, and the more girlish they were, the worse they would hang.
