| Database of Movie Dialogs |
Full transcript in English languagePeople always ask me if I know Tyler Durden. Three minutes. This is it. Ground zero. Do you have a speech for the occasion? With a gun barrel between your teeth, you speak only in vowels. I can't think of anything. For a second, I forget about Tyler's controlled demolition thing and I wonder how clean that gun is. It's getting exciting now. That old thing, how you always hurt the one you love. Well, it works both ways. We have front-row seats for this theatre of mass destruction. The Demolitions Committee of Project Mayhem wrapped the foundations of 12 buildings with explosives. In two minutes, primary charges will blow base charges and a few blocks will be reduced to smouldering rubble. I know this because Tyler knows this. Two and a half. Think of everything we've accomplished. Suddenly I realise that all of this, the gun, the bombs, the revolution, has got something to do with a girl named Marla Singer. Bob. Bob had bitch tits. This was a support group for men with testicular cancer. The big moosie slobbering all over me, that was Bob. We're still men. Yes, we're men. Men is what we are. Bob had had his testicles removed. Then hormone therapy. He developed bitch tits because his testosterone was too high and his body upped the oestrogen. - That was where lfit... - They'll have to drain my pecs again. ..between those huge sweating tits that hung enormous, the way you'd think of God's as big. OK, you cry now. No, wait. Back up. Let me start earlier. For six months, I couldn'tsleep. I couldn't sleep. With insomnia, nothing's real. Everything's far away. Everything's a copy of a copy of a copy. When deep space exploration ramps up, it'll be the corporations that name everything. The IBM Stellar Sphere. The Microsoft Galaxy. The Planet Starbucks. I need you out of town this week to cover some red flags. It must have been Tuesday. He had on his cornflower blue tie. You want me to deprioritise my reports until you advise of a status upgrade? Prioritise these. Here's your flight coupons. Call me if there's any snags. He was full of pep. Must have had his grande latte enema. Like so many others, I had become a slave to the Ikea nesting instinct. Yes. I'd like to order the Erika Pekkari dust ruffles. - Please hold. - Anything clever, like a coffee table in the shape of a yin-yang, I had to have it. The Klipsk personal office unit. The Hovetrekke home exerbike. Or the Ohamshab sofa with the Strinne green stripe pattern. Even the Ryslampa wire lamps of environmentally-friendly unbleached paper. I'd flip through catalogues and wonder "What kind of dining set defines me as a person?" I had it all. Even the glass dishes with tiny bubbles and imperfections, proof that they were crafted by the honest, hard-working, indigenous peoples of... - Please hold. - ..wherever. We used to read pornography. Now it was the Horchow collection. - No. You can't die of insomnia. - What about narcolepsy? I nod off, I wake up in strange places. I have no idea how I got there. - You need to lighten up. - Can you please just give me something? Red and blue Tuinals, lipstick-red Seconals... No. You need healthy, natural sleep. Chew some valerian root and get more exercise. Hey, come on. - I'm in pain. - You wanna see pain? Swing by First Methodist, Tuesday nights. See the guys with testicular cancer. That's pain. I always wanted three kids... two boys and a girl. Mindy wanted two girls and a boy. We never could agree on anything. Well, I... She... She had her first child last week. A girl. With... With her... With her new husband. Fuck! Thank God, you know... I'm glad for her. She deserves... Everyone, let's thank Thomas for sharing himself with us. Thank you, Thomas. I look around this room, and I see a lot of courage. And that gives me strength. We give each other strength. It's time for the one-on-ones. So let's all of us follow Thomas's example and really open ourselves up. Could you find a partner? And this is how I met the big moosie. His eyes already shrink-wrapped in tears. Knees together. Those awkward little steps. - My name is Bob. - Bob? Bob hadbeen a champion bodybuilder. You know that chest expansion programme on late-night TV? That was his idea. I was a juicer. You know, using steroids? Diabonal and Wisterol. Oh, they use that on racehorses, for Christ sakes. And now I'm bankrupt. I'm divorced. My two grown kids won't even return my phone calls. Strangers with this kind of honesty make me go a big, rubbery one. Go ahead,... Cornelius. You can cry. And then... something happened. I let go. That's really good. Lost in oblivion. Dark and silent and complete. I found freedom. Losing all hope was freedom. It's OK. Babies don't sleep this well. I became addicted. If I didn't say anything people always assumed the worst. They cried harder... then I cried harder. Now we're going to open the green door, the heart chakra... I wasn't really dying. I wasn't host to cancer or parasites. I was the warm little centre that the life of this world crowded around. Imagine your pain as a white ball of healing light. It moves over your body, healing you. Now keep this going. Remember to breathe and step forward through the back door of the room. Where does it lead? To your cave. Step forward into your cave. That's right. You're going deeper into your cave. And you're going to find your power animal. Slide. Every evening I died. And every evening I was born again. Resurrected. Bob loved me because he thought my testicles were removed too. Being there, pressed against his tits, ready to cry. This was my vacation. And she ruined everything. This is cancer, right? This chick, Marla Singer, did not have testicular cancer. She was a liar. She had no diseases at all. I had seen her at Free And Clear, my blood parasites group, Thursdays. Then at Hope, my bimonthly sickle-cell circle. And again, at Seize The Day, my tuberculosis, Friday night. Marla, the big tourist. Her lie reflected my lie. And suddenly, I felt nothing. I couldn't cry. So once again, I couldn't sleep. Next group, after guided meditation, after we open our heart chakras, when it's time to hug, I'm gonna grab that bitch, Marla Singer, and scream. Marla, you liar! You big tourist, I need this! Now, get out! I hadn't slept in four days. We'll just let that dry... When you have insomnia, you're never really asleep. And you're never really awake. To begin tonight's communion, Chloe would like to say a few words. Oh, yeah. Chloe. Chloe looked the way Meryl Streep's skeleton would look if you made it walk around being extra nice to everybody. Well, I'm still here. But I don't know for how long. That's as much certainty as anyone can give me. But I've got some good news. I no longer have any fear of death. But... I am in a pretty lonely place. No-one will have sex with me. I'm so close to the end, and all I want is to get laid for the last time. I have pornographic movies in my apartment, - and lubricants and amyl-nitrite. - Thank you, Chloe. Everyone, let's thank Chloe. Thank you, Chloe. Now, let's ready ourselves for guided meditation. You're standing at the entrance of your cave. You step inside your cave and you walk... If I did have a tumour, I'd name it Marla. Marla. The scratch on the roof of your mouth that would heal if you could stop tonguing it. But you can't. ..deeper into your cave as you walk. You feel a healing energy all around you. Now find your power animal. Slide. OK. Let's partner up. Pick someone special to you tonight. Hey. - We need to talk. - Sure. - I'm onto you. - What? Yeah. You're a faker. You're not dying. Sorry? In the Tibetan-philosophy, Sylvia-Plath sense of the word, I know we're all dying. - But you're not dying the way Chloe is. - So? So you're a tourist. I've seen you. I saw you at melanoma, I saw you at tuberculosis. I saw you at testicular cancer! I saw you practising this. - Practising what? - Telling me off. Is it going as well as you hoped... Rupert? I'll expose you. Go ahead. I'll expose you. Come together. Let yourselves cry. Oh, God. Why are you doing this? It's cheaper than a movie and there's free coffee. Look, this is important. These are my groups. I've been coming for over a year. - Why do you do it? - I don't know. When people think you're dying, they listen to you instead of... Instead of waiting for their turn to speak. Yeah. Yeah. Share yourself... completely. Look, you don't want to get into this. - It becomes an addiction. - Really? I'm not kidding. I can't cry if another faker is present, and I need this. You gotta find somewhere else to go. Candystripe a cancer ward. It's not my problem. No, wait a second. Hold on. We'll split up the week, OK? You take lymphoma and tuberculosis. You take tuberculosis. My smoking doesn't go over at all. OK. Good. Fine. Testicular cancer should be no contest. Technically, I have more right to be there. You still have your balls. - You're kidding. - I dunno. Am I? No. No. - What do you want? - I'll take the parasites. You can't have both. Take the blood parasites. - I want brain parasites. - I'll take the blood but I want brain dementia. - I want that. - You can't have the whole brain. So far, you have four. I only have two. OK. Take both the parasites. They're yours. Now we both have three... Hey! You left half your clothes. - What, are you selling those? - Yes! I'm selling some clothes! So! We each have three. That's six. What about the seventh day? I want bowel cancer. The girl had done her homework. No. No. I want bowel cancer. That's your favourite too? - Tried to slip it by me, eh? - Look, we'll split it. Take the first and third Sunday. Deal. Looks like this is goodbye. Let's not make a big thing out of it. How's this for not making a big thing? Hey, Marla! Marla! Maybe we should exchange numbers. Should we? - We might wanna switch nights. - OK. This is how I met Marla Singer. Marla's philosophy of life was that she might die at any moment. The tragedy, she said, was that she didn't. It doesn't have your name! Who are you? Cornelius? Rupert? Travis? Any of the stupid names you give each night? You wake up at SeaTac. SFO. LAX. You wake up at O'Hare. Dallas Fort Worth. BWI. Pacific. Mountain. Central. Lose an hour. Gain an hour. The check-in for that flight isn't for another two hours, sir. This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time. You wake up at Air Harbor International. If you wake up at a different time, in a different place, could you wake up as a different person? Everywhere I travel, tiny life. Single-serving sugar and cream. Single pat of butter. The microwave cordon bleu hobbykit. Shampoo-conditioner combos. Sample-package mouthwash. Tiny bars of soap. The people I meet on each flight, they're single-serving friends. Between take off and landing, we have our time together. That's all we get. Welcome! On a long enough time line, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero. I was a recall coordinator. My job was to apply the formula. The infant went through the windshield. A new car built by my company leaves somewhere travelling at 60mph. The rear differential locks up. The teenager's braces are stuck to the ashtray. Might make a good anti-smoking ad. The car crashes and burns with everyone trapped inside. Now, should we initiate a recall? The father must have been huge. See where the fat burned to the seat? The polyester shirt? Very modern art. Take the number of vehicles in the field, A. Multiply it by the probable rate of failure, B. Multiply the result by the average out-of-court settlement, C. A x B x C equals X. If X is less than the cost of a recall, we don't do one. Are there a lot of these kinds of accidents? You wouldn't believe. Which car company do you work for? A major one. Every time the plane banked too sharply on take off or landing, I prayed fo ra crash or a midair collision. Anything. Life insurance pays off triple if you die on a business trip. "If you are seated in an emergency exit row and would be unable or unwilling to perform the duties listed on the safety card, please ask a flight attendant to reseat you." It's a lot of responsibility. Wanna switch seats? No. I'm not sure I'm the man for that particular job. An exit-door procedure at 30,000ft. The illusion of safety. Yeah. I guess so. You know why they put oxygen masks on planes? - So you can breathe. - Oxygen gets you high. In a catastrophic emergency, you take giant panic breaths. Suddenly you become euphoric, docile. You accept your fate. It's all right here. Emergency water landing, 600mph. Blank faces. Calm as Hindu cows. That's... That's an interesting theory. - What do you do? - What do you mean? What do you do for a living? Why? So you can pretend you're interested? OK. You have a kind of sick desperation in your laugh. We have the exact same briefcase. Soap. - Sorry? - I make and I sell soap. The yardstick of civilisation. And this is how I met... Tyler Durden. Did you know if you mix gasoline and frozen orange juice, you can make napalm? - No, I did not. Is that true? - That's right. One can make all kinds of explosives with simple household items. - Really? - If one was so inclined. Tyler, you are by far the most interesting single-serving friend I have ever met. - Everything on a plane is single-serving... - Oh, I get it. Very clever. Thank you. How's it working out for you? - What? - Being clever? Great. Keep it up, then. Right up. A question of etiquette. As I pass, do I give you the ass or the crotch? How I came to live with Tyler is... Airlines have this policy about vibrating luggage. - Was it ticking? - Throwers know modern bombs don't tick. - Sorry, throwers? - Baggage handlers. But when a suitcase vibrates, the throwers have got to call the police. - My suitcase was vibrating? - Nine times out often it's an electric razor. But... every once in a while it's a dildo. It's company policy never to imply ownership in the event of a dildo. We have to use the indefinite article, a dildo, never your dildo. I don't own... I had everything in that suitcase. My CK shirts. My DKNY shoes. My AX ties. Never mind. Hey! That's my car! Home was a condo on the 15th floor of a filing cabinet for widows and professionals. The walls were solid concrete. A foot of concrete is important when your next-door neighbour has to watch game shows at full volume. Or when a blast of debris that used to be your personal effects blows out of your windows and sails flaming into the night. I suppose these things happen. There's... nothing up there. You can't go into the unit. Police orders. Do you have somebody you can call? How embarrassing. A houseful of condiments and no food. The police later toldme the pilot light might have gone out letting out just a little bit of gas. That gas could have filled the condo. 1700 square feet with high ceilings for days and days. Then the refrigerator's compressor could have clicked on. Yeah? I can hear you breathing... If you ask me now, I couldn't tell you whyl called him. - Hello? - Who's this? - Tyler? - Who is this? We met... We met on the airplane. We had the same suitcase? The clever guy? Oh, yeah. Right. I called a second ago. There was no answer. - I'm at a payphone. - Yeah, I *69'dyou. I neverpick up my phone. So what's up? Well. You're not gonna believe this. You know, it could be worse. A woman could cut off your penis while you sleep and toss it out of a car. There's always that. I don't know. When you buy furniture, you tell yourself, that's it. That's the last sofa I'll need. Whatever happens, that sofa problem is handled. I had it all. I had a stereo that was very decent. A wardrobe that was getting very respectable. I was close to being complete. - Shit, man. Now it's all gone. - All gone. All gone. Do you know what a duvet is? - A comforter. - It's a blanket. Just a blanket. Why do guys like you and I know what a duvet is? Is this essential to our survival in the hunter-gatherer sense? No. What are we, then? I dunno. Consumers. Right. We're consumers. We are by-products of a lifestyle obsession. Murder, crime, poverty. These things don't concern me. What concerns me are celebrity magazines, television with 500 channels, some guy's name on my underwear. Rogaine. Viagra. Olestra. - Martha Stewart. - Fuck Martha Stewart. She's polishing the brass on the Titanic. It's all going down. So fuck off with your sofa units and Strinne green stripe patterns. I say never be complete. I say stop being perfect. I say let's evolve. Let the chips fall where they may. But that's me, and I could be wrong. Maybe it's a terrible tragedy. It's just stuff. Not a tragedy... You did lose a lot of versatile solutions for modern living. Fuck, you're right. I don't smoke. My insurance is probably gonna cover it, so... What? The things you own end up owning you. Do what you like, man. Oh, it's late. - Hey, thanks for the beer. - Yeah, man. I should find a hotel. What? What? - A hotel? - Yeah. - Just ask, man. - What are you talking about? Oh, God. Three pitchers of beer and you still can't ask. What? You called me because you needed a place to stay. - Oh, hey. No, no, no. - Yes, you did. So just ask. Cut the foreplay and just ask, man. Would... Would that be a problem? Is it a problem for you to ask? - Can I stay at your place? - Yeah. Thanks. - I want you to do me a favour. - Yeah, sure. I want you to hit me as hard as you can. What? I want you to hit me as hard as you can. Let me tell you a little bit about Tyler Durden. Tyler was a night person. While the rest of us slept, he worked. He had one part-time job as a projectionist. A movie doesn't come all on one big reel. It comes on a few. Someone has to switch the projectors at the exact moment that one reel ends and the next one begins. You can see little dots come into the upper right corner of the screen. In the industry, we call them cigarette burns. That's the cue for a changeover. He flips the projectors, movie keeps going and the audience has no idea. Why would anyone want this shit job? Because it affords him interesting opportunities. Like splicing a frame of pornography into family films. So when the snooty cat and the courageous dog with the celebrity voices first meet, that's when you'll catch a flash of Tyler's contribution to the film. Nobody knows that they saw it but they did. Nice, big cock. Even a humming bird couldn't catch Tyler at work. Tyler also works sometimes as a banquet waiter at the luxurious Pressman hotel. He was the guerrilla terrorist of the food service industry. Do not watch. I cannot go when you watch. Apart from seasoning the lobster bisque, he farted on meringues, and as for the cream of mushroom soup... Go ahead, tell 'em. You get the idea. - You just want me to hit you? - Come on. Do me this one favour. - Why? - I don't know. Never been in a fight. You? - No. But that's a good thing. - You can't know yourself if you haven't! I don't wanna die without any scars. - Come on. Hit me, before I lose my nerve. - Oh, God. This is crazy. So go crazy! Let it rip. - I don't know about this. - I don't either. Who gives a shit? No-one's watching. What do you care? This is crazy. You want me to hit you?! That's right. - Where? Like, in the face? - Surprise me. This is so fucking stupid. Motherfucker! He hit me in the ear! - Well, Jesus, I'm sorry. - Ow, Christ! - Why the ear, man? - I fucked it up. No, that was perfect. No, it's all right. It really hurts. Right. Hit me again. No, you hit me. Come on! We should do this again sometime. - Where's your car? - What car? I don't know how Tyler found that house but he said he'd been there for a year. It looked like it was waiting to be torn down. Most of the windows were boarded up. There was no lock on the front door from when the police, or whoever, kicked it in. The stairs were ready to collapse. I didn'tknow if he owned it or was squatting. Neither would have surprised me. Yep. That's you. That's me. That's the toilet. Good? Yeah, thanks. What a shithole. Nothing worked. Turning on one light meant another light in the house went out. There were no neighbours. Just warehouses and a papermill. That fart smell of steam. The hamster-cage smell of wood chips. What have we here? - Hey, guys. - Hey. Every time it rained, we had to kill the power. By the end of the first month, I didn't miss TV. I didn't even mind the warm, stale refrigerator. Can I be next? All right, man. Lose the tie. At night, Tylerand I were alone for half a mile in every direction. Rain trickled down through the plaster and the light fixtures. Everything wooden swelled and shrank. Everywhere were rusted nails to snagy our elbow on. The previous occupant had been a shut-in. Hey, man. What are you reading? Listen to this. It's an article written by an organ in the first person. "I am Jack's medulla oblongata. Without me, Jack could not regulate his heart rate or breathing." There's a whole series of these. "I Am Jill's Nipples." - "I Am Jack's Colon." - "I Get Cancer. I Kill Jack." After fighting, everything else in life got the volume turned down. What? - You could deal with anything. - Have you finished those reports? If you could choose, who would you fight? I'd fight my boss, probably. Really? - Yeah, why? Who would you fight? - I'd fight my dad. I don't know my dad. I mean, I know him, but... He left when I was like, six years old. Married this other woman and had some other kids. He did this every six years. - He changes city and starts a new family. - Fucker's setting up franchises! My dad never went to college. - So it was real important that I go. - That sounds familiar. So I graduate. Call him up long-distance and say, "Dad, now what?" - He says, "Get a job." - Same here. Now I'm 25. Make my yearly call again. "Dad, now what?" He says, "I dunno. Get married." You can't get married. I'm a 30-year-old boy. We're a generation of men raised by women. I'm wondering if another woman is really the answer we need. Most of the week, we were Ozzie and Harriet. But every Saturday night, we were finding something out. We were finding out more and more that we were not alone. It used to be that when I came home angry or depressed, I'd just clean my condo. Polish my Scandinavian furniture. I should have been looking for a new condo or haggling with my insurance company. I should have been upset about my nice flaming little shit. But I wasn't. The premise of cybernetting an office is make things more efficient. Monday mornings, I just thought about next week. Can I get the icon in cornflower blue? Absolutely. Efficiency is priority No.1, people. Because waste is a thief. I showed this to my man here. You liked it, didn't you? You can swallow a pint of blood before you get sick. It was right in everyone's face. Tyler and I just made it visible. It was on the tip of everyone's tongue. Tyler and I just gave it a name. Come on, you've gotta go home! Turn off the jukebox. Lock the back. Every week, Tyler gave the rules tha the and I decided. Gentlemen! Welcome to Fight Club. The first rule of Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club. The second rule of Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club! Third rule of Fight Club. Someone yells stop, goes limp, taps out, the fight is over. Fourth rule. Only two guys to a fight. Fifth rule. One fight at a time, fellas. Sixth rule. No shirts. No shoes. Seventh rule. Fights will go on as long as they have to. And the eighth and final rule. If this is your first night at Fight Club you have to fight. This kid from work, Ricky, couldn't remember whether you ordered pens with blue ink or black. But Ricky was a god for ten minutes when he trounced the maitre d' of a local food court. Sometimes, all you could hear were the flat, hard, packing sounds over the yelling. Or the wet choke when someone gasped and sprayed... Stop! You weren't alive anywhere like you were there. But Fight Club only exists in the hours between when Fight Club starts and ends. Even if I could tell someone they had a good fight, I wouldn't be talking to the same man. Who you were in Fight Club is not who you were outside of it. A guy came to Fight Club for the first time. His ass was a wad of cookie dough. After a few weeks, he was carved out of wood. If you could fight any celebrity, who would you fight? - Alive or dead? - Doesn't matter. Who'd be tough? Hemingway. You? Shatner. I'd fight William Shatner. We all started seeing things differently. Everywhere we went, we were sizing things up. I felt sorry for guys packed into gyms, trying to look like how Calvin Klein or Tommy Hilfiger said they should. Is that what a man looks like? Oh, self-improvement is masturbation. Now, self-destruction... Excuse me. Fight Club wasn'tabout winning or losing. It wasn't about words. The hysterical shouting was in tongues like at a Pentecostal Church. - Is that it? - Stop! When the fight was over, nothing was solved. But nothing mattered. Cool. Afterwards, we all felt saved. Hey, man. How about next week? How about next month?! Everybody here in the middle. New guy, you too. Sometimes, Tyler spoke for me. He fell down some stairs. I fell down some stairs. Fight Club became the reason to cut your hair short or trim your fingernails. OK. Any historical figure. I'd fight Gandhi. Good answer. - How about you? - Lincoln. Lincoln? Big guy, big reach. Skinny guys fight till they're burger. Fuck! Hey, even the Mona Lisa's falling apart. Hello? Where have you been the last eight weeks? Marla? - How did you find me? - You left a forwarding number. I haven't seen you at any support groups. We split 'em up. That was the idea. Remember? Yeah, but you haven't been going to yours. - How do you know? - I cheated. I found a new one. - Really? - It's for men only. Like the testicle thing? Look, this is a bad time. I've been going to Debtors Anonymous. - They're really fucked-up people... - I'm on my way out. Me too. I've got a stomach full of Xanax. I took what was left of a bottle. It might have been too much. Picture Marla Singer throw herself around her crummy apartment. This isn't a for-real suicide thing. This is probably a cry-for-help thing. So you're staying in tonight, then? Do you wanna wait and hear me describe death? Do you wanna listen and see if my spirit can use a phone? Have you ever heard a death rattle before? Tyler's door was closed. I'd been here for two months and his door was never closed. You won't believe this dream I had last night. I can hardly believe anything about last night. What are you doing here? What? This is my house. What are you doing here? Fuck you! Oh, you've got some fucked-up friends! Limber, though. Silly cooze. I come in last night. Phone's off the hook. Guess who's on the other end? I knew the story before he told me. Have you ever heard a death rattle before? Do you think it'll live up to its name? Or will it just be a death hairball? Prepare to evacuate soul. Ten, nine,... eight... How could Tyler, of all people, think it was a bad thing that Marla Singer was about to die? Five, four... Hang on. You got here fast. Did I call you? The mattress is all sealed in slippery plastic. Oh, don't worry. It's not a threat to you. Oh, fuck! Somebody called the cops. - Hey, where's 513? - End of the hall. The girl who lives there used to be a charming, lovely girl. She has lost faith in herself. - Miss Singer, let us help you! - She's a monster! - You have every reason to live. - She's infectious human waste! - Miss Singer! - Good luck trying to save her! If I fall asleep, I'm done for. You're gonna have to keep me up all night. Un-fucking-believable. He was obviously able to handle it. - You know what I mean, you fucked her. - No, I didn't. - Never? - No. You're not into her, are you? No! God, not at all. I am Jack's raging bile duct. Are you sure? You can tell me. Believe me, I'm sure. - Puta gun to my head and spray my brains. - That's good. She's a predator posing as a house pet. Stay away. The shit that came out of this woman's mouth, I had never heard! My God. I haven't been fucked like that since grade school. How could Tyler not go for that? The other night, he was splicing sex organs into Cinderella. Marla doesn't need a lover, just a case worker. Or a wash. This isn't love, it's sport fucking. She invaded my support groups and now my home. Hey, hey. Sit down. Now, listen. I can't have you talking to her about me. Why would I... Say anything about me or what goes on in this house to her or anybody,... we're done. - Now promise me. You promise? - OK. - Yeah, I promise. - Promise? - I just said, I promise! What... - That's three times you promised. If only I had wasted a few minutes and gone to watch Marla Singer die, none of this would have happened. Harder, yes! Oh, harder, harder! I could have moved to another room. On the third floor where I might not have heard them. But I didn't. - What are you doing? - Just going to bed. Wanna finish her off? - No. No, thank you. - I've found a cigarette. - Who were you talking to? - Shut up. I became the calm little centre of the world. I was the Zen master. I wrote little haiku poems. I e-mailed them to everyone. Is that your blood? Some of it, yeah. You can't smoke in here. Take the rest of the day off. Come back Monday with some clean clothes. Get yourself together. I got right in everyone's hostile face. "Yes, these are bruises from fighting." "Yes, I'm comfortable with that." "I am enlightened." You give up the condo life, give up all your flaming worldly possessions, move to a dilapidated house in a toxic waste area, and you have to come home to this. - Hello. - This is Detective Stern with the Arson Unit. We have some new information about the incident at your former condo. Yes. I don't know if you're aware, but someone sprayed Freon into your front-door lock. They used a chisel to shatter the cylinder. No, I wasn't aware of that. I am Jack's cold sweat. Does this sound strange to you? Yes, sir, strange. Very strange. - The dynamite... - Dynamite? left a residue of ammonium oxalate potassium perchloride. - Do you know what this means? - No, what does it mean? It means it was home-made. I'm sorry. This is just coming as quite a shock to me, sir. Whoever set this dynamite could have blown out your pilot light days before the explosion. - The gas was justa detonator. - Who would go and do that? - I'll ask the questions. - Tell him. Tell him the liberator who destroyed my property realigned my perceptions. Excuse me. Are you there? I am listening. It's hard to know what to make of this. Have you recently made enemies who might have access to home-made dynamite? - Enemies? - Reject civilisation, especially material possessions. - Son, this is serious. - Yes, I know it's serious. - I mean that. - Yes, it's very serious. Look, nobody takes this more seriously than me. That condo was my life. OK? I loved every stick of furniture in that place. That was not just a bunch of stuff that got destroyed. - It was me! - I'd like to thank the Academy. - Is this not a good time for you? - Just tell him you fucking did it! Tell him you blew it all up! That's what he wants to hear. - Are you still there? - Wait. Are you saying that I'm a suspect? No. I may need to talk to you, so you let me know if you're gonna leave town. - OK? - OK. Except for their humping, Tyler and Marla were never in the same room. My parents pulled this exact same act for years. The condom is the glass slipper of our generation. You slip one on when you meet a stranger. You... dance all night. Then you throw it away. The condom, I mean. Not the stranger. What? I got this dress at a thrift store for $1. It was worth every penny. It's a bridesmaid's dress. Someone loved it intensely for one day. Then tossed it. Like a Christmas tree. So special. Then bam! It's on the side of the road. Tinsel still clinging to it. Like a sex crime victim. Underwear inside out. - Bound with electrical tape. - Well then, it suits you. You can borrow it sometime. Get rid of her. - Wh |
|