Perfect Life Page #4

not just his f***ing head!

Let's vote!

Is the skull

of Donald Hallford enough?

Nah.

I got it.

Sorry, man.

Brother, how far would you say

you are from your feet?

About five feet, ten inches.

And from your chest?

I don't know,

about a foot.

So if you were to describe

the locus point of you,

you would say that

you are in your voice,

which comes out of your mouth,

yes?

What the f***?

Just bear with me,

Einstein,

or the Potemkin goes down

for the count.

When you say that you are five

feet, ten inches from your feet,

that's ridiculous, because your

feet are a part of you, right?

Yeah.

But you naturally assume

that your feet

are not a part of you,

they are "over there."

"Dipso" facto,

we can assume

that before he died,

Donald Hallford too believed

that he existed only

in his mind, in his head.

And so in bringing you

the head of Donald Hallford,

I have brought you

the himmest part of him,

the he-ist part of he,

as confirmed by your

characterization of your feet

as "over there."

You confirmed that existence

occurs only between the ears,

and that the rest of the body

is but a support mechanism.

I don't know what

the f*** you just said, but,

either way, there has got to be

a penalty clause.

There's always

a penalty clause, man.

A late arrival, plus no body,

it is double the mission.

F*** it.

Me and Don are out of here.

No great loss.

No!

Wait, wait!

Wait!

Look, this is

too f***ing important.

Don't let them get to you.

We said we were going to

do this together.

Go.

You can't get rid of me

that easy.

Someone jacked my car.

Pretty witty, b*tch.

Tell them you want to use

Rule Four.

Trust me, Rule Four.

What about Rule Four?

Rule Four?

Rule Four.

F***, man!

F*** Rule Four!

F*** Rule Four.

F*** you.

No offence,

but you're a little

too hairy for me, brother.

That's my boy.

Don't break down.

You sure you can handle

Rule Four?

I can handle anything

your grey matter wants to

squirt out at me, bro.

Steal some more wheels, b*tch.

And swipe some balls

while you are at it.

You're going air bagging.

All right!

He's going

air bagging, man!

How do you like that?

(Cheering)

Yeah!

You look a little sick, man.

Something you ate?

Did you catch a buzz yet?

I can feel the rings

on my fingers,

even the ones

I'm not wearing.

Why do we do so much sh*t?

Because I'm a shaman.

Don't shake your head

when I say that, I'm serious.

I'm shaking my hair.

I crossed the river of death,

and I steal sand

and I bring it back,

and I'll build you castles

you will never live in.

Shamans don't drive cars.

In America they do.

The others are just pussies,

humming naked prayers

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes