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[Mort believes Shooter is in his bathroom and attacks with a fireplace poker
: I killed a mirror. Mort
: And my shower door.
: Maybe I should take a walk around the block. Amy
: Yes, that'd be good. Mort
: Aw heck, Ted, live a little - make it two. Rubbernecker.
: Thought you didn't smoke. Mort
: I took it up recently, for my health.
: This is not my beautiful house. This is not my beautiful wife. Anymore.
: You know, the only thing that matters is the ending. It's the most important part of the story, the ending. And this one... is very good. This one's perfect.
: What do you think it means, you ignorant hick? I'm in the middle of a divorce. D-I-V-O-R-C-E DEEE-VORCE!
: [after talking to Shooter he lays back down on the couch
] Now where was I?
: You and I are going to have a little talk. Mort
: Oh, I'm in trouble.
: [Mort and his conscience arguing and pushing each other; his conscience is screaming at Mort making him unable to speak
] Rah. Rah. Rah. Rah.
: I don't care. I'm just gonna smoke. I'm just gonna totally smoke. I'll finish these, go to the store and get a brand-new pack, smoke the shit out of that one.
: I don't wanna call her. I want to go to sleep. I want to take a nap. Okay. No nap. I give her a call about the magazine. I go write some crap for a couple of hours and then I get to take a nap, right? Chico.
[beating his neck
: Chi-i-i-i-co-o-o-o, don't be disco-o-o-oura-a-a-aged. All right, go ahead and be discouraged, you blind bastard, see if I care.
: No monsters up here. Mort
: [holding a rowing oar
] Did you check under my bed? Ken Karsch
: Yeah, even in your toy chest.
: [to Amy on the phone
] It's a beautiful house. I like it. Hell, I love it. That's why I bought it.
: Gee, Ted, I'm sorry you had to miss that. I know how much you like my things.
: I know you're in there, shit-head. If you don't come out on the count of five, I'm coming in there swinging. One, two...
[rushes the door
: You were always gone. Mort
: I worked from home, Amy.
: You look pale. Mort
: Yeah, thank you. Juliet Stoker
: [as Mort leaves
] And so cute...
: But I just wanted you to be happy, Mort. Mort
: Well, I guess you shouldn't HAVE FUCKED HIM THEN.
[slams phone on receiver and cracks his jaw
: [to Chico about the maid
] If you don't bite her, I'll kill her.
: I don't respond well to intimidation. Makes me feel *icky*.
: You're a good man, Mr. Rainey. Mort
: You too, Mrs. Garvey.
[Ted punches his window
: Bummer, Ted.
: [about Ted
] Did you do anything to piss him off? Mort
: [has a flashback to him screaming at Ted
] I might've.
: [staring at the computer screen
] This is just bad writing.
: I'd be lying if I said I wasn't on the verge of doing snoopy dances.
: Are you all right, Mr. Rainy? It sounded like you pitched a fit or something in there. Mort
: I'm just peachy, Mr. Shooter. How are you?
: I'm a dairy farmer from Mississippi.
: Shit, shit, shit, shit. Stupid, stupid, stupid...
: I have the magazine, you lunatic. I have the MAGAZINE. I HAVE THE GODDAMN MAGAZINE.
: I'll call you later. Sheriff Dave Newsome
[Mort drives a short distance away
: I'm gonna' call you on the phone. Sheriff Dave Newsome
: [long pause
: You stole my story. Mort
: I'm... I'm sorry, do I... I don't believe I know you. John Shooter
: I know that, that doesn't matter, I know you Mr. Rainey, that's what matters. You stole my story.
[holding out his manuscript to Mort
: You're mistaken. I don't read manuscripts. John Shooter
: You read this one already. You stole it. Mort
: I can assure you... John Shooter
: I know you can. I know that. I don't want to be assured. Mort
: If you want to talk to somebody about some grievance you feel you may have, you can call my literary agent. John Shooter
: This is between you and me.
[sees Chico under him
] John Shooter
: We don't need no outsiders, Mr. Rainey. Mort
: I don't like being accused of plagiarism, if that is in fact what you are accusing me of. Chico, inside.
[Chico goes back inside
] John Shooter
: I don't blame you for not liking it but you did it. Mort
: You're gonna have to leave. I have nothing more to say. John Shooter
: Yeah, I'll go. We'll talk more later.
[hands the manuscript to Mort to take it
: I'm not taking that. John Shooter
: Won't do you no good to play games with me, Mr. Rainey. This has got to be settled. Mort
: So far as I'm concerned it is.
: Will you call me if you need anything? Mort
: I doubt it.
] "I know I can do it," Todd Downey said, helping himself to another ear of corn from the steaming bowl. "I'm sure that in time, every bit of her will be gone and her death will be a mystery... even to me."
: I buried my dog, mister.
: What do you want? You wanna kill me? Why don't you just do it? Just kill me. John Shooter
: No, sir!
[Mort is trying to write but nothing comes to him, he looks at Chico
: I'm open to suggestions.
] Turn around. Turn around. Turn the car around and get the hell out of here. Right now. Don't go back. Do not go back there.
: [on the street after the house insurance meeting
] You're a dick! Ted
: Do you feel better now? Mort
: Yes, I do.
: [Mort finds Shooter at the end of the path
] You read it? Mort
: I did. John Shooter
: I imagine it rang a bell, didn't it? Mort
: Oh, it certainly did. When'd you write it? John Shooter
: I thought you'd ask that. Mort
: Well, sure. I mean, that's the whole point, isn't it? When two writers show up with the same story, it's all about who wrote the words first. Wouldn't you say that's true? John Shooter
: I suppose I would. I suppose that's also why I came all the way up here from Miss'ippi.
: [seeing Mort wearing Shooter's hat
] Jesus, Mort. Where'd did you get that old thing? The attic? Mort
: It's mine. Wasn't ever anybody else's.
: [his conscience
] Why'd you put it on? Mort
: I don't know. Mort
: Maybe he wanted you to. Mort
: Why would he want me to put his hat on? Mort
: Maybe he wants you to... Mort
: Maybe he wants me to what? Mort
: To get confused. Mort
: Oh, I'm already confused, Pilgrim. Plenty confused. So don't talk to me about confusion. Mort
: Wait a minute. Back up just a sec. What about that? Mort
: What about what? Mort
: Well, "pilgrim." "Shooter's bay," and the half a dozen other details you've chosen to ignore. Mort
: You know what? You're nuts. I don't need to listen to this shit from you. Mort
: Are all these things coincidences? Mort
: I'm wearing his bruises, aren't I? Aren't I? Mort
: Are you? Mort
[Mort checks his arms and the bruises are gone
: This doesn't make any sense. Mort
: Would you like to hear something that does make sense? Call the police. Call Dave Newsome, tell me to come here this second and lock you up before you can do any more damage. Mort
: I'm gonna get a knife and cut you out of me. Mort
: Before you kill anyone else. Mort
: I didn't kill anybody. Mort
: You had a gun. Mort
: Wasn't loaded. Mort
: Really? Mort
: No. Mort
: You almost killed them. You wanted to
: You're a dick.