Original subtitles

JJ?

Even better.

It's your imaginary friend, Clare.

I'm not crazy.

You're just trying to make me think I'm going crazy.

Oh, like your high school teacher did?

How do you know about him?

Mr. Leonard?

Is that what you called him when he fucked you on his desk

during fourth period?

Fuck you.

Now we're talking.

I lost everything.

My family, my friends, my whole fucking life.

So if it's vengeance that you want, that's already been taken care of.

Yeah, so it did happen, the fucking on the desk.

Why'd you say it didn't?

Why'd you take it back?

I don't... I don't know.

Because no one believed me anyway.

How do you even know what happened to me?

Because there are no secrets anymore.

It's so easy to find out anything about anyone on the Internet.

In fact, I've been following you your whole life.

Or at least your whole online life, which is the only one that matters.

I'm just one Boo Boo follower among many.

That's why you're doing this?

You found me online?

No, you accepted my request.

You wanted more likes.

You opened your door to a monster.

Fuck you.

You're just a pervert with a god complex.

Statistically speaking,

people who've endured severe childhood trauma,

like getting diddled

by one's high school English teacher, don't get better.

A life of quiet desperation

and consistent underachievement is what awaits you.

That or suicide.

Fuck you. Fuck your statistics.

I don't care about them.

Oh, you should.

All you people are algorithms in the end.

The others were so predictable.

Others?

There are others?

This... this isn't just about me.

Is this some sort of experiment?

Our time is up.

No, no, no. Just... just wait. Please.

- I'm not done. - Yes, you are.

It's a trap! Don't listen to him!

JJ? You don't, you don't have to hurt him. Okay?

You two sound like regurgitated movie pablum.

- I thought you were a writer. - Don't listen...

This is, this is between you and me.

Okay? This is, this is not, this is not about him.

Oh.

I got to go.

Carl, listen to me, please.

'Cause here come the po-po.

- Hands up! - I give up.

- I give up, okay? I... - Don't move!

Keep your hands in the air where I can see them.

No sudden movements.

Turn around.

Remain calm.

I'm not gonna run anymore. There's no point.

We didn't kill that cop.

I know.

We pulled footage from an ATM camera

of you and your friend on the opposite side of downtown

when the execution of Officer Connelly occurred.

But still,

a cop is dead.

The whole city is on red alert

with a dead cop and that murdered Salvadorean woman.

Everyone thinks it's the second coming

of Manson and friends, thanks to you and your bullshit.

So this is what's gonna happen.

You're gonna open up that pretty little mouth,

and whatever comes out better put an end to this nightmare.

Understood?

I want my phone call first.

Make your fucking call.

Phone sex again?

You slut.

Is that how you picked us?

The ones who shared their tragedies

on social media?

And the ones like you who wanted second chances.

A new life.

All the others gave up pretty quickly once I showed up to test them.

They were weak.

Not you, though.

Carl, why are you doing this?

I will break you.

No one beats the math.

Stop talking in fucking riddles.

It's not a riddle. It's a simple fucking premise.

Can you change, Clare?

I think not.

In fact, I'm betting on it, based on your insipid Facebook posts.

Facebook? What does that have to do with anything?

None of the shit that we put online is real.

It's the only thing that is real.

They're already able to predict with 90% accuracy

who will get Alzheimer's based on people's social media.

And who will be a drug addict.

All with an algorithm.

Why do I do this?

Because whoever figures out the mathematical formula

determining the losers and the winners in life

will rule the fucking world.

I mean, seriously, who needs God when I've got an algorithm?

But I fucked it up.

I fucked up your algorithm.

I fought back.

Listen to me, Carl.

Whatever it is that you want, I will give it to you...

... if you just let him go.

You can beat the math.

You can do it.

You just... Please just let him go.

You dream of Prince Charming riding up on his trusty steed to save you.

Too bad you can't save him.

When the going gets tough,

the gal that drove 1,617 miles over the rainbow

breaks down and cries.

Just like you always do.

You want to know how this story ends, Boo Boo?

You go to fucking jail?

It worked. He took the bait.

We got his location.

- Synced and corrected by chamallow - - www.addic7ed.com -