Robert Rodriguez

That's my brand. Oh, this is damn good! Say, this is the best beer I've ever had. Actually...

I'm just glad to be alive right now. I was up a few towns away- you know Saragosa? I was visiting a bar there, not unlike this one. They serve beer, not quite as good as this, but close. And I saw something you wouldn't believe. I'm sitting there, see, small table all by myself. Now this bar, it's full of real low-lives. I mean, not like this place here. No, I mean bad. Like they were up to no good, know what I'm sayin'? Anyway, I'm all by myself, I like it that way. Meanwhile, things are going on... under the table kinds of things. Not too obvious, but, not too secret, either. So, I'm sitting there, and in walks the biggest Mexican I have ever seen. Big as shit. Just walks right in like he owns the place. Now, nobody knew quite what to make of him, or quite what to think. There he was and in he walked. He was dark, too. I don't mean dark-skinned. No, this was different. It was as if he was always walking in a shadow. I mean every step he took towards the light, just when you thought his face was about to be revealed, it wasn't. It was as if the lights dimmed, just for him.

Just try and keep it from turning into a fucking bloodbath, all right? Not like last time.

The stranger shot him, walked over to the bartender, paid, and left.

Now, I wasn't interested in his drink. No, I was more interested in what he was carrying when he walked in. Some sort of a suitcase, kind of heavy. And he sat that thing on a stool beside him as if it were his girl.

Suddenly they got very interested in who you were. So, I laid the story down nice and thick.

So, anyway, without warning, without any hint or preview, the stranger whips around, and he sees… me.

Ya know, one of these days you're gonna lie down too hard on that thing and blow your brains out.

This reminds me of a joke. This guy comes into a bar, walks up to the bartender. Says, "Bartender, I got me a bet for you. I'm gonna bet you $300 that I can piss into that glass over there and not spill a single, solitary drop." The bartender looks. I mean, we're talking, like, this glass is like a good ten feet away. He says, "Now wait, let me get this strait. You're tryin' to tell me you'll bet me $300 that you can piss, standing over here, way over there into that glass, and not spill a single drop?" Customer looks up and says, "That's right." Bartender says, "Young man, you got a bet." The guy goes, "Okay, here we go. Here we go." Pulls out his thing. He's lookin' at the glass, man. He's thinkin' about the glass. He's thinkin' about the glass. Glass. He's thinkin' about the glass, glass. Thinkin' about his dick. Dick, glass, dick, glass, dick, glass, dick, glass, dick, glass, dick, glass, dick, glass. And then, *foosh*, he lets it rip. And he-he's pisses all over the place, man. He's pissin' on the bar. He pissin' on the stools, on the floor, on the phone, on the bartender! He's pissing everywhere *except* the fucking glass! Right? Okay. So, bartender, he's laughing his fuckin' ass off. He's $300 richer. He's like, "Ha, ha, ha, ha!" Piss dripping off his face. "Ha, ha, ha, ha!" He says, "You fucking idiot, man! You got it in everything except the glass! You owe me $300 punta." Guy goes, "Excuse me just one-one little second." Goes in the back of the bar. In back, there's a couple of guys playing pool. He walks over to them. Comes back to the bar. Goes, "Here you go, Mr. Bartender, 300." And the bartender's like, "What the fuck are you so happy about? You just lost $300, idiot!" The guy says, "Well, see those guys over there? I just bet them $500 a piece that I could piss on your bar, piss on your floor, piss on your phone, and piss on you, and not only would you not be mad about it, you'd be happy."

Is that goin' on right now?

An old man dies. A young woman lives. A fair trade. I love you, Nancy.

Sometimes the truth doesn't matter like it ought. But you'll always remember things right. That's gonna mean a lot to me. But stay away, Nancy. They'll kill you if you don't stay away. Don't visit me. Don't write me. Don't even say my name.

Sure, Bob. You'll call for back-up. And we'll sit on our hands while that Roark brat gets his sick thrills from victim number four. Victim number four! Nancy Callahan. Age 11. She'll be raped and slashed to ribbons. And that back-up we're waiting on will just happen to show up late enough to let Roark get back home to his U.S. Senator daddy and everything will be fine until Junior gets the itch again.

Nancy's car. Six miles from the farm. "Nobody but me can keep this heap running" she told me. Good girl. The car stalled out on that yellow bastard and you didn't tell him how to start it up again. You kept your mouth shut. I'll bet Junior was furious.

Just one hour to go. My last day on the job. Early retirement. Not my idea. Doctor's orders. Heart condition. Angina, he calls it. I'm polishing my badge and getting used to the idea of saying goodbye to it. It and the 30 odd years of protecting and serving and tears and... blood and terror... triumph it represents. I'm thinking about Ilene's slow smile, bout the thick, fat steak she picked up at the butchers today. I'm thinking about the one loose end I haven't tied up. A young girl who's out there somewhere, helpless in the hands of a drooling lunatic.

The Fire, baby. It'll burn us both. It'll kill us both. There's no place in this world for our kind of fire. My warrior woman. My Valkyrie. You'll always be mine. Always… and never.

Most people think Marv is crazy. He just had the rotten luck of being born in the wrong century. He'd be right at home on some ancient battlefield swinging an axe into somebody's face. Or in a Roman arena, taking his sword to other gladiators like him. They woulda tossed him girls like Nancy back then.

This time I can't bring myself to tell him to shut up. Sure he's an asshole… Sure he's dead… Sure I'm just imagining that he's talking. None of that stops the bastard from being absolutely right. I don't have a chance in hell of outrunning this cop. Not in this heap. The only question left is whether I'm gonna kill him or not. Tough call. For all I know, he's an honest cop, regular guy. Working stiff with a mortgage, a wife and a pile of kids. My hand moves all on its own, sliding on of my guns to my lap and thumbing back the hammer. I don't know what to do…

She almost yanks my head clean off, shoving my mouth into hers so hard it hurts. An explosion that blasts away the dull, gray years between the now and that one fiery night when she was mine.

Miho. You're an angel. You're a saint. You're Mother Teresa. You're Elvis. You're God. And if you'd shown up about ten minutes earlier, we'd still have Jackie-Boy's head.

It wasn't "Stop." Shellie wasn't saying "Stop." If I had waited and listened to her, I would've known. I could've warned the girls to go easy. To settle for scaring them off. Shellie didn't say "Stop," she said "Cop." He's a *cop*. Detective Lieutenant Jack Rafferty. "Iron Jack" the papers call him. A goddamn *hero cop*.

Dozens of them. Armed to the teeth. I'm outnumbered. Outgunned. But the alley is crooked, dark, and very narrow. They can't surround me. Sometimes you can beat the odds with a careful choice of where to fight.

It's your apartment. But be careful, Shellie, this clown's got big, mean drunk-on and he's got four friends out there in the hall, breathing hard and just as drunk as he is.

The night's as hot as hell. It's a lousy room in a lousy part of a lousy town - I'm staring at a goddess. She's telling me she wants me. I'm not going to waste one more minute wondering how I've gotten this lucky. She smells like angels ought to smell, the perfect woman... the Goddess. Goldie. She says her name is Goldie.

That there is one damn fine coat you're wearin'.

I'll stare the bastard in the face as he screams to God, and I'll laugh harder when he whimpers like a baby. And when his eyes go dead, the hell I send him to will seem like heaven after what I've done to him.

This is blood for blood and by the gallons. These are the old days man, the bad days, the all-or-nothing days. They're back! There's no choices left. And I'm ready for war.

Hell's waking up every goddamn day and not even knowing why you're here. But I'm out now. It took someone who was kind to me getting killed to do it. But I'm out. And I know exactly what I'm gonna do.

He never screams. Even after the dog has its fill and his guts are hanging out, he never screams.

I'm on my feet for about ten minutes before the cops kick them out from under me. They don't ask me any questions. They just keep knocking the crap out of me and waving a confession in my face. And I keep spitting blood all over it and laughing at how many fresh copies they come up with. Then along comes this worm assistant district attorney who turns the recorder off and says if I don't sign their confession, they'll kill my mom. I break his arm in three places and I sign it.

I don't know why you died, Goldie. I don't know why and I don't know how, I never even met you before tonight. But you were a friend and more when I needed one. And when I find out who did it, it won't be quick and quiet like it was with you. It'll be loud and nasty. My kind of kill. And when his eyes go dead the hell I send him to will seem like heaven after what I've done to him. I love you, Goldie.

So, you were scared, weren't you Goldie? Somebody wanted you dead and you knew it. Well, I'm gonna find that son of a bitch that killed you, and I'm gonna give him the hard goodbye. Walk down the right back alley in Sin City, and you can find anything.

You crazy god-damn broad! Just take a look at this mug. Would any of you dames let me get close enough to you to kill you? None of you would, but Goldie… But she only did because she thought I could protect her. And I bet those cops didn't do a damn thing about those other girls, did they? But as soon as they had me for a fall guy they showed up, guns blazing. But they didn't get me and I've been killing my way to the truth ever since. So go ahead, doll, shoot me now, or get the hell out of my way.

I've been having so much fun I forgot to take my medicine.

I've been framed for murder and the cops are in on it. But the real enemy, the son of a bitch who killed the angel lying next to me, he's out there somewhere, out of sight, the big missing piece that'll give me the how and the why and a face and a name and a soul to send screaming into hell.

What if I'm wrong? I've got a condition. I get confused sometimes. What if I've imagined all this? What if I've finally turned into what they've always said I would turn into? A maniac. A psycho killer.