All language subtitles for Terminal.2018.-English

There is a place
like no other on Earth.

A land full of wonder,

mystery,

and danger.

Some say to survive it,

you need to be
as mad as a hatter,

which luckily...

I am.

Bless me, Father,
for I have sinned.

Easy, sweetheart.

I don't think you're
supposed to smoke in here.

Guess I've sinned
again then.

What is it that you want?

You know exactly what I want.

I want your work,
your contracts, all of it.

I'm afraid
you're out of luck.

I've been recommended another
interested party to handle my...

liquidations.

I'll make you a wager.

These other interested parties,

I'll set them on one another
like starving rats in a cage,

and you can
watch through the bars.

Give me a fortnight.

I'll have them both dead
at your feet.

If I win, I get your work.

All of it.

If you win,

you get to make me the
interested party that's dead.

Deal?

Deal.

Wait.

I need a little favor.

I need you
to find someone for me.

Let the games begin.

Filet steaks and a robust red
for supper, is it?

Fuck off, you punk.

Don't do that.
It's dangerous.

I've got an open blade here.

Stick it in your mouth.
Maybe it will keep you quiet.

Why are you shaving?

Two weeks we've been in here
all day and all night,

and suddenly
you're putting your face on.

What's all that about?

I've got a date later.

Have you? Bollocks.

Only date you've got is with
a camp bed and your right hand,

you wanker.

No trains till tomorrow now.

404 going north,

calling all stations
until termination.

Have a pleasant trip.

I'm not going north.
I just need a train.

Train?

- Yes.
- Where you going?

Nowhere.
I just need a train.

- Why?
- Never you mind!

There's no need for rudeness.

I'm so sorry.
That was, um...

That was unnecessary.

A man...

who needs a train...

but not the journey...

is a man with a problem.

Indeed.

Are there any freight trains
coming through here

- between now and then?
- Naw.

No freight trains here.

Of course.

Yeah.

404 going north,

calling all stations
until termination.

Well, the 404
seems like an age away,

and it's not time
I'm trying to kill.

End of the Line Cafe

situated on
the station concourse,

open 24 hours a day.

Why not purchase one of
our delicious sticky buns?

Only 30 pence.

You're peculiar.

And you're staring
at an empty platform

in a deserted station
in the middle of the night,

waiting for a train
that isn't coming.

Touché.

End of the Line it is.

Give us your money,
you old bastard, or I'll do you!

What? No! Absolutely not!

- You think I'm kidding?
- I didn't say that.

I just feel like
you lack preparation is all.

How's this for preparation?

Now give him your wallet
and your watch. Now!

I'll tell you what.
I'll buy the gun off you.

I've got a fiver here,
a crisp five pound note.

Take it or leave it.

Raymond, hurry up!

What do you want me
to do, Lenny?

- He's not cooperating.
- Lenny?

- You are?
- Raymond.

Raymond. Now listen to me
very, very carefully.

I've made what I believe to be
a perfectly reasonable offer.

Now you're going
to make a few quid,

and I'm in need of a gun.

Now, is it loaded?

What do you mean,
is it loaded?

I mean, are there
any bullets in it?

Of course it's loaded!

Really?

No, it's not loaded.

- Ah.
- Ray!

- For Christ's sakes!
- What?

It's not, is it?

This is ridiculous.

- Hey, where you going?
- Stay there you or I'll...

Or what? What, Lenny?

You going to butter me
to death?

I'm very disappointed
in both of you.

You've let me down,
and you've let yourselves down.

Something to think about,
isn't it?

Good night.

Fucking piss me off sometimes,
you do.

Why did you tell him
there were no bullets for?

You can't smoke in here.

Well, there's
no one else in here.

They're not smoking either,
are they?

Can I have another cup
of coffee then? This one's cold.

That's because you've been
playing with it for 20 minutes.

- Can I have another one?
- Sure. 40 pence.

Have a heart.
I just got mugged.

39 then.
I'm in a giving mood.

So shines a good deed
in a naughty world.

Naughty?

As in spank me gently,
I've been a naughty girl?

No, not that kind of naughty.

As in tie me to the bedposts
because I've been so naughty?

I think that qualifies
as the same kind of naughty.

I know.

I just enjoy watching you fidget
when I say "naughty."

Have we met before?

Why? Do I look familiar?

Are you all right?

Do you need your medicine?

Well, tell me which one.

You've got to be kidding me.

Medicinal purposes.

Nice. Go on then.

How about that coffee?

Listen to this.

"Curvaceous,
cream-skinned belle

seeks sleek Romeo
for candlelit romance

and walks in the moonlight.

City based."

See, that's code, that is.

That's deviants' code.
Pervert poetry.

Translates to "Fat bird
wants outside seeing-to

late at night." See?

Well, that is funny.

"Slight, retiring
young gentleman

seeks decisive, practical lady
to draw him from his shell.

Friendship and romance.
Suburban residence."

Translation:

Skinny pencil-dick
seeks dominatrix

for abuse and humiliation.

Has own dungeon.

World's gone to shit,
and all anyone can think about

is their next dirty one
down the docks.

There it is, though.

There it is
in black and white.

So...

what's wrong with you?

I beg your pardon?

You're hardly the picture
of health. What's wrong?

You don't want to know.

I'm fascinated.

- Tell me.
- What's wrong with you?

I have an unquenchable bloodlust
for darkness and depravity.

That's nice.

Is it cancer?

No, no.

Has anyone ever introduced you
to the concept of small talk?

Well, what is it
if it's not cancer?

They don't know.

No way.

That is brilliant.

You're a bit odd, aren't you?

Unquestionably, but death
is by far the best bit.

- Of what?
- Of life!

Did you read that
in a birthday card?

You're funny.

All right,
let's examine the facts.

It's terminal, your sides hurt,
and you cough badly.

All signs point to
malignant tumor damage.

You're not in denial about it,
are you?

You're not desperately searching
for another explanation?

I'm dying?

Yeah.

No, thanks.

But you don't know...
why or how?

No.

Will it be painful?

Oh, no.

Well, how can you be sure?

Painkillers.

Is there anything else?

Lolly?

It's definitely not cancer.

Okay. I don't want to
waste my time diagnosing you

if it's going to be some
run of the mill cancer thing.

Who says I need diagnosing?

You're dying.

Painfully, apparently.

And they don't know
why or what of.

It just sounds
pretty undiagnosed to me.

We're all dying, you realize.

Slowly, painfully.
Just a matter of time, friend.

See now, that's the spirit!

Are you scared?

I try not to think about it.

How's that working out
for you?

Not very well.

Are you being survived?

I have no idea
what that means.

Wife, kids?

Okay, you can't say that.

It's "survived by."

It has no other
grammatical context.

Jesus, what are you,
a dying English teacher?

Yeah.

Oh.

That's fair enough, I suppose.

Conjugate me
to your heart's content.

- Conjugation's different...
- Shut up.

Okay.

Are you sure
we haven't met before?

I don't know. Have we?

One shouldn't answer a question
with a question.

One shouldn't be such
a pompous prat, but here we are.

I think I would definitely
remember you if we'd met before.

You would think so,
wouldn't you?

What the fuck is going on?

Who the hell are you?

Untie me.

Now!

Listen to me.

You've made a mistake.
A big one.

But it is a redeemable error.

You're gonna put on
the rest of your clothes,

you're gonna
gather your things,

you're gonna give me the key,

and then you're going
to run for your life.

You've no idea who I am,

what I do,

or who I work for.

Au contraire,
Mr. Nigel Illing.

I know exactly who you are.

I know exactly
what it is you do.

And I know exactly
who you work for.

I also know that you're 44,
5'11", 12 stone,

AB Negative,
a drinker and a smoker,

and you have a healthy appetite

for young hookers
in kinky suspenders.

And when you combine
the information

I have gathered on you
and your habits,

one can deduce exactly
how many drops of laudanum

it requires to render you
unconscious

and relatively docile.

I need a teeny-weeny bit
of information from you

and a small donation.

Okay, what do you want?

You want money?

You want the car?
Listen, you can take it.

You can take it.
Take whatever you want.

Oh, that's a very poor
choice of words.

Help! Help!

Help!

Bless me, Father,
for I have sinned.

So there's this guy, right?

He's creeping
through this house.

It's dark, sinister, creepy.
You get the picture.

Pulls out his gun,

and he goes into the room
with it

held arm's length
in front of him, Vince.

I don't know what to tell you.
It's the pictures.

Right. You walk
into the room, right?

In like a shot.
You clear your corners.

Cleared.
The room is yours, easy.

You don't fucking ease
your gun into the room

without being able
to see anything,

waiting to be shot.

It's stupid.

It's a film, Alf.
It's make-believe.

It's factually inaccurate.
They actually make it up.

It's not as though they've got
some hit man consultant

talking them through
the finer points

of assassinating
other fictitious people.

Yes, but why not?

It would be factually accurate
if they did.

I just realized something.

You're a fucking moron.

Two teas, love!

Oy, bottle blonde!

Two teas.

What's the magic word?

To be fair,
you didn't say "please."

Please, could we have
two tea cups of lovely tea,

a little bit of milk,
two sugars, both builder's,

please, if you don't mind?

Thank you very much.

It will be my pleasure.

Wanker.

Watch this.

Excuse me.
Could I have one of your...

lovely-looking
sticky buns, please?

It's dinner and drinks
at the very least

before you get your hands
on my buns, handsome.

I mix a mean martini,
sugarplum.

In that case,
I'll even butter them for you.

Alfred, would you mind terribly
rejoining me at the table,

pretty please?

Before I break
your fucking neck.

Duty calls.

On the job, are you?

Is there the remotest chance

that you could possibly
calm down a bit?

And what kind of a shithole
is this then, eh?

You said somewhere quiet,
off the beaten track.

So you find the only
late night cafe

open this side
of the precinct.

It's genius.

I thought it might be nice
if we had a cup of tea

while we talked.

Enjoy my buns.

Are you fucking drunk
or something?

No. Why?

Just shut the fuck up!
That's why.

What is
so cloak and dagger

that you couldn't just
tell me over the phone?

A job's coming.

Yeah?

Guttering, is it?
Window cleaning?

Yeah, keep up the cheek, son.

You know, you're gonna
get clipped round the ear.

In fact,
you're gonna get a clip

straight in
the fucking forehead.

Understand?

All right.

I'm listening.

So there's a message
on the answering service.

It tells me,
"Go to the terminal

and open locker 125."

- Is there a key?
- No, there's no key.

So what was in it?

"La Lapin Blanche."

What's that?

Well, it's French.

Yes, I know, thank you.

I simply don't understand
the relevance of it.

Are you going
to ruin this for me?

Are you going to suck
all the fucking alluring mystery

out of this fucking
situation for me?

So it's a clue.

- A trail of breadcrumbs.
- Yes, apparently.

Someone has a pen-chaunt
for the amateur dramatics.

It's pronounced penchant.

It's pronounced
shut your fucking mouth

is how it's pronounced.

Hang on a second.

Black briefcase.

Mm-hmm.

In a locker.

A clue.
A trail of breadcrumbs.

Vince, that's the touch, mate.

That is a job
from Mr. Franklin.

A Mr. Franklin job?

This is massive!

All right.

Don't get moist.

I thought
he always used Illing.

Apparently not.

Now, have I whet your appetite?

I'm salivating.

Let's go rabbit on him.

We've got to play our cards
right on this one, Vincent.

No one fucks
with Mr. Franklin.

It is a once in a blue moon,

once in a fucking lifetime
opportunity.

It's keys to the kingdom.

All right, Alfred,
it's Mr. Franklin,

not the fucking second coming.

Well, I guess
this is the place.

What gave it away?

Was it the 20-foot neon sign
with the fucking rabbit on it?

Pinch me, I'm dreaming.

I bet they charge
a good-priced cover.

Hello, handsome,
dangerous men.

Hello, beautiful,
semi-clad girl.

Business or pleasure?

Is the real question
do I want to pay you

to writhe around on top of me
for a couple of songs,

get me hot all under the collar
and take me into the back room

for an overpriced hand job?

'Cause if it is,
the answer's no, fuck off.

You are no gentleman.

But you, on the other hand...

I'm Conejo. Welcome.
What is it you seek?

We're here to meet someone.

- Who?
- We don't know.

About what?

- We don't know.
- Oy!

You need to see Bunny.
Follow me.

So where's this Bunny then, eh?

You'll see.

Conejo.

What a beautiful name.

I bet it means "waterfall"
or "sunset"

or something exotic like that.

It means "rabbit," tit.

Oh, yeah.

Get your head
in the fucking game, mate.

You're becoming
a fucking liability.

And part of my job is to
dispose of fucking liabilities.

What do you mean,
I've become a fucking liability?

It's Bunny!

- Shut up.
- We all play the game.

Shut up. Look at her.

Oh, my God. Oh, my God.

Yeah? I'll show you game.

Yeah, are you
the famous Bunny?

How abrupt.

Well, I'm not here
for conversation or culture.

I'm here for information.

Maybe a filthy lap dance,
if I can get one.

Then you're in
the right place, Vincent.

How do you know my name?

Bottle blonde!

What the fucking hell
are you doing here?

Girl's got to eat.

Is there somewhere
we can go and talk?

That depends.
Have you got something for me?

I was thinking more of
an envelope stuffed with money.

Now, I bet that's gonna buy me
a few filthy lap dances.

Probably a lot more than that.

Come and find out.

Both of you,
down the rabbit hole.

Curiouser and curiouser.

They're with me, boys.

We've been sent here...
we don't know why...

to see you, apparently.

You're supposed to
give us something,

though why you couldn't
have given it to us

at the pissin' cafe
is way beyond me.

Then we leave.

Sound like a plan?

So.

So?

Look, I'm just the middleman.

Think of me as
a half-naked waitress

delivering goods
from one anonymous party

to another anonymous party
for a fee.

Or slightly less anonymous
in your case, Vincent.

- What's the combination?
- No idea.

Well, what good's a briefcase
if we ain't got the combination?

No idea.

Huh. Doesn't even need
a combination.

Thank you, Miss Bunny.
We'll be on our way.

Hang on.

There's something different
about you, bottle blonde.

Besides my stocking suspenders,
plunging cleavage,

and full face
of harlot's makeup?

Yeah, yeah, besides that.

Time to go, Vince.

No.

I want my lap dance first
before I go anywhere.

I'm ready if you are.

I'll let the dog
see the rabbit.

Let's go, Vince.
Floor show's over.

Let me show you chaps
the quick way out, shall I?

I'm gonna get that filthy lap
dance off of you, bottle blonde,

one way or another.

Come back again soon, handsome.

Alfred?

I'll even show you my tail.

Don't bring him.

Wow.

Oh, Jesus Christ.

One sniff of a whore's perfume,
you think you're in love.

I mean wow.

She looked better
as a waitress.

Wow!

You really are a twat,
you know that?

It's the waiting
that's doing me in.

Just, um...

sitting around,
waiting to stop breathing.

My mom went in a house fire.

No waiting around there,
I suppose.

- I'm sorry.
- No, you're not.

You are utterly self-involved
at the moment,

completely wrapped up
in yourself.

Steady on.
Just 'cause I'm on my way out

doesn't mean I've turned
into a complete bastard.

Why not?

It's your prerogative.

That is your hard-won
silver lining.

I don't follow.

Okay, well, think of it
this way.

It's moral carte blanche.

It's an open invitation
to anarchy.

You can spend
your last days on Earth

doing whatever you want.

Rape away.

Smite to your heart's content.

Pillage the precinct
till the gutters run red,

and none of it will matter

because you'll be dead
by Sunday.

So go nuts!

You know, dry roasted,
sniper in the clock tower nuts.

Did something happen to you
as a child?

Besides my mother dying in agony
in a blazing inferno?

Oh, I am so sorry.
That was...

Don't apologize.
Rub my nose in it.

Come on, pillage me!

Sorry. Was that a bit naughty?

What happened to your thumb?

Oh, that.

An exercise in self-control.

Ah. It went well then.

Look, all I'm saying is

this seems like
a really good opportunity

to do whatever
the hell you want.

Well, what if I want to
mope around in all-night cafes,

feeling sorry for myself?

Then, frankly,
I might as well do you in now

and save myself from
your self-indulgent tripe.

Well...

Well, I would appreciate that.

Annie.

Bill.

That's not your locker!

You're going to give me
a fucking heart attack!

It is a criminal offense
to interfere with

either municipal storage
or precinct property.

Any suspicious activity
must be reported

to the appropriate
authorities immediately.

Why don't you piss off,
old man?

Mind your own business.

Supervisor.
Night Supervisor.

Duties to include sweeping
of concourse and platform,

maintenance
and attendance of all...

Shut up!

Tell me something.

Do I look to you like
the sort of individual

that creeps into the station
in the dead of night,

breaks open a locker,

removes a suspicious-looking
briefcase,

and then lets
the fucking cleaner...

sorry, night supervisor...

run off and tell tall tales
about it?

Do I not strike you
more as the sort of

highly motivated,
highly vicious individual

that would not kill
said night supervisor

and stuff him
into the fucking locker?

Acceptable forms of payment
at the terminal are as follows:

cash, banker's drafts,

certified checks up to the
value of the return journey.

I like you. You're funny.

All right, all right,
I'll clear it.

- Oh.
- Mum's the word, Supe.

Okay.

- Oh!
- Ten, twenty, thirty.

We all right, son?

When rich villains
have need of poor ones,

poor ones make
what price they will.

Come again?

I want more money.

Yeah.

Oh, yeah.

You know, when rich villains
get pissed off

with poor ones
overcharging them,

they go round their house,

they burn it,
they murder their family.

Terminal Train Lines
thanks you for your business

and wishes you
a pleasant evening.

What a fucking crook!

- Yo, you better give me your...
- Fuck off!

I just wanted to know
the time, mate.

My bad.

Yeah, that's it,
fucking walk on.

Yeah, yeah, you better run.

Dickhead.

- Just for you.
- Thanks.

Evening, bottle blonde.

Hello, Prince Charming.

- Alfred.
- Vince.

You want to put her down, mate.

You don't know where she's been.
You'll catch something.

Duty calls.

Well, it was lovely
seeing you again, handsome.

Can't say the same
for you, Vincent.

You want to get your head
in the game, mate?

You're getting sloppy.

I'll see you around,
bottle blonde,

if I don't shoot you first.

Ooh.

Vince!

Bang.

Wanker.

This was in the briefcase.

Press play.
I'm gonna stretch my legs.

I am Mr. Franklin.

I have no doubt
you know who I am

and what my business is worth.

I have an offer, a contract.

I want you
to kill someone for me.

You will lie in wait
in the apartment

I have provided for you.

You will be on call
24 hours a day,

seven days a week,

until I contact you to...

execute.

Jesus.

Before you commence,

I require one of you to
attend a face-to-face meeting.

Only one.
I do not like crowds.

That is all.

Fucking perfect.

Evening, bottle blonde.

Out for a casual stroll?

Well, for fuck's sake.

You know what?
I'm getting a little bit old

for all these parlor games,
bottle blonde.

Evening, gorgeous.

These are for you.

You're in trouble, Alfred.

I'm always in trouble,
sugarplum.

Spare me the heroics.
You're in real trouble.

Targeted,
shot in the back of the head

unless you pay attention
trouble.

I'm listening.

Good, because I like you.

You're handsome,
and you're chivalrous,

and I like your jaw.

It's manly.

I want to keep you.

- Well, I think you're...
- Shut up.

Understood.

There's someone here to see you.

Listen to what he's got to say
or that handsome face of yours

will have a gaping exit wound
slap bang in the middle of it.

- Okay.
- Good.

Come on out.
He's not gonna bite.

Hello?

Good evening, Vincent.

Mr. fucking Franklin,
I presume.

- The very same.
- Let me get this straight.

You drag me out
in the middle of the night,

halfway across the city,
freezing cold,

up 20 flights of rickety stairs

just so that you can speak to me
on the fucking phone?

Who says mystery's a lost art?

Yeah, fair enough.

Now, the contract.

You and your partner
start tomorrow.

The target will be
lured to this window.

It faces the apartment
where you will be waiting.

One shot to the head.

A clean kill. No mistakes.

Now, I have another deal,
a side part, for you.

Okay, go on.

When you've
executed the contract,

I want you
to kill your partner.

Why?

I don't like crowds.

And I like loyalty I can buy.

Double the original offer,
in cash.

What you want,
his head on a silver platter?

His ID papers and
trigger finger will suffice.

I'm offering you double
the money and a one way split.

I believe I can trust
your mercenary greed.

Now, do we have a deal?

Yeah.

Consider it done.

Good.

Where'd you get ahold
of that there thing?

Where the fuck
did you get that?

Stop it, Alfred.
He's just the messenger.

Who is about to get very shot
on the count of three.

One, two...

Locker!
Locker in the terminal!

Black briefcase.

Note inside.

A man...
A man paid me.

An envelope with money.

Please don't kill me!

Three.

Now fuck off.

Go on.

Fuck!

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

Fucker!

Feel better?

It's all bullshit, isn't it?

No job, no hit.

Oh, no, handsome.

There most definitely was a hit.

Me?

Not anymore.

We can find a new target.

We?

Now tell me something,
sugarplum.

Why should I trust you, eh?

Aren't you part of
this whole conspiracy?

I told you.

I like you.

I need someone
to butter my buns for.

Well, I suppose I do need
a new partner now, don't I?

My old one seems to have
become rather untrustworthy.

But I will warn you, Alfred.

I'll need a firm hand and a
regular lash of the tongue.

I can't wait
to have you under me.

Good.

Let's have a cup of tea
and plot our bloody revenge.

You tidy that up.
I'll put the kettle on...

partner.

The way I see it,
you've got two options.

Go on.

Option A: suicide.

I see. And B?

Well, you've got to hear
the case for Option A first.

- I do?
- You do.

I'm all ears.

- You're dying.
- Apparently.

- You're not happy about it.
- Not really.

You're miserable, touchy.

Quite frankly,
not great company.

Oh, thank you.

Want my advice?

No.

Just end it.

Have you ever considered
counseling?

Every minute of every day,

you're bombarded with
a series of hazardous

and potentially life-ending
situations to choose from.

Jump in front of a bus.

Have a bath with your toaster.

Fall on your butter knife.

Tall buildings,
rivers, bridges, trains.

There are more ways
to end your life

than there are ways to live it.

All this pissing around
in train stations

in the middle of the night
would be over.

End this nothing,
and all it takes is some balls.

And my immortal soul?

Overrated.

Overrated?

Have you done something to put
your immortal soul in jeopardy?

Well, there you go then.
Nothing to worry about.

Are you Catholic?

Yeah.

Religious?

Oh, fuck me.
Oh, sorry. Um...

Forgive me, Father,
for I have sinned.

To be honest, I can't recall
the last time I took confession.

I think it's more than 10,
but less than 20.

Days?

Months?
Not years, surely.

Don't get pissed off at me
for telling you the truth.

That's just mean.

If I'd known you were like this,
I would've just said three days

and taken my chances
with the Almighty.

Sorry.

That was uncalled for.
I apologize.

Are you still there?

I know you're there.
I can smell sherry.

Define religious.

Lolly?

I'll take that
as a big fat no.

Maybe it's divine retribution.

Oh, yeah, that sounds tasty.

You know,
my sins revisiting me

and my past
coming back to haunt me...

I'm all ears, William.

Let me hear your confession.

Repent and thou shalt be saved!

That's not even from the Bible.

Okay, that is the graffiti

that's written on the bus stop
opposite the terminal.

That's disappointing.

That's pretty much my entire
knowledge of scripture.

Try this one:
Repent, turn back,

and thy sins
will be blotted out.

Not really as catchy, is it?

How's my case
for suicide progressing?

Am I quaking your foundations?

You're giving me a headache.

Oh, how's this for a headache?

Take a pencil,
jam into tabletop,

slam head down onto pencil,
dead in five seconds.

- That's foul.
- Isn't it?

And every time
I suggest this to someone,

they think it goes
up your nose.

You've suggested this
more than once?

It can't go up your nose.
That's impossible.

Think about
the trajectory involved.

It would go in your eyeball,
right?

Through the socket,
into your brain.

I... Well, it depends on the
angle of the head, I suppose.

Let's test the theory.

It's not very sharp, is it?

Use your fancy pen then.

It's heavier.

Nib's sharper than yours.

Probably get it further into
the table, better purchase.

It would feel more proper,
wouldn't it?

More ceremonial.

A pen does have more purpose
than a pencil.

More stature.

Definitely a better choice.

Definitely,
and how resonantly poetic.

The English professor found
impaled on his own fountain pen.

It's epic.

It's inspired.

We've cracked it!

Time, place, method,
it's all there.

Don't you think
it'd be a bit painful?

You're missing the point.

Hmm?

Get it?

- Brilliant.
- God, you're not very keen.

Do you want to
kill yourself or not?

I'm not so sure now.

Oh, pathetic.

Can I have that pen then?
I never had one like that.

- No.
- Why?

Because it's mine.

Thought you were
about to top yourself?

What do you need a pen for?

Come on, please. It'll be
like you left it for me.

- Bequeathed it, not left.
- Oh, my God.

Shut up!
I'm taking the pen.

You've got no use for it,
and I want it.

Here, you can have my pencil
to make up for your loss, okay?

Done, swapped, over.

How long have
we been stuck in here?

12 days, 13 hours,
and 27 minutes. Why?

Just wondering.

You missing
your bottle blonde?

Geez, you're like
a hormonal teenager.

She's gonna be the death of you,
that fucking girl.

- Cards.
- Yeah?

- Great. Hold 'em.
- Three-card brag.

Fuck off.
That's a pouf's game.

Fine. Hold 'em it is.

Fair enough. Let's go!

That's more like it.

Oh, give 'em here.

You're gonna fucking
hurt yourself. Come on.

Just give 'em to me.

For fuck's sake, Alf.

There's fucking
barely half a deck.

We could always play snap.

I'll snap your fucking neck
in a minute!

How do you play solitaire?

Quietly, on your own,
in the other fucking room.

- You really are becoming a...
- Yeah, a fucking liability.

I know. Hear it all the time.

Boss, look at this.

What is it?

Something for me
to beat you to death with?

No.

"The time has come,
the walrus said,

to talk of many things.

Of shoes
and ships and sealing wax,

of cabbages and kings."

"And why the sea is boiling hot
and whether pigs have wings."

I don't get it.

It's gibberish.

It's all like this,
the whole bloody book.

It's just fucking drivel.

Well, I'm sure Lewis Carroll
will be suitably apologetic

when he finds out
how upset you are.

Why don't you fuck off
into the other room

and leave me alone, eh?

Want a drink?

A proper drink, I mean.

Oh, no doubt.

Bill, it's time
we explore Option B.

Oh, goody, there's more.

There is.

Option B: assisted suicide.

I believe they call that
"euthanasia."

Eutha-what?

It was very popular at one time
with the Swiss.

What's a Swiss?

Doesn't matter.

All I'm saying is,

if you haven't got the peanuts
to do it yourself,

just get someone
to do it for you.

Are you saying I take
a contract out on myself?

Exactly.

Do they have an assassins
section in the classifieds?

"Wanted: tall, dark,
anonymous stranger.

Must have own rifle."

My new boyfriend's
a contract killer.

And, talk about
getting lucky,

he's getting off
a job today.

Serendipity, indeed.

We could give him
a brief, you know,

suggest a few ways
you wouldn't mind being killed,

let him pick the best one.

Try this on for size.

You're just going about your
daily business, then one day,

you're on your way home from
a long day in the classroom...

Shot in the head.

Last thing
you would've expected.

I think it's safe to say
if I'd paid somebody to kill me,

I'd be expecting to be killed
most of the time.

You just have to, you know,
try not to think about it.

- Oh, okay, I'll do that then.
- Right.

Can we bank long distance
head shots then?

Quick, anonymous, painless.

- Sounds like a keeper.
- Great.

Let's brainstorm
a few more ways to die.

Let's!

- Stabbing?
- No, I don't like knives.

It sounds very,
sort of messy and painful.

That's the sort of thing
he's gonna need to know.

- Who?
- Our possibly fictitious,

but possibly real hit man,

who happens to be
my new boyfriend.

Oh, okay.

Ooh, what about a hit and run?

Oh, now, I have a problem
with that.

- Go on.
- What if I just get mangled?

He'd have to reverse
back over me.

That's just horrifying.

Hmm.

- Pushing?
- I don't follow.

Off a tall building,
for the sake of argument,

or in front of a train.

I must say I have explored
the idea of trains somewhat.

Hey!

Short, sticky, and sweet.
Before you know it,

you're strawberry jam
and dental fillings.

You really can
paint a picture, Annie.

Only downside's the whole
closed casket thing.

Granted, but I am starting
to like the idea of falling.

It sounds almost accidental.

Can we bank it, pushing?

Yeah, let's have it.

To imminent death.

To the 404.

What's up?

What?

Is there anything
you want to say?

No.

I'm seriously fucking bored.

You want to play a game?

Do I look like I play
Snakes and Ladders to you?

Well, you did do that jigsaw.

I fucking hate puzzles.

You did do that crossword book.

- You trying to be funny?
- What about chess?

- Are you trying to be funny?
- No, Boss.

So I don't have to come over and
teach you some fucking manners.

- No, Boss.
- Because if I do

you're gonna fucking regret it,
you understand me?

Yes, Boss.

Good.

Don't fancy Monopoly then?

God, keep it up.

I'm going to put you six feet
under the fucking ground, mate.

Are you?

You know, I don't know
why I bother on you.

I should just shoot you
in the face,

get myself another apprentice.

I thought I was
a junior partner.

Oh, that's just the flash way
of saying "apprentice."

I'm a valuable asset.

You're a fucking liability.

I already told you what I do
with fucking liabilities.

If it wasn't for me,
who'd make the tea,

collect the cash,
sort the jobs?

You know, do the fucking work!

Good lad.
Now you're getting it.

Oh, cracking.

Pathetic fallacy.

Whinging librarian.

Excuse me?

No, that's what that's called,
when emotional turmoil

is reflected
in tangible surroundings.

Like two lovers go their
separate ways in a rainstorm,

or lightning strikes
as the murderer's revealed.

It adds gravitas.

It would hardly be
as nerve-wracking

if the serial killer
stabbed his victim to death

in a sunny park, would it?

Much better in a dark alley
in a mist.

My God, you are wasted
as a teacher.

You should be published.

You should be preaching.

You should be inciting
bloody revolution.

And yet here I am,
a lamenting English teacher

coughing his spleen
out through his nose,

wishing the earth
would swallow him whole.

Come with me.

Really?

Bill!

Oh!

Where are we going?

To explore gravitas
and pathetic fallacy.

Chop, chop!

Well, this seems
like a great idea.

Come on, Bill.
Where's your sense of adventure?

Warm and dry
and congealing with my coffee.

What the hell is that?

It's an old ventilation shaft

from when the city actually
used to work properly.

It's condemned now.

Just a hole
dropping into nowhere.

Down and down and down.

Well, that's just about the most
terrifying thing I've ever seen.

You come here often, do you?

Oh, yes, I love it here.

- Here, come stand on the edge.
- No, I...

Close your eyes.

Feels amazing.

Annie, come on back.

Oh, my God!

Well?

Well, what?

You said you wanted the earth
to swallow you whole

not five minutes ago.

There you go.

You're welcome.

You want me to jump in there?

Pathetic fallacy.

- No, it's not.
- Yes, it is.

Emotional turmoil reflected
in tangible surroundings.

I'm in a deep, dark hole.

It's perfect.

Let's test your gravitas.

- Or gravity, more like.
- Exactly!

Look, I'm not gonna throw
myself into a yawning chasm

just because it fits neatly
into a metaphor!

Why not?
Quick, clean, painless.

Poetically resonant.

You are insane, certifiably.

Unquestionably.
You get close to the edge,

and then I can push you...

Time out! Time out, okay?

Okay, fine, fine.

What the fuck was that?

Are you out of
your fucking mind?

What is the worst that
could've happened, Bill?

You'd be dead.
It would all be over.

No more pain,
no more suffering.

No more waiting for a train
that isn't coming.

What if I had just let you fall?

None of this would be happening.

This conversation,
your smoldering anger,

your eloquent
bloody resentment.

Nothing.

Not like that.
I do not want to go like that.

Like what, Bill?

Trains, cars, gunshots,
it's all the same end product.

I think the question
really is,

do you want to go at all?

Standing on the edge really
makes you think, doesn't it?

I'll shoot you in the face.

I wish you bloody would,
but you won't.

Stop thinking, Bill.

Stop reasoning.

Just close your eyes.

Take a last breath
and just walk.

Clock's ticking.

It's quiet out there.

It's like
a fucking apocalypse.

Just one round.

What?

I said there's no one around.

Yeah, it's dead.

Like a corpse.

Was that loaded?

Yeah.

You're dead.

Milk, two sugars.

What are you waiting for?

That's it.

No. No, I can't.

How disappointing.

Disappointing?

Disappointing?

This is all a fucking game
to you, isn't it?

Get this through
your little skull, okay?

I am dying.

I am...
I am going to die!

To me, all this is real!

The fucking hole
in the ground is real!

I'm not standing on the edge.
I am already falling down!

What are you, like, 23, 24?

Young, fit as a fiddle,
immortal?

All your death nonsense
is exactly that.

A load of fucking nonsense!

Step into the light more,
enjoy nice things.

Stop skulking around
big holes in the ground

and wasting your life
in all-night cafes.

Enough with the facade,
this idle fucking fantasy!

Go on, Bill. Go on, rage.

Rage against the dying
of the fucking light!

Did all this death stuff
start when mommy died?

Ah, yeah.

What was it,
an absent father?

A concerned priest, perhaps?

Did you find it was easier
to get attention

if you were the freak,
the weirdo,

the angel-faced kid
with a heart of darkness?

I bet you were a cutter,
weren't you?

I bet you loved
a good razor blade.

Somewhere obvious where
everyone could see the scars.

Did you have a little friend,
a little accomplice?

Somebody you could go off
behind the bike shed with

and burn each other
with cigarettes?

Another little orphan helper
built in your own image,

the two of you
egging each other on?

Fuck! It's textbook, Annie!

Textbook!

You're two a penny!

I have taught dozens of you
over the years.

I have known silly little girls
like you all my life!

Naughty, naughty little girls
just like you!

Naughty.

I just enjoy watching
you fidget when I say...

Naughty.

Gotcha.

Oh, God!

Have we met before?

You remember now.

Don't you,
Mr. Braithwaite?

I think I would definitely
remember you if we'd met before.

You would thing so,
wouldn't you?

You remember this
naughty little girl?

You remember punishing me,
Mr. B?

Silly, naughty little girls,
enough!

Maybe it's divine retribution.
You know, my sins revisiting me.

I'm sorry.

After lights out,
our little secret.

Did something happen to you
as a child?

I've waited all night
for you to remember me.

All fucking night,

not two feet away,

just waiting for you
to connect the dots.

Do you wanna know why
you don't have the balls

to kill yourself,
Mr. Braithwaite?

Because you know exactly where
you're going when you die.

Orphans always make the best
victims, don't they, William?

But chalk-stained fingers
leave indelible marks

on little girls' panties.

Consider this
divine retribution.

Burn in hell.

Was that gun loaded,
the one you pointed at me?

Impossible to say
either way.

- What's that?
- It's the fucking phone.

All right.

Yes?

Okay.

Got it.

That was Mr. fucking Franklin.
It's on.

Yeah.

Yes?

Is this phone in range?

Where's the fucking target?

Why aren't you
taking a shot?

There is no shot.

Take the shot, Vince.
What's the problem?

Shut up!

Bottle blonde!

Fuck hell's she doing here?

Gotcha.

Put the gun down, Boss.

What the fucking hell's
going on?

This is what we call
in the trade "a double-cross."

Now put the gun down.

And now sit at the table,
hands where I can see them.

You all right, bottle blonde?

Took your time, sweetheart.

Thought you actually were
gonna let him have a pop at me.

Oh, I think he's been trying
that quite enough recently.

Stop it, Alfred.

Don't be naughty.

Sorry, sugarplum.

Now get yourself over here.

Come and savor
this moment with me.

I see you finally lost
your virginity then.

Congratulations.

Hi, handsome.

You smell different.

My new perfume.

It's intoxicating.

Oh, Jesus Christ, kill me now.

With pleasure.

Wait, wait, wait, wait.

Tell me something.

What have I ever
done to you, eh?

Vincent Escariot.

Tut, tut, tut.

You'd sell your own partner
down the river

for 30 pieces of silver.

I like loyalty I can buy.

You traitor, you.

What the fuck's it got
to do with you?

Now, now, Vince,
don't be rude.

I think you've been
quite rude enough

to my other half recently.

Your girlfriend's doing all
your thinking now, is she?

Well, fuck you...

and your fucking whore.

Don't you misunderstand
the situation you're in

for one second, Vincent.

You'll keep a civil tongue
in your head,

or it won't be quick and easy.

It'll be slow and messy.

You are a fucking
pain in my ass!

As well as being
a double-crossing,

backstabbing,
turncoat traitor.

But guess what.

I've got a new partner now,
Vincent.

And unlike with you,

I just love it
when she fucks me.

This is your doing,
isn't it, bottle blonde?

Oh, yes, Vincent.

I'm the master villain.

Fucking crazy.

The pair of you,
you're both mad, delusional.

Fuck you
and your fucking whore!

You don't have to let him
talk to us like that, handsome.

No.

Your eyes. I saw them...

Bye, Vince.

- That was fun.
- It was brilliant.

Right. I need a shower
and a change of clothes,

and then I'm taking you
out to dinner.

My treat.

Our first proper date.

Bye-bye, sugarplum.

Bye, handsome.

Ah! Cleaning service.

I'll have the works,
please, mate.

The full spit and polish.

Here's a cherry on top.

Call it an apologetic token

for the little overreaction
the other night, eh?

See you later, Supe.

Ohh...

Hi, handsome.

Hello, sugarplum.

Did you get
your homework done?

- Top of the class.
- Smart girl!

I've got a little
surprise for you.

Are you wearing that stripper
getup under that red coat?

Stockings, suspenders?

You know, you really do
have such a lovely jaw.

Wait right here.

Yeah.

Hello?

Sugarplum.

Sugarplum.

I really hate that nickname.

Drop the gun,
hands up where I can see them.

One wrong move, handsome,

you'll have that gaping
exit wound in your face

we talked about.

Drop it.

Kick it away.

Good boy.

I thought we were partners.

I've already got a partner.

Cripple?

So all of this was, what?

An overelaborate scheme
perpetrated mercilessly upon you

by highly motivated, highly
intelligent individuals...

With a penchant
for amateur dramatics.

It's pronounced penchant.

You are correct, Alfred.

Two weeks you had me
in that fucking apartment,

waiting to kill someone
who was waiting to kill me.

- Why?
- Because we like to have

all our dollies
lined up on the shelf.

Shit!

Our starving rats
locked in a cage,

tearing each other apart
just for our pleasure.

And... you never
really liked me?

Me? No.

Has anyone ever told you

that you are a two-faced,

treacherous, manipulative,

callous little bitch?

Oh, you have no idea.

Annie, darling, I don't
suppose you'd consider...

No.

Look, I know
you wanted to keep him,

but we got bigger
fish to fry, okay?

I've got the ID papers.
Give me his gun.

Stand and deliver!

Oh, Christ!

You nearly gave me
a heart attack.

You're early.

Give me that gun.

Where'd you put Vincent?

What you gonna do
with them both?

Can we chuck them
in the river?

No.

I've got a better idea.
Give me a hand.

Ah, for a fool such as this.

I shall think nothing
of tumbling downstairs.

Curiouser and curiouser.

See you around, Supe.

Oh, good day.

Yes?

It's done, Mr. Franklin.

- Yes?
- Both of them.

Good.

And the little favor,
the teacher?

I'm forever in your debt.

Did you have fun, sweetie?

It was like jelly and ice cream.

The cripple was very useful.

End of the Line cafe.

- He's just the messenger.
- Mum's the word.

- All right, son?
- Cleaning service.

He has his uses.

Are you suitably impressed,
Mr. Franklin?

Most definitely.

Good.

So I can rely
on your business then?

I have a limited
range of choice.

You've suppressed
the competition admirably.

How do I know you're not
going to double-cross me?

You seem very adept at it.

How, indeed. But remember,

I like loyalty I can buy,

and you are unique.

You're one of a kind.

You have proved
your value to me.

So is this the start of
a beautiful relationship then?

Most definitely.

- Good night.
- Good night.

404.

Excellent.

What do you want?

There are two things in life

for which we are never
truly prepared.

Twins.

Well, well, well, he lives.

I'm sorry, Mr. Franklin,
is the light bothering you?

Where am I?

You like what we've
done with the place?

A woman's touch
is what was needed.

How... How the fuck did you...

Look through the looking glass,
Mr. Franklin.

Or shall we call you...

Clinton?

A rose by any other name.

You've tumbled down
the rabbit hole

far beyond hope
or rhyme or reason,

flushed away
in a river of tears.

You're mad!
Stark raving mad!

Oh, we can't help that,
said the cat.

We're all mad here.

I'm mad. You're mad.

Have you ever read it?

It's our favorite book.

Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

Mommy used to read it to us
every night.

We know it front to back,
cover to cover.

Inside and out.

If you gave us
a page and a line,

we could give you the words,
verbatim.

We hear tell it's hereditary.

Like eye color.

Or homicidal impulse.

Blood will out.

May we tell you a story,
Mr. Franklin?

Are you sitting comfortably?

- Then let us begin.
- Then let us begin.

A long time ago in a place
not dissimilar to this,

as a point of fact,
identical to this,

there lived a young woman
called Chloe Merriweather.

Now, Chloe Merriweather
had a gleam in her eye.

She wanted adventure.

One night in the aptly named
Anything Goes,

Chloe Merriweather
succumbed to the wiles

of one Clinton Sharp,
a low-level criminal

with aspirations of grandeur,

who whispered sweet nothings
in her ear

and kept her drink topped up
and his powder dry.

Theirs was a knee-trembling
relationship.

Then for a time, very little
was heard of Chloe Merriweather

until a year or so later
she reappeared.

She'd grown up,
like all little girls do.

She waited tables by day,

and she danced on them
by night.

For Chloe had a secret
that nobody knew

buried deep within
her heart of hearts.

She had two little girls
at home.

Twins.

The result of her passionate
tryst with Mr. Sharp.

- Daddy.
- Daddy.

But Chloe Merriweather knew
better than to involve Clinton

in her daughters' lives,

for she had seen
the shadow in his soul,

the murder in his eyes.

She kept them hidden
from the world

and from Clinton Sharp.

Deliciously sweet
were those times.

But life is cruel,
and the world is small,

and fate laughs mercilessly
at us all.

One deep, dark night,

Chloe Merriweather saw something
she ought not to have seen.

Clinton Sharp working.

Chloe Merriweather
ran for her life

through that deep, dark night.

But it wasn't long
before Clinton Sharp

came calling for Chloe

with a canister of petrol

and his cigarette lighter.

Rumor has it
he whistled while he worked.

But Chloe Merriweather
was a fighter,

a wildcat with fierce tears,

unwilling to go gently
into that good night.

Chloe saved her little girls,

but the wildcat could not
get herself to safety.

And so it was we found ourselves
wards of the precinct,

taken into the mercy
and kindness

of St. Catherine's Orphanage.

To the welcoming arms of
the priests and the teachers

with their wandering hands
and their sticky fingers.

Here we learned how to close
our eyes and bite our lips.

We learned how to go elsewhere
in our hearts and our heads

when the lights went out.

As soon as our legs
would carry us,

we ran far, far away.

Survival was
all we hoped for.

A feral existence.

Until one day,
who should we see

shuffling by with his cart
and his broom and his limp,

but Clinton Sharp.

In all his crippled glory.

That selfsame whistle

that had haunted
our nightmares for so long.

So we hunted you, Daddy,

and before long, we discovered
your clever little secret.

Mr. Franklin,
a master villain marionette.

The legendary black briefcases,
the infamous voice messages,

the lost art of mystery.

What's in it?

Another fucking
locker number.

Oh, you gotta love
Mr. Franklin, don't you?

Who says mystery's a lost art?

Who says
mystery's a lost art?

And we let you track us, Daddy,
as we tracked you.

Inch by inch,
we laid our plans against you.

We baited our traps
and cast our lures.

We pulled the strings
that made you dance.

We knew exactly
what would get your attention

and that you couldn't resist
hearing our confession.

I need a teeny, weeny donation,
Mr. Nigel Illing.

Mr. Franklin, I must confess,
I've been a naughty girl.

Meet me at
St. Catherine's Church.

This is
a well-conceived venue.

I want your work,
your contracts, all of it.

I'm afraid you're out of luck.

I've been recommended
another interested party

to take care of my problems.

I'm better.

I highly doubt it.

You men, with your bad suits
and your pumiced hair,

you're utterly predictable.

I reckon to the point
of carelessness.

Yes.

Me?

I'm the switchblade
in the garters,

the stiletto in the stilettos.

I'm the surprise
they never see coming.

Who says mystery's a lost art?

Who'd have thought?

We're Daddy's little girls,
after all.

And now we stand on
the brink of our vengeance,

on the cusp
of the wildest of justice.

You are my daughters, yeah?

In blood only, Daddy.

Don't get too attached.

Mommy has to be avenged.

Tell us, Daddy, are you familiar
with the science of lobotomy?

Much maligned
in this day and age,

but somehow rather
fitting in this scenario,

don't you think?

Please, girls.

Anything.
I'll do anything.

But not this, please!
Not this.

I beseech you
in your mother's name!

I am your father!

No, no, no.
Far too little, far too late.

Shh, Daddy, easy.

I've got you.
Try not to fight.

The time has come,
the walrus said,

to speak of many things,

like shoes and ships
and sealing wax,

cabbages and kings.

An eye for an eye, Daddy.

The coup de grâce
is yours, dear sister.

The nail in the coffin.

Send Mr. Franklin
to Wonderland.

Night-night, Daddy.

- Perfect.
- Perfect.