Don Cheadle Monologues

It's the sense of touch. In any real city, you walk, you know? You brush past people, people bump into you. In L.A., nobody touches you. We're always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something.

Mom, I can't talk to you right now, okay? I'm having sex with a white woman.

Oh, shit. Come on. I would have said you were Mexican, but I don't think it would have pissed her off as much.

OK, I was raised badly. Why don't you take your clothes off, get back into bed, and teach me a lesson?

Ah. Well then I guess the big mystery is, who gathered all those remarkably different cultures together and taught them all how to park their cars on their lawns?

So, uh... all I need to do to make this disappear is to frame a potentially innocent man.

It's more complicated than we originally thought. We found three hundred thousand dollars in the trunk of the car Detective Lewis was driving. The car is registered to a Cindy Bradley. We haven't been able to get in touch with because she apparently left town.

You really think you'll be able to make that fly?

We can do this whole dance if you want to but I'm willing to bet when the coroner's report comes back tomorrow it's going to say that Lewis was coked out of his head.

Well, fuck you very much. But thanks for thinking of me.

I swear to you, Mom. I'll find whoever killed him.