All language subtitles for The.Infernal.Machine.2022.2160p.WEBRip.DD5.1.HDR.X.265-EVO

Someone needs to stop Clearway Law.
Public shouldn't leave reviews for lawyers.

Good morning. It's 52 degrees

at nine o'clock
this Tuesday, June 23rd,

and here is our top story.

Tragedy in Knoxville.

Two days ago,
Sunday morning, June 21st,

a lone gunman entered

the Knoxville Baptist
University campus

with rifle in hand.

There, he climbed
the clock tower

and began firing
into the crowds below.

Thirteen are reported dead,
with 26 critically injured.

President Reagan
and the First Lady arrived

in Knoxville this afternoon

to console the grieving families
of the fallen.

Police have yet to release
the identity of the shooter,

but an anonymous source
is reporting

that the suspect in custody is

a 17 year-old boy.

We continue our coverage
on the Knoxville killings

with our very own
Frank Hutchinson,

who is live on the scene.

Uh, this is a message
for William DuKent.

Mr. DuKent. Um...

This is Bruce Cogburn.

I'm calling in response
to the letters

I've received from you.

I'm not sure how you...
you found me.

Perhaps you... you got my PO box
from an old agent or summit.

If so, that information
was never meant to be shared.

Nevertheless, it seems
from your letters, Mr. DuKent,

you know quite a bit about me.

So I can only assume

you're aware of my sentiment
when it comes to

discussing my work.

I don't do interviews.
Never have.

And I never will.

Anyway, I...

I want to wish you
all the best with your book.

The blank page can be
a terrifying prospect at times,

so good luck.

Mr. DuKent,

this is Bruce Cogburn
calling you again.

Every time I make
one of these calls,

I have to travel 14 miles
to the nearest phone booth.

Now, I feel I've been
nothing but courteous

when it comes to your book

and how I have no interest
in helping you with it.

But it seems I'm not
making myself clear.

So, piss off.

Your letters are unsolicited
and constitute harassment,

so please, stop sending them.

In the meantime, I'm going
to get rid of my PO box

so you can save yourself
the bother.

And one more thing.

You keep asking me,
why I never wrote a second book.

21st June. 1981. Knoxville.

But you know that.

Fuck.

A few days ago,

I received a package
on my doorstep.

It was a box of ink ribbons

for a very specific typewriter.

The one I used
when I wrote my book.

I should tell you that
some of the things

that have been said
about me are true.

For instance, if I find anyone

trespassing on my land...

that
person will be shot on sight.

That's not a threat.
That's just a fact.

So, stay away from me
and my home

and do not test
the sincerity of my resolve.

God bless America.

Hello. How are you?

I'll take two of those
small bottles as well, thanks.

Yeah.

Zwei, funf, sechs,

sechs, zwei, neun.

Eins, eins, funf, eins.

Saul.

According to the Hebrew Bible,

Saul was the first
king of Israel.

I bet you didn't know that.

And then during the battle
with the Philistines,

King Saul threw himself
on his own sword

to avoid being captured.

Hell of a way to go,
if you ask me.

Saul. Saul!

Are you Bruce Cogburn?

Maybe. Who's that letter from?

Uh... William DuKent.

What if I don't want it?

You could stop by the office,
fill out a few forms?

But I don't have
any on me, so...

Will you put it in that barrel?

You can put them all in there.

All of them?

There'll be more.

Bruce? Is that you?
Jerry?

How long has it been?

Listen, who have you
been talking to?

Sorry?

Who else knows where I live?

What are you talking about?

Your accountant, your secretary.

Bruce, I'm the only one

who knows anything
about you, okay?

Like we agreed.

Is everything all right?

Yeah.

- Bloody dandy.
- Okay, good.

Now, I know what
you're going to say,

but just hear me out.

The publishers want
to do a re-release.

A special anniversary edition.

And they're wondering
if you would write a foreword.

Just a few words.

Enough to remind the world
that you still exist.

How many words? For the book.
How many do you need?

Enough to fill a few pages.

I'll think about it.

You might be

the most persistent
fucking person

I've never even met.

Ninety handwritten letters

in this day and age
is no small task.

However, it has to stop.

I was someone important once.

But that seems to tell
a lot of people

that I am supposed to represent

whatever their
particular fantasy

of a hero is supposed to be.

But, Mr. DuKent?

My opinions...

are my own. Okay?

So, I suggest
you go out into the world...

and you discover for yourself
and you trust your own senses

'cause I'm not here to be
someone's fucking inspiration.

Someone's fucking muse.

Fuck.

What do you suppose...

might be the...

the outstanding characteristic
of humanity?

A, language?

B, tool-making?

Or C, obedience?

'Cause I think
it might be obedience.

We're a fucking social animal,
don't you agree?

We've evolved to get on
with each other.

To agree with each other,
for the most part.

However, we're the only
fucking creature

who displays arrogance

when it comes to our obedience.

Don't you agree?
Don't you agree?

Here's one for you.
To agree with the flat-Earthers.

The Flat Earth Society.

Straight off the top of my head.
Evidence might point to the fact

of a spherical Earth.

But... but,
that doesn't fucking mean

the Earth is round. Right?

I mean if you think about it,
most people

have only ever seen the Earth
round in a photograph.

Okay? You, me,

experiences our Earth
every day as flat.

Flat. Flat.

Well, actually it's a bit hilly.

So, maybe I need to stand
for the Hilly Earth Society.

I don't think
those flat-Earthers

have taken it far enough
if you ask me.

Clearly it's flat
and round and hilly

and all the other shapes
as well.

This is Bruce Cogburn

calling again
about the last call.

You need to stop writing...

You need to stop
writing to me, okay?

Morning.

There's a few meetings in town
I could point you towards,

Mr. Cogburn,
if you're interested.

No? Okay.

Okay.

I don't have to bring you home,
you do realize that?

We can just as easy
go down to the station

and straighten this out.

What would I be charged with?

Public intoxication.

I was in the telephone box.

On public property you were.

I've heard your name somewhere
before, Mr. Cogburn.

Are you famous?

You're that writer
of The Infernal Machine.

'Cause I remember in high school
them pulling it off the shelves

'cause of Knoxville.

That's you, huh? Cogburn.

In my car. In my car.

That's cool.

That's cool.

Didn't Manson
blame all his murders

on the Rolling Stones?

- The Beatles.
- What?

It wasn't the Rolling Stones.
It was the Beatles.

Right, right.
"Helter Skelter."

Fucking nutjob.
That guy's a fucking nutjob.

Crazy's always looking
for an excuse

to be crazy I guess, you know?

If it's like a... a song,
a talking dog, you know?

A book.

Funf, vier, eins, eins.

Sechs, eins, zehn.

Zwei, eins, eins, eins.

You like stock car racing?

Not particularly, no.

Same, same.

My brother? He's hardcore.

Ten years back,
he had a job cutting tires

for a race team
outside Carson City.

You know? They called
him the Dirt Whisperer

'cause, you know, he could
just look at a track

and know exactly how
to set those tires up.

Last race of the season,
you know,

championship points on the line,

the track is just beyond muddy.

Cars are sliding
all over the place,

and my brother calls his

driver in
to switch out the tires.

And like a dozen laps later,
the back tire blows.

Driver loses control, that's it.

Hits a car, that car hits
another car. So on, so on.

Next thing you know,
four drivers, dead.

So, you know,
they do their investigation,

and they find nothing wrong
with that tire.

It just blew.

Sometimes that just happens
in racing.

- What happened to your brother?
- He quit racing.

Spent a few years bouncing
from rehab to rehab.

Now, he's a night manager
at Walmart.

Which is a shame 'cause...

he loved racing.

Who...

am I?

Who am I, really?

That's the question that every
protagonist needs to answer

by the end of their story.

If your hero hasn't reached

some sort of cathartic
realization about who they are

or what they believe in by the last
page...

...then I'm sorry to inform you,
ladies and gents,

you have failed your reader.

What if I don't
have anything to say?

Then you're not
digging deep enough.

Dig deep.

The road you construct

for your characters
to travel along,

it shouldn't be paved,
shouldn't be easy.

Because finding out who you are

never is.

I'm of two minds

when it comes to apologizing.

On the one hand,

life's best lived
looking forward

and not crying
over spilled milk.

And on the other hand,
it does strengthen

a certain kind of integrity
to own up to one's mistakes.

So, on that note, I'm sorry
I told you I'd kill you.

Now, I know I didn't use
those words exactly,

but the insinuation
was certainly there, so.

That being said,

I'd like to offer this gift
in the spirit of contrition.

It's a little blurb
for your book.

Quote.

"William DuKent is a right
royal pain in the ass.

But he does have
a lot of backbone,

which is more than I can say
for the rest of the world.

Bruce Cogburn."

End quote.

And merry Christmas too
if you...

if you believe in
that sort of thing.

Listen, if you fancy a drive,

there's a small café around here
called the Casa Segura.

It's just off the 62.

If you happen to be there
on Friday morning,

say eleven o'clock,

I might just be there too.

Okay.

To save this message, press one.

Message saved.

Refill?

Yeah, thanks.

There you are.

Sorry, I'm late.

I won't lie to you.

I had every intention
of standing you up.

And then, of course, the day
rolls around and I thought,

sod it, I may as well get this
over and done with.

So, you can imagine my surprise

when you were the one
who stood me up.

I've not received any letters
from you in this past week,

so I'm glad my messages
have got through.

Time for you to start pestering
another victim, eh?

Oh, and you can keep
the blurb for your book.

You earned that.

Well, I guess this is
goodbye, Mr. DuKent.

Goodbye.

Like I was telling you, sir,

we pick up and deliver same day.

You need a package delivered
to San Diego by day's end...

Thank you, Corina.
Well, we can do that.

So, you do pickup then?

It's more convenient
for our customers that way.

Because I need to know
where this envelope

has been picked up from.

Well, you have used us before.
How was the service?

When you're done.
Relentless.

Yeah? Well, what's
the return address?

It's Aspen, Colorado.

Aspen, Colorado?

Well, we definitely
don't go out that far.

Well, it's obviously being
picked up from somewhere.

Yeah, that's usually
how it works, sir.

There must be some address
that you can give to me.

With all due respect, sir,

we are very protective
of our clientele's privacy.

Company policy.
I'm sure you can understand.

No way, dude.

Correct, but don't
forget about the invoice.

Okay? Thank you.

I understand.

But I need that address.

I'm not finding anything.

No pickups,
no deliveries, nothing.

There must be
some kind of mistake.

Where did you
get this from again?

From your driver.
I have 100 of these at my house.

One of our drivers
delivered this to you?

Yes. He drives a red hatchback.

Like I was telling you, sir,

these are the only vehicles
our drivers use.

Whole time? Fucking
asshole! Uninvited!

Bloody car!

Mr. Cogburn?

Are you all right?

And did you catch
the plates at all?

No.

You know, Colorado, Nevada,
Texas, they all look different.

I didn't see them.

And was he a big guy?
Skinny? Short? Tall? I don't know.

Oh, come on. You gotta remember
something. Well, I fucking don't, okay?

I didn't get a good
enough look at him, so...

Okay, so I don't need
this shit today.

This is actually my day off.

So why don't you just
come by the station.

I... I think
he had long hair. Like...

a sort of mousy color, I think.

What about these letters?
What do they say?

Nothing.
It's just a wannabe writer.

Oh, okay. So, they're more
fan mail-ish than death threats?

He's bloody well been
to my house.

You know, how about
the guy who read your book?

The shooter from Knoxville.
No, it's not him.

Are you sure about that?

He's rotting away
in... in a supermax prison

somewhere in New Mexico
for a long time, it's not him.

- Can we go home now?
- We can.

I'm gonna stop by the station
and run this Colorado address.

I'm also going to go by
some motor lodges

and just see if anyone's
checked in with a red hatchback.

Okay.

Can I ask you a question?

Is there anybody out there
who might have

a score to settle with you?

No. Okay. All right.
Okay, let's do it.

You call me if anything changes.

Take it easy, Mr. Cogburn.

Are we still getting ice cream?
- No.

We're going to get
some fish, uncooked.

Like, raw fish.

Ew. No. I want ice cream.

That's right, the fire marshal

revealed there is evidence
that someone intentionally set

this suburban Aspen home
on fire.

Neighbors tell me the home
has been abandoned for decades,

but the evil, as they call it,
that once lived here

at 53 Highland Avenue

was once the center
of a national tragedy.

In June of 1981,
17-year-old Dwight Tufford

left his Aspen home

to drive 23 hours
to Knoxville, Tennessee.

Once there,
he did the unthinkable,

killing 13 people and injuring
nearly two dozen more

in just a matter of minutes.

From the top of the tower
in the middle of campus,

Tufford took aim
at the crowd below

with a high-powered rifle.

During the trial,
Tufford told the judge

he was innocent, and testified

he was brainwashed into
committing the killings

after reading
the controversial novel,

The Infernal Mach...

You're a fucking coward.
You hear me? A fucking coward.

I know what
you look like, DuKent.

And if I find you,
I'm gonna fucking kill you.

You understand?
I'm gonna fucking kill you!

Fuck!

Hey. Saul?

What the fuck?

You have one new message.

To listen
to your messages, press one.

You're a fucking coward.

Hear me? A fucking coward.

I know what
you look like, DuKent.

And if I find you,
I'm gonna fucking kill you.

You understand?
I'm gonna fucking kill you!

To save this message, press one.

To save this message, press one.

To save this message, press one.

Message saved.

This is the model
of the shooting.

Knoxville.

Yeah.

That's it.
So what will you do now?

Well, nothing, really. I mean,
technically, we're trespassing.

- Trespassing? Fuck off.
- Relax, I'm on your side.

What's on that tape?

I don't know.

We've got a credit card receipt

for a high-powered rifle
with your name on it.

Dozens of witnesses
place you at the scene.

I didn't do it.

Didn't do what, Mr. Tufford?

I didn't do those things.

Dwight.
Can I call you Dwight?

Listen. We can't help you

unless you help us,
you understand?

The rifle. The one that we found
in your car, is that yours?

Yes.

Did you
go up into the bell tower

with that rifle?

Yes.

I know the next
part isn't going to be easy,

but I need to hear you
say it, all right?

I...

I, uh...

I didn't have a choice.

He had to be punished.

Who had to be punished, Dwight?

God.

You see, we're just a row
of dominos to Him.

And once you and I tip over,
we're no longer relevant.

That's why he made us
mortal, you know?

So we can fade to dust.
Disappear.

But if we can find the dominos,

the ones that haven't
tipped over yet...

well maybe there's a chance
to stop this.

Stop what?

His plan.

I didn't kill anyone
this morning.

I just stole a few
of God's dominos.

And maybe, if I'm lucky,

maybe they haven't
tipped over just yet.

You a religious man?

A member of some sort of cult?
No.

Then where the hell did an idea

like this come from?

The Infernal Machine.

You should read it.

You should all read it.

Then you'll understand
how insignificant

we all are to Him.

I'm not afraid of you anymore.

You hear me?

You hear me?

You can't stop it now,
you sick fuck!

Sit down.
I know my purpose!

Get back in
the chair. I know my purpose!

I know my purpose!

I'm just going to have a smoke.

You mind telling me
what that book of yours

is all about?

Uh, it's about a priest
who finds God.

Metaphorically, or?

No, no. Uh, actually.

What do they talk about?

Um... the...
the priest wants to know

what his purpose is in life,
so God...

tells him, explains to him,
that when he was 12,

he... he got him
to walk across the road to...

slow down a car.

So, who was in the car?

It's not... it's not relevant
who was in the car.

He just needed it
to be slowed down.

That's it?

Yeah. That's it.

And then, in the end,
the priest gets his revenge.

What, on God?

O... on everybody.

I'm going to go home.

There's just this one thing
I want you to see inside.

Every time
I make one of these calls,

I have to travel 14 miles
to the nearest phone booth.

I don't need to listen to these.
I know what I said.

It's not yours
you need to listen to.

This call
will be recorded and monitored.

You have a collect call from...

Dwight Tufford.

...an inmate at

the Federal Penitentiary
of New Mexico.

To accept this call, press one.

Message saved. Next message.

This call
will be recorded and monitored.

- You have a collect call from...
- Elijah?

Are you here?

You all right?

Officer
Higgins. BRUCE: It's Bruce.

Uh... listen.

You wouldn't know anyone
over at the supermax

in New Mexico, would you?

I know
a few guards there. Why?

I think I might need a favor.

You've got ten minutes.

I don't smoke.

Do I know you?

No.

You don't look like a "Smith."

I would have gone with an O'Hara

or a Campbell, personally, but

hey, it's a free country, right?

You a writer?

Why do you ask that?
Folks coming here are either

A, writers, or B, shrinks.

I'm neither.

Good.

Then we're off to a great start.

So just who the fuck
are you then?

Nobody important.

I... I'm just here to talk.

Okay.

About William DuKent.

You a cop?
No.

Hey, fellas?
You know the rules.

My lawyer has gotta be present
if this guy is a cop.

I'm not a cop.

But I know that you've spoken
with DuKent recently.

You're not very good
at poker, are you?

That question,
right out the gate.

Way too specific.

There's no gray area
to work with.

Now, if you had replaced
the word "spoken"

with "communicated,"...

then I wouldn't have known
what you know, you know?

But you said "spoken,"

which tells me that...

you don't know shit.

Words, if you don't know
how to play them,

they'll sure as hell play you.

So, what do you want
with William DuKent?

I'll answer that after you tell
me what he wanted from you.

My opinion.
Your opinion about what?

A book. The Infernal Machine.
You ever read it?

No. Good. Don't. That
book will fuck you up.

The right combination of words
will make a man do...

just about anything.

Five minutes.

You ever heard
of number stations before?

During the Cold War,
there was these

short-wave radio broadcasts

that sent out these cryptic
messages across the airwaves.

Usually, a woman's voice

spouting out numbers
and shit in German.

And to the general public,
it sounded like

a bunch of nonsense,
when in actual fact,

it was a complex cipher.

The beauty of this was,
instead of marking X on a window

or hiding microfilm
in a hollow tooth,

these sons of bitches
had the audacity

to send their top-secret
transmission

right out into the open
for the whole world to hear.

What, are you saying there's
a hidden message in that book?

Something like that.

And what is it? Well, you
didn't read it, now did you?

So it would be like
trying to describe

the color turquoise
to a blind man.

So, I'm a blind man now?

You all are.

That's funny. I thought
we were all dominos.

I'm done talking here.
Hold on.

It's so easy to sit on
that side of the world

and judge me, isn't it?

Why did DuKent want
your opinion?

Ask him yourself.

Guard.

Please, just tell me now.

He wanted to know if I saw

the same things in the book
as he did.

But in the end,
he turned out to be

just a fucking liar,
like everyone else.

Why? What did he lie about?

He told me
that if I was honest with him,

then he'd show up.
That he would? DuKent?

No. The motherfucker
that put me in here.

Bruce Cogburn.

Sechs, zwei, neun.

We're sorry.

Your call cannot
be completed and dialed.

Please, check the number
and dial again.

We're sorry.

Your call cannot
be completed and dialed.

Please, check the number
and dial again.

We're sorry.

Your call cannot be
completed and dialed.

Please, check the number
and dial again.

We're sorry.

Your call cannot
be completed and dialed...

Bruce.
Jerry.

I'm not sure what
you've been told,

or who you've been talking to...

We got the manuscript.
It's brilliant.

- What?
- Anonymous? Oh, come on.

There's nobody
that writes like you.

I'm not sure
how we're going to spin

this whole subject matter
and all.

Makes perfect sense
why you're going

with the whole
"anonymous" angle.

What are you talking about?

It's just, your protagonist

sounds a lot like you.

But I gotta tell ya,
this William DuKent,

he is something else.

What did you say?

William DuKent.
Am I saying it right?

When can we get the rest
of the manuscript?

- Send it! Send it to me!
- What?

Bruce, what the hell
are you talking about?

Send me the fucking
manuscript, Jerry!

I'm calling
in response to the letters

I've received from you.

I'm not sure how you found me.

Maybe you got my PO box
from an old agent or summit.

Saul. According
to the Hebrew Bible,

Saul was the first
king of Israel.

I bet you didn't know that.

Your letters are unsolicited

and constitute harassment,

so please, stop sending them.
You hear me?

'Cause I'm not here to be
someone's fucking inspiration.

Someone's fucking muse.

I've heard your name
somewhere. Are you famous?

- Who the fuck are you?
- Nobody important.

- You're that writer.
- 21st June. 1981.

Knoxville.
That book will fuck you up.

Crazy's always looking
for an excuse to be crazy,

- I guess, you know?
- He had to be punished.

Who had to
be punished? DWIGHT: God.

It's about a priest
who finds God.

- Metaphorically?
- No, actually.

The right combination
of words will make a man do...

We're just a row of dominoes
to him. BRUCE: ...just about anything.

You saying there's a
hidden message in that book?

Fucking nutjob.
That guy's a fucking...

I don't need to listen
to these. I know what I said.

Fade to dust. Disappear.

You gotta remember...

You don't know shit.

Stop writing to me, okay?

- What do they say?
- Nothing.

Words...

if you don't
know how to play them...

- If I find you...
- ...they'll sure as hell

- play you.
- You understand?

- I'm gonna fucking kill you!
- Mr. Cogburn?

These just came in for you.

We got the manuscript.

It's brilliant.

Anonymous? Oh, come on.

There's nobody
that writes like you.

I know where we are, Mr. DuKent.
I know exactly where we are.

We're at the end
of act two, aren't we?

That's where the protagonist
reaches their limits.

Questions their worth.

Their sanity. Everything.

Because they know
the path traveled

pales in comparison
to what lies ahead.

And it's in this moment,
Mr. DuKent,

that a decision must be made.

Do they carry on,

or do they stop and go back?

But only they
can make that choice.

And that, Mr. DuKent,
is where you fucked up.

Because your protagonist

is too aware
of your narrative now,

and to make matters worse,
he's also a writer.

So he knows exactly
what a good story needs,

and also how to sabotage one.

What's the greatest sin
a writer can commit?

Do you know?

Being dull.

And that's exactly
what I'm going to give you,

you stupid fucking cunt.

A long, drawn-out,
uneventful, boring ending.

Because nobody gives a damn
about an inspired second act

if your finale
is a big pile of shit.

Wouldn't you agree?

Zwei, sechs, sechs, zwei.

Without a doubt.

Who is it?

United States federal
marshals, Mr. Cogburn.

Ah, we've gone
federal now, have we?

Can you step outside, please?

I suppose you've got
some convincing ID printed up?

Everything all right there,
Mr. Cogburn?

Everything all right with you?

Were you in New Mexico
a few days back?

I don't know, you tell me.

Mind telling us
the reason for the trip?

I was visiting someone.

Was that someone Dwight Tufford?

Well, that's not a crime, is it?

That's not a crime, sir,
but signing in as Richard Smith

at the front desk,
that's a crime.

Where'd you get this from?

We're aware of the history
between you two, all right?

We're just trying to figure out

why you would want to go
and see him now.

Closure, I guess.

Has Dwight Tufford contacted
you in the last 24 hours?

No. Why would he do that?

You been
watching TV this morning?

I don't have a television.
I'm not that kind of person.

Why?

The FBI's manhunt is focusing

its search on Dwight Tufford
in the Los Alamos area

of New Mexico.

Despite being held
in a maximum-security prison,

Tufford somehow slipped
past the guards last night,

sparking a nationwide panic.

In 1981, Tufford arrived

at the Knoxville Baptist
University campus with a rifle.

Taking aim, he pointed his gun
at the crowd below

and he shot dozens.

Thirteen students
and faculty members died.

He is responsible for
the deadliest shooting

in Tennessee history.

One witness described it
as mass chaos.

No one knew where the bullets
were coming from,

or where to run.

But so was Orwell's 1984

or Joyce's Ulysses
when first published.

The only crime
Mr. Cogburn ever committed

was writing one book.

So it begins
with the author's intent?

That's fair to say. MALE
INTERVIEWER: So, what is the intent

of The Infernal machine?

I believe
only Mr. Cogburn

can answer that question.

Take it easy,
Mr. Cogburn.

Are we still getting ice cream?

No. We're going
to get some fish, uncooked.

Like, raw fish.

Ew. No. I want ice cream.

Just give her five minutes,
then the stage is yours.

Show's not till 7 tomorrow,

so I assume you should have
plenty of time to set up?

Okay, sure.

A year ago, I couldn't even
get her to sing in the car.

She's your daughter?

Yeah.

She booked her first
TV job last week.

I mean, nothing much.

A walk-on on one of those hidden
camera shows? But she loved it.

What was the show?

They never tell you that.

They had her playing
in the park or something?

The casting director,
she was lovely.

She was great, great with kids.

Do you have kids?
Should take them there.

Bishop and Rook.
I mean, amazing.

It's so good.
Bishop and Rook?

Yeah, she's great
with kids, yeah.

Can't wait for her
to book another job.

Reservation?

Mister?
You forgot something.

Oh!

Oh!

Don't fucking move.

Umm... I'll have another
vodka tonic, actually.

And my associate here,
a whiskey, I believe?

Stand up. We're not
doing this here.

Well, I believe we are.
What, you think

that revolver is going
to convince me otherwise?

Why don't you give it a go?

I'm not sure you'll have
much luck, though,

considering we took all
the bullets out of the gun.

Bullshit.

Well, there's only one way
to find out.

Right. So, I think
we are going to do this,

so why don't you take a seat?

What do you want?
From you? Nothing.

Then who are you?

Say a young couple
wants to get married.

They find themselves
a wedding planner.

Or if you want to host
a fancy dinner party,

you hire a chef.

But if you need to turn
someone's world upside down,

then you hire me.

And that's what
you think you're doing?

No, it's what I've done.
The proof of that is you

sitting right opposite me.
Thank you.

The reason I'm sitting
opposite you is

because I found
your fake daughter.

You're a sicko,
endangering a kid like that.

Endangered?
That's a bit dramatic, isn't it?

That little angel went home
with 300 dollars in her pocket.

All she had to do was
pretend to be

someone else for a few hours.

Isn't that what you've been
doing the last 25 years?

Do you know, the difference
between you and I

is that I know what I am.

I'm a liar.
And I'm fucking good at it.

I can be anything
you want me to be.

Could be a person,
a company, a scenario.

Usually, the marks are
sort of politicians and CEOs.

They're always boring.
They're always forgettable.

And that's what separates
you from them.

What, because I'm not boring?
Oh no, you're very boring.

But you're not forgettable.

And that's why
I took this assignment.

Because history is going
to remember you, Bruce.

And that really bothers me.

Because you dress in your
sort of Sam Shepard clothes,

and you drink like Capote
and live like Thompson,

all so the world will know
there's artistic genius,

but you and I know
there's no artistic genius.

There's no mystique.
Shut it.

You got lucky.

You built your ivory tower
brick by brick with lies.

Shut your fucking mouth.
And I'm here

to make sure you burn in it.

'Cause you see, it's pride
that's the Achilles' heel

of mediocre men.

Shut it with
your fucking pride talk.

That's not the reason
why I'm here.

Right. Sorry. Yes, of course.
My bad. So...

that little girl,
I so carelessly endangered.

Okay, total hypothetical here,
what if, just what if,

I wanted you to find the girl,
her mother, my office,

the stack of receipts,
all of it? Right.

Right, well, that would make
you a fucking genius,

and I don't think you are.
No.

Probably not.

Mister? Mister?

You forgot something.

Mister? Mister?
You forgot something.

Wait...

Oh!

Wait.

I'm not sure
you'll have much luck, though,

considering we took
all the bullets out of the gun.

Bullshit. There's only one way to find out.

There's only
one way to find out.

Wait. Hold on.

Listen, I don't know...

Who are you?
Oh, nobody important.

I'm just the messenger.

Then who's sending
the fucking messages?

Don't worry, Bruce.
You'll see him soon enough.

You all right?

I've got a steak
in the fridge if you like.

Come on.

Saul?

Saul?

Saul! Hey! Hey!

Saul!

Saul!

Fuck.

Saul!

Hello?

Bruce?

That dog of yours
has got a lot of spirit.

Do you want to come out
and talk about it?

No?

Okay.

Hell of a gun
you got yourself here, Bruce.

If I would have had
one of these on the day,

I would have gotten a lot more
than 13, I'll tell you that.

Like shooting fish in a barrel.

The first eight I killed,

they were easy.

They just stood there.

Emotionless.

Confused.

Like they couldn't make sense
of any of it.

'Cause you can't make sense
out of madness now...

can you, Bruce?

No. You can't.

But you killed 13, not eight.

What were the other five
guilty of?

Running in straight lines,
I guess.

Ah.

I really wish
that you and I had met

under different circumstances.

Because I've got
a lot of questions

about that book of yours.

Shh! Shh!

Don't worry, Bruce.

I ain't letting you die,
I'll make sure of that.

You see,

I gave 20 years of my fucking
life for that book of yours.

And now I'm going
to need some answers.

Eight hundred pages' worth.

And there is nothing,
and I mean nothing,

that I'm not willing to do.

"There they go.

One by one, two by two,

that long line

crawling its way
up the sidewalk.

Builders.

Doctors.

Farmers. Plumbers. Thieves.

All entering God's house
like ants

walking across
a picnic blanket."

God, you've got a way
with words, Bruce.

"Then the priest thought..."

"...why don't they join me
out here on the grass?

That way, the ones
who want sun, get it,

and the ones that don't, don't.

This way,
I can tell them the truth.

That it's 95 degrees.

That's all I know for certain.

The rest is up
for interpretation."

The book...

What does it all mean?

Pl... Please...

Well, I would
like to tell you...

but the truth is...

I didn't write it.

Professor.

Elijah's been on life support
for the past two weeks.

Even if he woke up,
he'd never be the same.

My wife and I agree that...

we need to end his suffering.

What would I write about?

Anything.
Anything you want.

It's about a priest.

Does it have a title?

No, not yet.

Zwei, sechs, sechs, zwei.

Zwei, zwei, sechs,

sechs, zwei, neun.

Eins, eins, funf,
eins, vier, neun.

Zwei, zwei, sechs,
sechs, zwei, neun.

Zwei, zwei, sechs,

sechs, zwei, neun.

Eins, eins, funf, eins, zehn.

Zwei, zwei,

sechs, sechs, zwei, neun.

Eins.

Eins.

Sechs.

Eins.

Sieben.

Zwei.

Neun.

"There they go.
One by one, two by two,

that long line crawling
its way up the sidewalk.

Builders, doctors, teachers,
farmers, plumbers, thieves.

All entering God's house
like ants

marching across
a picnic blanket.

Elijah?

How did you find me?

W... with lots and lots...

of patience.

How long have you been here?

Almost five years, Professor.

Oh, God.

Cause and effect.

Action and reaction.

If you know the physical
properties of something,

you can make it do
almost anything you...

want.

Human beings are no different.

So, you knew I was coming?

I was hoping for that

conclusion, yes.

I'm not a fortune teller,
I'm just a...

just a writer.

You see, all I did was

place a few obstacles
in your path, and then I...

waited to see what you would do.

And I must confess
that the dog...

was a nice touch.

How is Saul doing
by the way, hm?

He'll live.

Will Mr. Tufford
be joining us today?

I see.

That's good.
I never was very...

very fond of that ending anyway.

What ending is that?

Every story

ends in one of two ways.

Either the hero faces
his fears and is reborn,

or he is punished

for failing to change.

And I'm really
curious, Professor.

Which one are you?

Don't you lecture me.

What was I supposed to do?

Your father told me,
he was gonna

turn your fucking machine off.

And that book was too important

to just sit
on the fucking shelf!

What do you want from me?

What do you want from me?

I only wish to take

what you're willing to give me.

All right.

Right.

And the point
to all of this is...

...is punishment?

Justice? Retribution?
Atonement?

That's the point, is it?

Writer's block.

Since you stole...

my first book, Bruce, I...

I thought you...

you wouldn't mind helping me...

write my second book.

But then...

the more I wrote,

the more I realized,

"This is not my story."

I know you... you
didn't write it.

But you lived it.

Every page, every line,
every word.

Don't worry, Professor.

This is a...

a happy ending.

For 25 years,

the world has waited for

Bruce Cogburn's
next masterpiece.

And today,

today is the day

that we give it to them.

Why are you doing this?

I need to know that I am more
than a book...

full of rage.

I truly believed
that you had died.

I was dead.

For 19 minutes.

Would you like to know
what I found on the other side?

I... I found...

nothing.

My whole life, I...

I blamed God for everything
that was

wrong with me, and I...

wanted so much
for the world to...

to know Him the way
that I knew Him as a...

a child,

a cruel child with a...

with a magnifying glass.

And we are just the ants
that He plays with.

But then...

I died.

And I realized...

there is no child.

There is no magnifying glass.

There is only us ants.

And we are the ones who

started the fire.

All those misguided gods,

all those beliefs...

...all bullshit.

Oh, what is that?

It's a letter.
Who is that

To my agent.

I'm done playing this part.

What did you put in
that letter, Bruce?

Bruce?

Professor?

Professor!

What's in that letter?

The truth, Elijah.

It's the truth.

Elijah?

This is incredible writing.

Thank you, Professor.

It's exquisite.

Now, bugger off.
Yes. Thank you.

I'm serious, Elijah.
Everything I read of yours,

it's so surprising to me.
It's unpredictable.

You need to be
a professional writer.

What if I don't have
anything to say?

Then you're
not digging deep enough.

Dig deep.

Elijah?

What do you think, Professor?

I can't wait to read it.

Dig deep. Dig deep.

What's that?
Dig deep.

I don't think I could have dug
any deeper than this, Professor.

He's gonna be so mad at me.

I'm... I'm supposed to wait.

I don't know if I can wait.
Wait for what?

Wait for what, Elijah?

To see the look on God's face.

No!

My wife and I agree that

we need to end his suffering.

Thank you for everything
you've done for our boy.

I have to go.
I'm so sorry.

I appreciate you telling me.

Who...

am I?

Who am I, really?

That's the question
that every protagonist

needs to answer
by the end of their story.

If your hero hasn't reached

some sort of cathartic
realization about who they are

or what they believe in
by the last page,

then I'm sorry to inform you,
ladies and gents,

you have failed your reader.

Professor.
Thank you for everything.

You are a really good teacher.

Did you know that?

You're the only person
that gets me.

You made me a...

a better writer. You made me...
you made me better.

I couldn't have done this
without you.

The road you construct

for your characters
to travel along,

it shouldn't be paved,
shouldn't be easy.

Because finding out who you are

never is.

Someone needs to stop Clearway Law.
Public shouldn't leave reviews for lawyers.