Gene Hackman Monologues

You know, if I were a Negro, I'd probably think the same way they do.

You know, when I was a little boy, there was an old negro farmer that lived down the road from us, name of Monroe. And he was… well, I guess he was just a little luckier than my daddy was. He bought himself a mule. That was a big deal around that town. My daddy hated that mule, 'cause his friends were always kidding him that they saw Monroe out plowing with his new mule, and Monroe was going to rent another field now he had a mule. One morning, that mule showed up dead. They poisoned the water. After that, there wasn't any mention about that mule around my daddy. It just never came up. One time, we were driving down that road, and we passed Monroe's place and we saw it was empty. He just packed up and left, I guess, he must of went up north or something. I looked over at my daddy's face. I knew he done it. He saw that I knew. He was ashamed. I guess he was ashamed. He looked at me and said, If you ain't better than a nigger, son, who are you better than?

No it's not an excuse. It's just a story about my daddy.

My old man was just so full of hate that he didn't know that bein' poor was what was killing him.

Yeah, I do. You know, it's the only time when a black man can wave a stick at a white man and not start a riot.

Now get *this* straight, Shit-kicker! Don't you go confusin' me with some whole other body. You must have your brains in your *dick* if you think we're gonna just walk away from this. We're gonna stay 'till this gets done.

How 'bout you, Deputy. That gun of yours just for show or do you get to shoot people once in a while?

Make no mistake about it, Deputy. I'll cut your fucking head clean off and not give a shit how it reads in the report sheet!

With shithead in there? You know what these small towns are like. A girl spends all her time in high school lookin' for the guy she's gonna marry, and spends the rest of her life wonderin' why.

This is tricky. They make it look so easy, don't they? I got a question for you, Clinton. You don't mind if I call you Clinton, do you? I feel like I know you so well. The way we have it, on the night of the murders… you made a short speech as the bulldozer buried the kids in the dam. How does Lester tell it? "Mississippi will be proud of you. You've struck a blow for the white man." Is that what you said, Clinton? Hm? Is that what you said? It must've been you… because Clayton Townley and Ray Stuckey, they were too smart to be there. And you was too stupid to think anybody'd remember what you had to say. But old Lester, he got a good memory.

I'm sorry. I haven't done this for a long time. Did you make a speech the night that you beat up your wife, Clinton? Huh? Did ya? Did you strike a blow for the white man that night? Huh?

Down here, things are different; here, they believe that some things are worth killing for.

We know that. He was already dead when you put your slug in him. But your buddy sees it differently. He says it like YOU killed the kid. Now either you go on the record with us right now, or it'll be YOUR ass we're talking about, not just the black kid's!

Don't mean shit to have a gun unless you ready to use it.

You must be the fastest gun in the west… That, or the biggest liar.

Oh, but I was, Ace. You see, I was the one that really killed the Terrence brothers, and I doubt if a lying little chickenshit like you was even in the same state.

Like I always say - put a fox in the henhouse and you'll have chicken for dinner every time.

All I hear from you, you spineless cowards, is how poor you are; how you can't afford my taxes. Yet somehow, you managed to find the money to hire a gunfighter to kill me. If ya got so much money, I'm just gonna have to take some more. Because clearly some of you haven't got the message! This is my town! I run everything! If you live to see the dawn, it's because I allow it! I decide who lives and who dies!

You must be the fastest gun in the west. That or the biggest liar!

Your gunfighter's dead. Old news.

The rules say you have to accept every challenge. You got a problem with that, scuttle your butt out of town.

You must be the fastest gun in the west. That or the biggest liar!

I'm confused. All I hear from you, you spineless cowards, is how poor you are; how you can't afford my taxes, my protection. Yet somehow, you managed to find the money to hire a professional gunfighter to kill me. Where's all this money coming from? What am I to think... If ya got so much to spare, I'm just gonna have to take some more off you. Because clearly you haven't got the message! This is my town! If you live to see the dawn, it's because I allow it! I'm in charge of everything! I decide who lives or who dies! Your gunfighter's dead. Old news.

He's no preacher. He's a fraud. If a man is a killer, then that's what he is. There's no dishonor. But don't let that same man suddenly tell me that's not in his blood anymore. That's worse than a liar.

You think I do this contest because it's fun? Look at this town. It's full of people who'd kill you for your bootlaces. At least this way, I get to face my enemies. They can't sneak up and shoot me in the back. And of course, I always win.

I don't win because I'm lucky.

Mm. We're just wasting this boy's time, then, aren't we? I'll tell you what, I'll be a good Samaritan. What's the cheapest gun you got? Not in the case. I mean the cheapest piece of worthless crap you got in the whole miserable store.

What are you doing there? No. The preacher here's got the Lord on his side. He only needs one bullet. Just one. Otherwise, he might be tempted to shoot his way out of town.

Hello, Cort. I was beginning to worry you wouldn't make it in time. It's been a while. I hear you have a mission down in Hermosillo. Is that right? You own a little piece of heaven? Sunshine and cactus flowers and you and the orphan children praying for salvation.

All that work, Cort… all those years of hard work… destroyed for no reason. It must make you angry. You used to be fast. Are you still fast?

Cort was an outlaw, like us. Weren't you? In fact, he used to ride with me. Of course, that's all changed now. He's a man of peace. Wouldn't hurt a fly.

This is my town! If you live to see the dawn, it's because I allow it. I'm in charge of everything! I decide who lives or who dies!

Some people can read War and Peace and come away thinking it's a simple adventure story. Others can read the ingredients on a chewing gum wrapper and unlock the secrets of the universe.

We all have our little faults. Mine's in California.

Do you know why the number two hundred is so vitally descriptive to both you and me? It's your weight and my I.Q.

It's amazing that brain can generate enough power to keep those legs moving.

Look at that overgrown boy scout, Miss Teschmacher. Tell me what you see.

You like cuteness, huh? You like dimples? I'll give you dimples.

The pressure is still on you, Superman. You know what they say - "If you can't stand the heat, get out of the tunnel".

This is your last chance, Superman. Why don't you do yourself a favor, and take a chill pill?

Yes, Superman. Double jeopardy. Even you with your great speed couldn't stop both of them. While I, on the other hand, could stop them with my detonator.

I told ya. It's kryptonite, Superman. A little piece of the rock you were born on. I've spared no expense to make you feel right at home.

You were great in your day, Superman. But it just stands to reason. When it came time to cash in your chips, this old... diseased maniac... would be your banker. Mind over muscle.

You were great in your day, Superman. But it just stands to reason, when it came time to cash in your chips, this old... diseased... maniac would be your banker.

Miss Teschmacher, when I was six years old my father said to me…

Before that. He said, "Son, stocks may rise and fall, utilities and transportation systems may collapse. People are no damn good, but they will always need land and they will pay through the nose to get it! Remember," my father said...

Right. It's a pity he couldn't see from such humble beginnings how I've created this empire.

Miss Teschmacher, how many girls do you know who have a Park Avenue address like this one?

"You must've been a beautiful baby, you must've been a wonderful child; when you were only startin' to go to kindergarten, you must've drove the little boys wild; And when it came to winning blue ribbons, you must've shown the other kids how; I can see the judge's eyes, when he handed you the prize, you must've made the cutest bow; Yeah, you must've been a beautiful baby… 'Cause, baby, look at you now."

Because I love you, Miss Teschmacher.

This is Lex Luthor. Only one thing alive with less than four legs can hear this frequency, Superman, and that's you. In approximately five minutes a poisoned gas pellet containing a propane lithium compound will be released through thousands of air ducts in this city. Effectively annihilating half the population of Metropolis. I know it all seems a bit much, but how else was I going to get to meet you, Superman? I… knew you'd never accept an invitation to tea. But a disaster - with people in danger - people who need help… well, I just knew you couldn't resist the… chance to sort of… pitch in. Know what I mean?

It all fits somehow, his coming here to Metropolis. And at this particular time. There's a kind of cruel justice about it. I mean, to commit the crime of the century, a man would naturally want to face the challenge of the century.

Passing through? Not on your life Otis. Which I would gladly sacrifice, by the way, for the opportunity of destroying everything that he represents. And, Otis, by the way, next time put my robe on *after* I'm out of the pool.

Sick, Miss Teschmacher? Sick, when I'm mere days from executing the crime of the century? No, no, no, no. Step away from that, please. How do you choose to congratulate the greatest criminal mind of our time? Huh? Huh? You tell me than I'm brilliant? Oh, no, no, that would be too obvious, I grant you. Charismatic. Fiendishly gifted, uh...

Now. As you may or may not know, I am as they say, very heavy into real estate. In order to make money in that game you have to buy for a little and sell for a lot. Right?

Everything west of this line is the richest, most expensive real estate in the world: San Diego, Los Angeles, San Francisco. Everything on this side of the line is just hundreds and hundreds of miles of worthless desert land. Which just so happens to be owned by…

I'll admit there were a few problems. Adjusting the precise trajectory of the missile, finding the optimum stress point for the fault line itself... which by the way is, uh, Target Zero, right here.

Thanks to the generous help of the United States government, we are about to be involved in the greatest real estate swindle of all time!

In guerrilla warfare, you try to use your weaknesses as strengths.

Well, if they're big and you're small, then you're mobile and they're slow. You're hidden and they're exposed. You only fight battles you know you can win. That's the way the Vietcong did it. You capture their weapons and you use them against them the next time.

The government's been in bed with the entire telecommunications industry since the forties. They've infected everything. They get into your bank statements, computer files, email, listen to your phone calls… Every wire, every airwave. The more technology used, the easier it is for them to keep tabs on you. It's a brave new world out there. At least it'd better be.

No. To your family, your friends, everybody you know, everybody you meet. That's why I went away and didn't come back. You've got to go away, Robert.

Fort Meade has 18 acres of mainframe computers underground. You're talking to your wife on the phone and you use the word "bomb", "president", "Allah", any of a hundred keywords, the computer recognizes it, automatically records it, red-flags it for analysis. That was 20 years ago.

In the old days, we actually had to tap a wire into your phone line. Now with calls bouncing off satellites, they snatch'em right out of the air.

So, we were helping the secret police supply weapons… to the Afghani rebels fighting the Soviets. My partner and I were on the eastern border monitoring Soviet military transmissions. It was kind of fun actually.

I liked the Iranians. Back in Tehran, the hard-liners seized the embassy, and overnight, the whole country changed. People we'd been working with, they turned on us. I got out. My partner didn't. By the time I got home, the whole mission had become a press disaster waiting to happen. Aiding and abetting the new enemy. The agency conveniently forgot I existed. I don't blame them. It's what they had to do. I loved the agency. I loved the work. I loved the people. It was my whole life.

Yeah. The idea was…

…the idea always was that if one of us got out, he'd take care of the other's family.

Rachel was all he had. So she became my promise to him.

Look son, being a good shot, being quick with a pistol, that don't do no harm, but it don't mean much next to being cool-headed. A man who will keep his head and not get rattled under fire, like as not, he'll kill ya.

Then he'll be hurrying, and he'll miss. Look here… That's about as fast as I can draw, and aim, and hit anything more than ten feet away... 'less it's a barn.

Then he'll kill ya. Yeah, that's why there's so few dangerous men around like old Bob, like me. It ain't so easy to shoot a man anyhow, especially if the son-of-a-bitch is shootin' back at you. I mean, that'll just flat rattle some folks.

First off, Corky never carried two guns. Though he should have.

Yeah well, a lot of folks did call him "Two-Gun" but that wasn't because he was sporting two pistols. That was because he had a dick that was so big it was longer than the barrel of that Walker Colt that he carried. And the only "insultin' to a lady" he ever did was to stick that thing of his into this French lady that Bob here was kind of sweet on.

You see, the night that Corky walked into the Blue Bottle, and before he knows what's happening, Bob here takes a shot at him! And he misses, 'cause he's so damn drunk. Now that bullet whizzing by panicked old Corky, and he did the wrong thing. He went for his gun in such a hurry that he shot his own damn toe off. Meantime Bob here, he's aiming real good, and he squeezes off another, but he misses, because he's still so damn drunk, and he hits this thousand-dollar mirror up over the bar. And now, the Duck of Death is as good as dead. Because Corky does it right. He aims real careful, no hurry…

BAM! That Walker Colt blew up in his hand, which was a failing common to that model. You see, if old Corky had had two guns instead of just a big dick, he would have been there right to the end to defend himself.

Well, old Bob wasn't goin' to wait for Corky to grow a new hand. No, he just walked over there real slow - 'cause he was drunk - and shot him right through the liver. Pop!

All right, gentlemen. He's got one barrel left. When he fires that, take out your pistols, and shoot him down like the mangy scoundrel he is!

I suppose you know, Bob, if I ever see you again I'm just going to start shooting and figure it was self-defense.

Now Ned, them whores are going to tell different lies than you. And when their lies ain't the same as your lies... Well, I ain't gonna hurt no woman. But I'm gonna hurt you. And not gentle like before... but bad.

I guess you think I'm kicking you, Bob. But it ain't so. What I'm doing is talking, you hear? I'm talking to all those villains down there in Kansas. I'm talking to all those villains in Missouri. And all those villains down there in Cheyenne. And what I'm saying is there ain't no whore's gold. And if there was, how they wouldn't want to come looking for it anyhow.

Haven't you seen enough blood for one night? Hell, Alice, it's not like they was tramps, or loafers, or bad men. Just two hard-working boys that was foolish. If they was given over to wickedness in a regular way…

Yeah, well, a lotta folks did call him "Two Gun," but that wasn't because he was sportin' two pistols. No, it was because he had a dick that was so big, it was longer than the barrel on that Walther Colt that he carried. And the only insultin' he ever did was to stick that thing of his into this French lady that English Bob here was kinda sweet on.

If you put your effort and concentration into playing to your potential, to be the best that you can be, I don't care what the scoreboard says at the end of the game, in my book we're gonna be winners.

My practices aren't designed for your enjoyment.

I would hope you would support who we are. Not, who we are not. These six individuals have made a choice to work, a choice to sacrifice, to put themselves on the line 23 nights for the next 4 months, to represent you, this high school. That kind of commitment and effort deserves and demands your respect. This is your team.

You know, most people would kill… to be treated like a god, just for a few moments.

You know, in the ten years that I coached, I never met anybody who wanted to win as badly as I did. I'd do anything I had to do to increase my advantage. Anybody who tried to block the pursuit of that advantage, I'd just push 'em out of the way. Didn't matter who they were, or what they were doing. But that was then. You have special talent, a gift. Not the school's, not the townspeople, not the team's, not Myra Fleener's, not mine. It's yours, to do with what you choose. Because that's what I believe, I can tell you this: I don't care if you play on the team or not.

I've seen you guys can shoot but there's more to the game than shooting. There's fundamentals and defense.

Five players on the floor functioning as one single unit: team, team, team - no one more important than the other.

First of all, let's be real friendly here, okay? My name is Norm. Secondly, your coaching days are over.

There's a, um tradition in tournament play- not talk about the next step until you've climbed the one in front of you. I'm sure going to the state finals is beyond your wildest dreams, so let's just keep it right there.

You are in the Army. You're in my Army. Everyday between three and five.

Strap, in for Everett. Don't shoot the ball unless you're under the basket all by yourself!

You know, if everyone is as nice as you, country hospitality is gonna get an awful name.

You think your average juror is King Solomon? No, he's a roofer with a mortgage. He wants to go home and sit in his Barcalounger and let the cable TV wash over him. And this man doesn't give a single, solitary droplet of shit about truth, justice or your American way.

Gentlemen, trials are too important to be left up to juries.

..the thing of it is, I don't give a shit. What's more… I never have.

Somebody add "class-clown" to Mr. Easter's ever expanding resume.

What do you hope to achieve if you win? You gonna bring Jacob Wood back to life? No. You just ensure that his wife goes to the cemetery in a better car, and that the heel that she snaps on the way to the graveside belongs to a $1,200 shoe. You get your name in the paper. But Jacob Wood and all the other gun violence victims remain rotting in their crypts.

"Easter." Correct... I didn't see you coming. Ovbiously I, uh, underestimated you. And as a rule, I don't do that. Make damn sure... you don't underestimate me.