Interstate 60 Page #7

world of alcohol, and drugs, but,

that's no frontier.

It's just another way for us

to fool ourselves...

And we've created this phoney frontier

with computers.

Which allows people to think theyve escaped...

Frontier with access fees...

What about Space?

The final frontier?

Ah, Star Trek isn't Space.

That's television.

Find f***in' frontier, that is.

Besides, how many folks can just pack up,

and go to space?

Naah, the frontier is right here.

Interstate 60.

That's why it was put here.

Give people, who wanted a little different,

place to go.

Is that really true Mr Cody?

If it isn't... it should be.

Excuse me... Excuse me...

Excuse my...

Can you help me out mister?

Will work for food, eh?

OK...

Here's an apple, food.

Now, I'd like you washed

that man's windshield.

Work.

Hey man. I ain't gonna

wash his windshield for no apple.

Oh, excuse me.

It doesn't say "might work for food",

It doesn't say "restricted menus", it says

"will work for food". This is food,

That's work.

What's the problem?

I ain't doin' it,

that's all.

Now, let's be honest.

You don't want to work.

You just want a hand out,

so you can buy booze.

And nothing wrong with that. Drinking...

that's a great human tradition.

And if you'd been straight about it,

I'd bought you some Chevas.

But by holding up that sign.

You made an employment agreement.

Which I intend to hold you to.

Now...

There's the apple, you wash that car.

F*** you man.

I don't want your f***in apple,

so I don't gotta wash that f***in car.

Here's what I think of your f***in apple.

Well, now since you've took my food.

You gotta wash that car.

Wash it.

- Mr. Cody, this is really unimportant.

-Yes it is.

This jerk out here lying in writing?!

I don't tolerate lying from any one!

Especially not in writing.

You!

Watch the damn car.

You, shot the f*** up!

Or I'm gonna cut you.

You all get out of here, now!

I'm gonna call the sheriff.

Yeah, I wouldn't do that.

You see, I've got lung cancer.

I'm terminal, six months to live.

Only...

I'm not going out in a hospital.

It's dynamite.

Enough to take out everything

in radius of 150 yards.

I don't take two farts in a martini,

if I go now or later.

But if you do,

you'd better wash that car.

OK, OK mister... I'll clean it for you.

No!

He's got to do it.

What are you nuts?

Wash the windshield.

Clean it!

Wash the car.

OK, OK! I'll wash it, all right!

Turn it off.

You'd rather call the sheriff,

and have that guy shot through the head. He's crazy.

I've got much simpler solution.

Grab your cote, and snatch your hat.

Leave your worries on the door step.

Just direct your feet, to the sunny side of the street.

Say what you mean, mean what you say.

You know, if everybody followed that rule,

there would be a lot less trouble.

Now, we still have a contract Mr. Oliver.

Sure hope,

you're not thinking of breaking that contract.

Thinking about it?

Yes.

Doing it?

No, sir.

That's a very honest response.

That's a breath of fresh air.

Cigarette?

No, Thank you sir. I don't smoke.

I like cigarettes.

Package says they cause cancer,

and they do.

Say what you mean, mean what you say.

Nor, for one, for cigarettes,

I don't know where I'd be today.

I used to be in advertising.

I got paid for lying.

And one day, a little boy died

because of one of those lies.

Well, that fried me.

So, when I got my nicotine death sentence,

I decided to make the rest of my time count.

Put and end on some of those lies.

Now, for the first time on my life,

I'm fulfilled, I'm content.

Lung cancer.

Is now without its benefits.

I couldn't decide if he was for real,

or bluffing.

Totally sane or completely nuts.

Maybe the dynamite was fake,

or the detonator was.

Or... maybe not.

As Grant would say,

lots of answers, all of them reasonable.

I did know that I liked it.

That was for sure.

Sunny side of the streeeeeeeeeeeeeeet......

Mister Oliver.

You're one of the best employees I've ever had.

I'm giving you a tip.

And my card.

You ever want to work for me again.

You call that number.

It's mine direct line.

- Good luck with that girl.

- Thank you sir.

The Museum of Art Fraud

was only three blocks away.

That Interstate 60 dynamic was clearly at work again.

And my own curiosity was definitely piqued.

Oh, you must be Douglas.

Oh, thank goodness,

I'm so glad to see you.

I didn't think you were coming.

I mean, the agency called to cancel.

I'm Mrs. James. The owner.

Hi Mrs. James...

And today we're viewing the originals, and right now...

I know you're confused...

But if you do as I say,

I'll give you a hundred dollars.

Late Mr. James was most proud of five original

masterpieces in this room.

Rarely seen,

and per his wishes never photographed.

Monet...Cezanne...

Van Gogh... Renoir...

Degas...

Each is valued in the millions.

No less then Bill Gates and

Warren Buffet have attempted to buy them.

Of course they're not for sale.

Now if we can proceed this way...

Now, take the paintings down very carefully,

remove them from the frames.

And then, after that...

put them on the easels out here.

Today you're going to be my nephew Edward.

Now, just follow my lead,

and go with the flow.

This way please.

Welcome ladies and gentlemen...

Welcome to our gallery of affordable reproductions...

It was my late husband's request,

That none of his five original masterpieces,

ever be photographed

or reproduced in any book or catalogue.

So, we offer these copies...

Rendered by my nephew Edward.

At the modest cost of $350 a piece.

And if you have any questions,

please, don't hesitate...

to ask either one of us.

How long did it take you to do them?

How long?

I knocked them out all in a week.

I can tell.

Some of your brush work is rather uneven...

Well, you get what you pay for.

It's decent craftsmanship, perhaps a little slick.

Lacks the artist's sole.

Yeah, but I'm just an amateur.

It's shameful.

Cezanne would roll over in his grave,

to see such a mockery of his work.

Well, let's be glad for both our sakes,

that he won't see it.

Well, you've heard it from the experts.

You have no talent whatsoever.

Well, I've never been more flattered.

My late husbands desire.

Was that his masterpieces be owned

by people who will enjoy them.

Not trophy collectors.

Thus our charade.

But do you know, in eight years

I have yet to sell a painting.

Why don't you donate them to an art museum?

Oh, upon my death, clones of them will be donated.

Clones?

Oscar was an art collector, dealer.

Technical genius... and a practical joker, and

wealthy enough to indulge in his most outrageous whims.

He developed a process where by, he could duplicate

a painting almost on a molecular level.

He would borrow a grate master from a museum,

and duplicate it, and often send back the copy.

And he was never found out.

A Stary Night... the original.

The one in New York is a clone.

This Monet...

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