Locker 13 Page #6

I mean, he makes

the greatest things. He's...

The little people

and the places, you know.

And, uh, he...

He's glued to the chair,

you know?

And he makes the greatest things.

And this makes

you want to live why?

'Cause I started thinking about,

you know, he's six,

and so in a sense,

he's shaping his life, you know.

And I started thinking

about the Play-Doh is his life.

Like, he can make

anything out of it, right?

And all you gotta do is wo...

work at it.

Like, every morning, you wake up,

and you could

just do something new.

You... you...

You just have

to work at it, okay?

And he's stuck

in that wheelchair every day,

and he just sits there, man.

And...

And he's going on

these amazing adventures in his mind.

Well, time's up.

Uncle, did you see the cowboy I made?

It gives me hope.

Well, I don't believe you.

Hope ain't enough.

It is for me.

You really believe that?

Yeah, I do.

Well, good.

I want you

to remember that always.

Don't let it fade.

Don't forget it.

Don't discard it ever.

You remember about hope,

and you think

about that the next time

you want to just throw away

this beautiful gift we've been given.

Damn, right on time.

I even surprise myself!

Oh, hey, if you ever see

anyone who's like you are now,

pass it along.

Welcome to The Suicide Club.

So which one are you...

predator or prey?

This is gonna be a replica

of the Birdcage Theater

in old Tombstone, Arizona.

Under construction,

but it's coming along.

Yeah? That's great.

Hey, you know what happened

when the hunter decided to poke

the hibernating bear with a stick?

- Well, I'm gonna take a guess.

- All right.

- I'll venture a guess.

- All right.

I'll bet that the park ranger,

he started to tell

the hunter a story,

and then he told him

another story,

and then he just wouldn't shut up.

He said,

"Life is full of consequences

"and choices you have to make,"

until the park ranger made him

pass out from sheer boredom!

Is that what happened?

Son, you are catching on.

The bear woke up early

and had himself a breakfast...

mancakes and syrup.

Yeah? Does this remind you

of that story, huh?

The stick?

Does this remind you of a story?

Does this bottle

remind you of a story? Huh?

How about this?

The hammer, piece of wood?

I will bet that this

reminds you of a story, too.

Dang right it does.

It probably reminds me

of the most important story of all.

You have got to be kidding me!

Everything has a story, son.

- Really?

- Yeah.

You could relate

to this one, can't you?

How's that?

- You were in the pen, right?

- Yeah.

You spent some time in jail?

Uh-huh.

This is about consequences.

For every action, there is

an equal and opposite reaction,

the experts say.

I found this to be

a little less than true.

Most reactions aren't equal at all.

They escalate

until there's only one side left,

and you best hope

that's the side that you're on.

The beautiful reek of a woman

as she begins to stir

from her karma coma.

Her body is weak.

Her hands are bound.

She looks confused.

And now she looks at me

as if she wants to say something.

Why am I here?

Who are you?

Having nothing of interest to say,

Patricia can only grasp at straws.

How do you know my name?

And he begins his game.

Excuse me, um, Patricia...

if you don't mind,

I am the one

who says the questions.

Who is this to you?

Ah, Patricia, I'm going

to ask you one more time.

Who...

Coughing now interrupts them.

And Patricia,

who is shaking like a little leaf,

looks into the darkness

to find another,

this one, struggling to find a

sitting position, looking stupid.

And now you can see a glimpse

of recognition in Patricia's eyes.

What the hell am I doing here?

Um, excuse me, Rachel,

as I told Patricia,

I am the one

who says the questions.

To hell with your questions!

Let me out of here!

Get these off of me!

She makes demands

as if she's in charge,

and now her rage

even enhances her pallor,

which makes her more attractive.

You touch me,

and I will rip your skin off.

Oh, Rachel, you're mad.

How did you come up

with something like that?

I mean, the way you...

you take my skin... it's so brilliant.

Yeah.

Who is this to you?

I don't know.

Who is it to you?

God!

Get me out of here, you freak!

You...

You had something

to do with this.

I am the one

who says the questions!

Ay, Marcia.

Little Marcia.

Was I being too loud for you?

Marcia, can you get up?

- Get up.

- Aah!

Get up! Get up!

Get up!

Get up on there!

Can I introduce you

to Patricia and Rachel?

Who is this to you?

No hablo ingls.

Ah, no hablo ingls.

No sabes?

Okay.

Oh, please,

you have another foot.

You'll live.

Keep it up. Keep it up.

A little higher.

Do you speak English now?

Please don't kill me.

Please.

Well, I think you now know,

at least the two of you,

whose place this is, right?

Right?

It belongs to Harvey Bush.

Good-looking...

wealthy heir to Bush Publications,

known as

an adultering womanizer.

A real canker of a man, no?

Your husband,

your boyfriend,

and your boss.

Breakfast, lunch, dessert.

Oh, come on, please.

Don't act so oblivious.

It's not going to help you.

He's dead.

Yes, he was killed.

Yes, he was killed...

by one of you.

Why?

Why?

Marcia asks a stupid question, "Why?"

when the real question

of the night is,

why did you hire me

to kill Harvey?

Please speak into the recorder

so I can hear you.

Why are you using a recorder?

I tell you.

I'm writing a book,

and I use this for research,

authenticity.

Life, death... so much better

than a stupid imagination.

Listen to this.

Which one of those b*tches hired you?

Come on, I'll pay double.

Please don't kill me.

Harvey pleads for his life

as the predator paces before him.

No, no, no.

Please, please, I'm begging you.

I'm begging you.

Anything you want.

Anything you want!

And now only seconds left.

He aims at Harvey's head.

It was Rachel, wasn't it?

No, please, no!

That bastard.

Now blood spurts from his wound.

Rachel now burns

like a Roman candle.

I can sense a confession

leaping from her lips.

Rachel, you're mad.

Psycho wannabe.

Ah! The real psychos

are the ones

who hire the hit men

to kill their boyfriends

or their husband.

Why'd you hire me

to kill your husband?

I didn't. I loved him.

Oh, time-out.

That is like the perfect title

of a movie.

No, wait, I got one better.

How about this?

I Love Him to Death.

I loved him!

He was a bastard,

but he was my husband.

Here's an argument...

you love him because

he's your husband,

or do you love him because

he refused to give you a divorce?

You're right.

He refused me a lot of things...

children, a career.

He refused to hide his whores.

He refused to put

my name on his accounts,

on his retirement,

on his life insurance.

He refused me a lot of things.

I wasn't a happy woman,

but I didn't want

to have him killed.

Unhappiness

is a pretty good reason.

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