J.K. Simmons Monologues

I spent my whole life only recognizing my lucky breaks after they were gone.

Say you're the head of the Sinaloa Cartel. Now the cartels count their money by weighing it in eighteen wheelers. But one sunny Mexican day, your in-house money scrubber comes to you and says you're 30 million light. Who can you trust to do the forensic accounting to track your stolen cash? Deloitte & Touche? H & R Block?

"Lou Carroll". For what it's worth, it's an alias. The Hong Kong photo goes back about five years. In that one, he's "Carl Gauss". Tokyo, Tel Aviv, Naples. There was a sighting in Tehran. All describing the same man. "An accountant", "Our accountant", "The accountant".

Marybeth Ascension Medina. Graduated University of Baltimore cum laude with a degree in criminal justice. Two years Baltimore PD as an analyst, two more at Homeland, analyst again, and the last five years here at Treasury. Analyst. You did the heavy lifting on Agent Lorenz's case last month.

Men kill each other for any number of reasons. Money, power… fear. Nine men would die that day at the Ravenite, but for none of those reasons. No, they'd taken something from the man who was killing them. Something that couldn't be made whole again. Something very important to him. And he was there for his pound of flesh. Little Tony Bazzano. I'd been wedged in a van for six months listening to that arrogant little prick belch, fart, and brag. I didn't recognize his voice with all the fear in it. Our man had come for revenge. And he got it. Nine dead. Imagine you're a Treasury agent approaching the twilight of a spectacularly dismal career. And then one day, that break you should have been looking for. Francis Silverberg, a black money legend. Cleaned cash from Monte Carlo to Havana to Vegas. He cooked the books for the Gambino family for 40+ years. Until one day, the boss, Big Tony Bazzano, thought maybe the old man's age made him vulnerable to prosecution. Ordered his son, Little Tony, to kill Francis. Kid fucked it up. Francis ran, became a federal informant in return for protective custody. Could have turned my career around if only I'd listened. I didn't. He was processed out, and he lost the only protection he had. The protection that he was promised when he testified against Big Tony. And this time, Little Tony got it right. He had Francis in a couple hours. Down in a filthy basement in the Bronx, nailed to a chair, tortured to death. So I, uh, volunteered for a joint task force. Sat outside the Ravenite in a surveillance van for months hoping to get a shred of evidence to use against Francis' killers. I went in there hoping I could ease my guilt. And I met our accountant. Why he let me live, I didn't know. But he changed my life. Gave my notice at the Department. I started looking forward to the day again. You know, feeling the sun on my face. Quit drinking. Was on my way out the door… and then the phone rang.

She tells me she works for the accountant. And that a shipping container packed with Chinese nationals is passing through the Port of New York. Few months later, one ton of uncut Juarez cartel product is entering Miami.

Army lent him to us to track al-Qaeda money launderers. He was transferred from Leavenworth to our detention facility in D.C. Did the work of five men. Data mining, cluster analysis. He roomed with Francis. They kept to themselves, played chess, ate together, sat in the TV room together. They were inseparable. And then one day, a guard told Wolff why Francis hadn't called or written since he got out. That his burnt body had been found in a Staten Island landfill. Wolff snapped, went after the guard. He fractured the man's skull with a thermos. Escaped from a third-floor window. Took the thermos.

Spring of 2003, at a funeral home in Kankakee, Illinois. Our boy sends six locals to the hospital with a variety of injuries. No one knew Wolff. The older man who came with him was identified as a colonel, U.S. Army.

Mrs. Lauren Alton. Mrs. Alton taught first grade for 13 years in Kankakee. Survived by a husband and two boys, ages 12 and 10. By all accounts, an ordinary life, well lived. But cut short. And then a fight breaks out. A brawl, really. Over what, the authorities never pinned down. Deputies respond. A Barney Fife-type squares off with our boy, gets rattled, pulls his gun. The colonel just stepped in front of 831. Army collects both men. Police report names Wolff as "Solider One." And widower identified the colonel by name. His late wife's former husband. I checked; it's an alias. No more real than "Christian Wolff".

Well, it's not easy, that's for sure. Now, I may not have the best track record in the world, but I have been with your stepmother for 10 years now and I'm proud to say that we're very happy.

Look, in my opinion, the best thing you can do is find a person who loves you for exactly what you are. Good mood, bad mood, ugly, pretty, handsome, what have you, the right person is still going to think the sun shines out your ass. That's the kind of person that's worth sticking with.

Yeah sure you have - your old D-A-D! You know I'll always be there to love you and support you no matter what kind of pickle you're in… Obviously.

Thanks for having me and my irresponsible child over your house.

Hey there, big puffy version of Junebug!

You're just a kid. I don't want you to get ripped off by a couple of baby-starved wing-nuts.

Liberty Bell, if you put one more Baco on that potato, I'm gonna kick your little monkey butt.

I don't think people understood what it was I was doing at Shaffer. I wasn't there to conduct. Any fucking moron can wave his arms and keep people in tempo. I was there to push people beyond what's expected of them. I believe that is... an absolute necessity. Otherwise, we're depriving the world of the next Louis Armstrong. The next Charlie Parker. I told you that story about how Charlie Parker became Charlie Parker, right?

Exactly. Parker's a young kid, pretty good on the sax. Gets up to play at a cutting session, and he fucks it up. And Jones nearly decapitates him for it. And he's laughed off-stage. Cries himself to sleep that night, but the next morning, what does he do? He practices. And he practices and he practices with one goal in mind, never to be laughed at again. And a year later, he goes back to the Reno and he steps up on that stage, and plays the best motherfucking solo the world has ever heard. So imagine if Jones had just said, "Well, that's okay, Charlie. That was all right. Good job." And then Charlie thinks to himself, "Well, shit, I did do a pretty good job." End of story. No Bird. That, to me, is an absolute tragedy. But that's just what the world wants now. People wonder why jazz is dying.

THEN WHY THE FUCK DIDN'T YOU SAY SO? Carried your fat ass for too long, Metz. I'm not gonna have you cost us a competition because your mind's on a fucking happy meal instead of on pitch.

And here comes mister gay pride of the Upper West Side himself. Unfortunately, this is not a Bette Midler concert, we will not be serving Cosmopolitans and Baked Alaska, so just play faster than you give fucking hand jobs, will you please?

You are a worthless, friendless, faggot-lipped little piece of shit whose mommy left daddy when she figured out he wasn't Eugene O'Neill, and who is now weeping and slobbering all over my drum set like a fucking nine-year old girl! So for the final, FATHER-FUCKING time, SAY IT LOUDER!

Everybody remember, Lincoln Center and its ilk use these competitions to decide who they are interested in and who they are not. And I am not gonna have my reputation in that department tarnished by a bunch of fucking limp-dick, sour-note, flatter-than-their-girlfriends, flexible-tempo dipshits. Got it?

So, imagine if Jones had just said, "Well, that's okay, Charlie. That was all right. Good job." So Charlie thinks to himself, "Well, shit, I did do a pretty good job." End of story. No Bird. That to me is an absolute tragedy. But that's just what the world wants now. People wonder why jazz is dying.

Just listen for a minute. Six years ago, I came across a kid in a practice room, working on his scales. He was early second year and he'd started at Shaffer with a lot of hope. Like all you guys. But the truth was that he barely squeaked in to begin with and, uh… he was really struggling. The faculty were all telling him, "Maybe this isn't for you." But they didn't see what I saw. This scared, skinny kid, cursing himself because he couldn't get his scales right. I saw a drive in him. And I put him in Studio Band. And when he graduated, Marsalis made him third trumpet at Lincoln Center. A year later, he was first. That's who you're listening to now. His name was Sean Casey. I found out this morning that Sean… died yesterday… in a car accident. And I just… I wanted you guys to know he was a beautiful player. I just thought you should know.

At 5:30, that's in exactly 11 minutes, my band is on stage. If your ass is not on that stool with your own fucking sticks in hand or you make ONE FUCKING MISTAKE, ONE! I will drum your ass back to Nassau where you can turn pages until you graduate or fucking drop out! By the time you're done at Shaffer, you're gonna make Daddy look like a fucking success story. Got it? Or, we can let Johnny Utah play the part. You choose.

Sorry guys, hate to put you through this. If you need to fuckin' take a dump, or get a coffee, whatever, now might be a good time because we're gonna stay here until I find a drummer who can fuckin' play in time. I apologize to the musicians. Seriously, take ten, twenty, a fuckin' hour.