Rip Torn, appearing here as he does in his own mind, prepares to rob a closed bank in Salisbury, Connecticut.
Alright listen up you peckerheads. I know you’re all just Ditran-induced hallucinations and I don’t know who’s talking, me or the Glenlivet, but fuck it all to hell. I am the Glenlivet. So you yella pricks listen to me and you listen hard. That cocksucking bank’s had it good for too long. And we’re taking the fucker down.
Now I know what’s going on in your thick fucking skulls right now: “how the fuck’re we supposed to rob a bank.” Listen here. We get the fucker when it’s closed. Nobody will fucking be there. Empty. It’s a victimless fucking crime. That’s the genius of it right there, shitspecks. Got it?
First things fucking first. Everybody grab an antique revolver out of this old humidor. Don’t be shy. Plenty to go around. Now everyone take a handful of bullets. Now loads the fuckers. I SAID FUCKING LOAD THE FUCKERS! Don’t dare cock your eyes at me, sonny. When I was your age I used to put men twice my size in sleeper holds, get them on the fucking ground, and steal every goddamn cent out of their wallets just to afford a fucking cot at the fucking Glendale YMCA.
Questions? Yeah you, the slope I murdered in Korea.
What do you think, zipperhead? Like I don’t know pain? I’ve been through two fucking divorces. Messy ones. Real muck. Not like that fucking little girl pigtail princess birthday party you put our boys through halfway ‘round the fucking globe. I’ve been there, jack. I’ve been face to fucking face with the goddamn abyss. I’ve known God, Charlie, and he’s a fucking faggot. So fuck you, I don’t know pain! You ever howl? You ever just howl, jack? Like running around in circles barking at the fucking moon like a mad dog? Awooooooooooooooooooooo!
Who else? Yeah, the snot-nose Kid looks like my prick bastard son.
Crazy? The fuck you know from crazy, pipsqueak? I beat Norman Mailer fucking head’s in with a ball-pein hammer. And shit I’d do it again if that pantywaist fucking clown didn’t work up the balls to die. It was on the set of Maidstone. You remember Maidstone, dipshit? Of course you don’t. Hell, 1970 you were little more than a glint in yer dear old daddy’s fucking ballsack. And if it weren’t for an expired sheepskin I’d had in my fucking wallet since the Eisenhower administration you’d still fucking be there! You even remember Ike Eisenhower, mashed potato head? Course you don’t. Hand me that fucking bottle.
Anyone else? Anyone else got the fucking balls to stand up to me? Any other cocksucker here brave enough to pull a knife on Dennis Hopper? Sure. You. The ghost of my second wife.
We ride at midnight. The fuck time is it anyways?