All language subtitles for The Monkeys Mask (2000).en

Jill...

how much guts have you got?

We've got Mickey Norris coming up.

Mickey?

Put your hands together
for Mickey Norris.

Love is a torture.

Love tortures me.

Does love torture you?

If it does,

why are you laughing?

I feel you in the room like a knife.

You cut out my cunt.
So why not cut out my heart?

Your prick is a knife that hurts me.

You grunt like a beautiful pig.

I wish my cunt could hurt you.

It was really dreadful!

But your stuff,
high energy, high impact.

- You should be in print.
- I'll see you guys later, okay?

Yeah, see you later, Mickey.
Bye, Mickey.

Bye.

I came for the quiet.

I don't mind the cold.

But thick mists, thick neighbours
and involuntary celibacy...

are as inductive to hard drinking
as high rent and corrupt cops.

I can't remember
what adrenalin tastes like.

I need Sydney.

I need a new job.

Hello.

Yes, this is Jill Fitzpatrick.

Yes, I do missing persons.

My place is my car.

Action.

Business.

And pleasure.

My window my work.

I spy with my little eye
the cheating world.

- Milk... sugar?
- Both, ta.

Two weeks.

Look.

Photos.

She's pretty. She's sweet.

She's too good to be true.

Perhaps she went off
with a boyfriend.

Mickey doesn't have a boyfriend.

She has friends, but not a...

She doesn't drink.

She doesn't even smoke.

She's going to be a journalist.

She's flatting, but she still comes
home Sunday nights.

Tea, darling?

Never tell them where
the kid is until you get paid.

When the tears have dried,
no one wants to part with money.

It's open.

Hi, I'm looking for Mickey.

I'm her old teacher.

Look, her parents are worried sick.

Tianna!

Just a minute.

- Who was that?
- Someone looking for Mickey.

- Why?
- I don't know.

Probably wants
to fuck her like you did.

Poetry.

Tony Brach.

Bill McDonald.

"Jesus loves me" shit with
the odd nature poem thrown in.

Another Tony Brach...

autographed lovingly.

To my darling Mickey, all my love.

Was this Mickey's life?

Books, raving, drugs,
gorging and anorexia.

It was never mine.

19, I was in the force
baby-sitting female juveniles.

No gun.

Now 28, all muscle,
street smart, no education.

"Finally the teenage girl's tits,

like newborn kittens,

furl me in animal bliss".

I have to confess
a bias for that last poem.

Tony Brach is a friend of mine.

I can't claim Ezra Pound as a friend.
He died some time ago.

But listen to the same
emotions in his words.

It travels.

It's pure feeling sensual,
physical of the language.

Examine each word close up...

as if you're fingering the wrists...

the neck...

of your lover.

"In her is the end of breeding.

Her boredom is
exquisite and excessive.

She would like someone
to speak to her,

and is almost afraid...

that I will commit that indiscretion."

May I help you?

Mickey Norris.

I mean, I'm Jill Fitzpatrick.

But I'm looking for Mickey,
she's missing.

Let me get rid of these.

She's gritty. She's bright.

Oh, Christ help me!

She's a bit of all right!

I can't really talk here.

How about lunch?

Sure.

I've transmogrified from a Classicist...

into someone
who feeds off popular culture.

There is no culture otherwise.
Nostalgia isn't culture.

Once we start enshrining customs,
they're gone.

When did you last see Mickey?

Her poetry tutorial a fortnight ago.

Did she mention going away?

She was her usual self.

And what's that?

Intense and shy
like most poetry maniacs.

That's quite a combination.

Her flatmate told me she's having
an affair with a married poet.

Very probably.

Does Tony Brach or Bill McDonald
mean anything to you?

Of course.

I like to taste a new job.

I like to follow its flavour.
And this one?

Alcohol.

A smooth red.

A taste I'm not used to.
A taste going straight to my head.

Is she...

gorgeous?

- My car's that way.
- Well, it's nice to meet you.

Yeah.

I need to know if a cheque I wrote
two weeks ago has been presented.

Mickey Norris. Norris.

N for Nancy, O for orifice.

No, I don't remember my password.

I'm blind, but that's hard
for you to imagine there...

in your cosy little office
how it is to li...

No transactions? Thanks.

- Hello.
- Tony Brach? Tracked you down.

How's the weather up north?
- Who is this?

I'm a friend of Mickey Norris.
I think you do know her.

Just send her home.
Her parents are worried.

Hair of the dog.

Oh, great.

Dad... you're incorrigible.

Yeah.

Oh, great.

Know your problem?

- You've got no feminine compassion.
- Yeah, right! Get out of here!

Yeah.

You've got a client.

We keep meeting for coffee.

We don't talk about Mickey.

Could it be she fancies me?

Christ, what's the time?

I'm happy all right.
Fucking hysterical.

Where is she?

Sorry I'm late.

I just had to nip home.

I haven't nipped anywhere
for a long time.

You've changed. It's nice.

How can you stand
living so far from the city?

I couldn't hack Sydney any more.
I had to get out.

Go it alone.

And anyway my work isn't trendy.

It's mostly in the western suburbs.

I live in the Mountains,
Blacktown or Penrith would kill me.

How many women
have you slept with?

Am I your freak show?

How many have you slept with?

Concentrate.

Diana Maitland? I know her.

Poetry in crowd,

post-modern parasites
all fucking each other.

She's gorgeous, Lou.

Wrinkles round her eyes
and great legs.

And she's smart like a steel trap.

Too bad about her husband.

If you ask me, that woman's
big bloody trouble.

- I want you trouble on the rocks.
- And what about the missing girl?

Your mind should be on your job,
not on your cunt.

- I'm doing my best.
- To get into that bitch's pants.

Lou, go write a dirty poem.

I can get you some leads
in the poetry scene.

Even failed New Age
dyke poets like me...

rub shoulders with tortured Catholics
and faded intellectuals.

Just stop thinking about
that fucking woman.

In love I've got no style.

My heart is decked out
in bright pink track suit pants.

It weaves its huge bummed way
through the tables to Diana.

I think you saw her too.
She was all...

Hi.

This is my husband, Nick.
Jill.

Most of the Pls I get to meet
are big ugly pricks.

Ex-cops too bent
even for the force.

- I'm an ex-cop.
- Weren't you too short?

How's your nose
for tracking down brats?

- A waste of a smart woman's time.
- This smart woman needs the money.

I knew you two would hit it off.

You have to excuse me.
I've got a hearing.

Aggravated assault.
He crushed her face.

Doesn't the thought of the victim
get in the way?

The victim isn't paying me.

He does well.

He's good at what he does.

He's younger than you.

Only ten years.

I put him through Uni.

He wanted to conquer
my middle class breeding.

- And did he?
- You'd have to kill me to do that.

I was married once. Chris.

- Was he a policeman?
- She.

She was younger than me.

She was a young offender.

Not much younger than me but...

I baby sat her at the station.

What did she do?

You don't have to tell me.

It's Mickey's.

Mickey, like all the girl poets,
is trying to be Sylvia Plath.

- But without the loony bin.
- Who?

Let's just say she leads a double life.

Sweet exterior,
boiling passion inside.

Here I feel it, here.

Flutter, groan, grind in the belly.

What jellies my legs?
What flash floods my cunt?

Didn't they teach you
this in Brownies?

So that's what
they taught you in Brownies.

Why did you and Chris split up?

I'll tell you a dyke cautionary tale.

Chris and me...

were snug as two guinea pigs.

We had a lovely life, until
hand feeding and bedtime stories...

made us fat and dozy...

and a big bad fox
called boredom got in.

Dear.

I promise...

it won't be like
Beatrix Potter with me.

You get old and blunt.
You forget what it's like.

Her taste on my mouth.
The smell on my hands.

The cops should pick me up.
I can't walk in a straight line.

Hello, Jill.

This is Jean Norris.

We've found Mickey.

The little bugger was
with her poet boyfriend.

She's back
for her pocket money.

They say she must have been
involved in some...

I did fuck all apart from
fuck her teacher.

I can't believe Mickey's dead.

Death for asphyxiation.

You're not taking this on,
are you love?

Fuck off, Wesley.

Don't tempt me, you lezzo.

Found here.

Here at the bottom of our home.

Terrible things...

done to her.

We recognised her by her clothes.

If there's anything I can do, please.

You've been kind.

But we don't need you any more.

It's in the hands of the police.

Hands of the police!

It'd make you puke to see anything
in Wesley's thick fingers.

Let your lezzo friend shout you
a demo for Christmas.

I know his hands well.

In my last case
he showed me his cell,

and the flat of his hand.

They're a very wicked couple.

Mickey was murdered.
Strangled.

The dogs that dug her up
took chunks out of her arms.

Poor thing.
How are her parents coping?

Congratulations.

If anyone deserves it, you do.

My colleagues
are helping me celebrate.

- I got a research grant from UCLA.
- Congratulations.

- Would you like a drink?
- No. Thanks, anyway.

There's no drink...

to take away the taste
of a fresh face rotting.

- Jill Fitzpatrick.
- Jill, Jean Norris.

The police have been no help.

When you know who killed her,
don't tell the police. Tell me.

I'm not going to wait
for his light sentence.

Let the social workers wail
about his childhood,

after I've finished with him.

Mr. Norris?

- Jill?
- Yes, Mrs. Norris.

I'm sorry about Neville.

It's just...

We'd like you back.

Today...

I should be working.

I should be going through the
Coroner's report asking questions.

Today I'm not working.

I'm seeing Diana.

You're going grey over your ears.

I'm just an old bag.

Is that what Nick calls you?

Nick doesn't notice
the grey over my ears.

Nick doesn't notice anything.

G'day.

Have a good night?

Yeah.

You?

- Just got home.
- How do you do it?

I've got youth on my side
and desire.

- I mean your job.
- I love it.

I love demolishing
brain-dead cops in the witness box.

Does she talk in her sleep?

Not about you.

You're a brazen little tart.

Do you want a cup?
There's no rush.

Diana'll be doing her face
and Rome wasn't built in a day.

Looking for a photo of yourself
in there?

How's the North Shore princess job?

I've got a few leads.

She left a trail of lovers
like Hansel and Gretel left bread.

Didn't the bread get eaten by
scavenging birds?

Save your rhetoric
for the court room.

My two crusaders.

- He knows about us!
- Why do you mind?

Because he's a perv.

- Because it's our business.
- He likes you.

He likes talking about you...

almost as much as I do.

I can think of no finer example...

of our post colonial literature
than the book in hand.

Possum Press shows its commitment
to the voice of Australia.

This book is to be enjoyed
for its narrative scepticism,

its daring form,
its sheer writerly invention.

I hope you'll support
the oeuvre of our nation,

the author and, of course,
Possum Press.

- Where have you been?
- At the counter.

There's Bill McDonald.
He hates dykes.

That's Barbara, Tony Brach's wife.
She's a publisher.

You can't fart in the poetry scene
without Barbara's permission.

An editor, a script writer,
a meter reader...

Brian will read from
"Confiscated Computer".

Sometimes...

Sheen.

Soothing.

Jesus!

Tony's been banished to Brisbane.

Down here he runs a casting couch
for young female poets.

- Mickey had an affair with him?
- Of course!

Barb lets him get away with
murder for the empire.

But this time she went ape.

Grief.

The way you conceive it is one thing.
The way you sell it is another.

Your friend's
cover wouldn't have sold.

Jill Fitzpatrick, private investigator.

- I'm on the Mickey Norris case.
- Wondered where you fitted in.

Could we have a private word?
It is an urgent matter, as you know.

- No idea what you're talking about.
- The dead girl.

Why your husband went to Brisbane?

I could get the cops to find out.

They're not known
for their kid gloves.

Mickey was
a little slut with a father-complex.

She didn't deserve the death penalty
for liking fucked-up older men.

My husband went
to Brisbane to write.

He shouldn't be disturbed.

You won't find any dirt...

apart from what came
from that little tart's pen.

"Every thought, every breath.

The joy of you begins each day.

The feel of you within me
fills my nights.

I have awakened
from a lonely sleep...

to find you there...

surrounding me in light.

Shed by the candles of the universe."

Does he vacuum up
every reading into that thing?

Don't know.

Did he video Mickey?

Maybe not.

"You remember
as if through crystal, a moment.

Your grandfather coming in the door.

His silhouette in the dusky light.

His hat like Sugarloaf Hill.

And you climb it and look down...

as if you were him...

and you are him.

And my grandfather's hat stalked...

of its own accord
into my dreams.

I'm starting to hallucinate.

He's got a thing
about his grandfather's hat.

The lucky old bastard
must be dead.

"Coming up like the sun."

That's it, mate. Last fucking poem.

Thank you.

How do you talk to poets?

I'm not known for my love of
fluffy clouds or fields of daffodils.

Give me a good bottle of wine,

a woman with spit and spark,
and the trifecta at Randwick.

You're a sensitive man.
I'd like to discuss a sensitive matter.

How can I help you?

I'm investigating
the murder of Mickey Norris.

- Are you a police officer?
- No.

- I'm working for Mickey's parents.
- Yeah, poor girl.

Shocking thing.

She wrote to me.
Sent me her poems.

- Occupational hazard.
- The price of fame.

You won't get
much fan mail in your line of work.

Did you ever meet Mickey?

No. Just a correspondence.

Relief.

Good grief.

Seeing, being, peeing.

Hands, feet, cunt.

Fucking, coming, going...

or something.

It's just the roof cooling off
after the heat of the day.

He's in Melbourne.
We've got all night.

He gets about.

Have you ever tried a threesome?

No.

Not another woman.

A man.

I'm not into that stuff. I'm straight.

I got to go.

Fitzpatrick, you stupid cunt,

you're playing with your life,
so don't take a punt.

I know where to find you.

I'm just taking my time
before I do what I do.

You don't know me but I know you.

Just wait and fucking see.

God, you're beautiful.

Found these.

"I'm just a cunt.

Your cock has all the words.

You pump them into me
till I can't stand up."

What were you setting
these kids for homework?

It's victim poetry.
My female students love it.

Who kicked her around?

"Beautiful lover, beautiful man,

let my poem do the talking,

let it stand up
and whisper in your heart."

Poor little petal.

"I love you.

I love you.

I'll love you till I die.

Even if your angry cock kills me."

Forget who I am.
Forget I'm pretty.

You make me black.

You make me very blue.

Even your cum smells like flowers.

Your eyes, your eyes.

Bullets and knives.

- Am I missing the point?
- What point?

They must mean something.

She was a little fool with a big heart.

I need you to translate.

"Do you want it on a fax?

On your mobile phone?

I'm here for you."

- Definitely to a suffering boy poet.
- Bill McDonald or Tony Brach?

Bill McDonald. He'd lap it up.

But he's a man of God
and so repulsive.

Sure, to a godless dyke.

Not to the sensitive eye...

of a budding and ambitious poetess.

Would Bill have a mobile?

It's called poetic licence.

"All your beautiful words
run in the water...

like beautiful fish kissing my mouth.

I've seen your holy beautiful face.

You're my beautiful secret
that I carry."

I quite like that one.

You must be premenstrual.

She was a nympho.

For sheer sexual rapacity, even you
couldn't keep up with that kid.

She must have screwed every poet
in Sydney, excluding the girls.

She was looking for something.

Maybe something for her poetry
in those arseholes.

You ex-Catholics are so sentimental.

Where did you get this?

Do you know what it is?

It's a Mexican worry doll.

You tell it your worries,

put it under your pillow...

and in the morning...

they're gone.

Jill Fitzpatrick.

Hello?

You've got
the wrong number, fucker!

Hello.

I found it behind the TV.

Love is a torture.

Love tortures me.

Does love torture you?

If it does,

why are you laughing?

She could be a bitch,
but she was my best friend.

Then help her.

Help me find who killed her.

Come on!

You must know something.

She just wanted to be loved.

I can't talk to you my beautiful lover.

I can't talk to you my beautiful man.

I can't talk to you.

You listen with your cock
in my mouth.

With your knee on my throat.

With your big voice
scratching me out.

You tell me I've got nothing to say
I'm just a cunt.

Your cock has all the words.

You pump them into me
until I can't stand up.

Till I'm just dripping you everywhere.

Everywhere.

Beautiful lover.

Beautiful man,
let my poem do my talking.

Let it stand up
and whisper in your heart.

I love you.

I love you.

Your throat...

is gorgeous.

Your throat.

It's state of the art.

It's no good
when I'm in this mood.

Abused children crawling through
my hair. Mickey's skull whistles.

I can't come.

Let's talk instead.

Oh, Christ, love me a little.

Do you want to see what it was like?

Stop checking your change.

No one's ripped you off.

Just love her.

Love her for what she is.

Did you like it?

I can't remember.

Word for today...

is love.

Love has the same number of
syllables as...

dead.

Our word for tomorrow.

Love isn't just talking.

My love isn't just words.

Do you want it in a fax?
On your mobile phone?

I'm here for you.

I'm not just a hole for your prick.

Is that what
they call poetry these days?

Is that what they were
teaching her?

No. Her poetry tutor thinks it's
not really up to scratch.

She didn't use that kind
of language at home.

They're love poems.

Then she must
have been a monster.

No.

Just a teenager.

You were there!

You were there!

Jean, no.

She was my baby!

I couldn't talk.

My wife is stronger than I am.

I just wanted to see her.

To see what she'd become.

She used to be my girl.

I walked away and left her...

in hell.

I knew it. You're a prude.

I just want
to go back to your place.

- Spectator sport bores me.
- They're just warming up.

Wait, you won't be bored.

Why do you stay with Nick?

Because he shares his secrets.

Because he lets me in.

You're a great fuck,

but you're a very ordinary detective.

No wonder you're broke, Jill.

Going to chase it, eh?

Come here often, Bill?

- What do you want?
- Just to chat about some poems.

- My poems?
- No, mate.

- Mickey's poems.
- I'm going.

I have a pal at the Herald.

These poems deserve
a big audience.

"I've seen your holy beautiful face.

I've kissed
your beautiful feet like Mary.

You're a man
with a spirit like pure gold.

You're
my beautiful secret that I carry."

The devil quotes Scripture,
you lesbian filth!

- What about love your enemy?
- He cut up vermin like you.

Can you imagine the state
she was in when they found her?

Whose big hot hands did this, Bill?

Come on, Bill!
Tell Uncle Jesus about Mickey!

Tell your Christ
what you did to Mickey!

- Show Mr. God your dirty dick!
- Stop it!

You're a monster!

She was my beautiful girl
but she broke me.

Broke me first
and made me write filth.

Christ, not more bloody poems!

I'm on to it.
Bill's cracked.

I have to get these essays
marked before I leave.

He's coming to my place.

He's got evidence.

Written evidence.

Why the big drive?

Mountain air, baby.

It's good for the soul.

Good for spilling the beans.

Is anything wrong?

No.

- I'll miss you when you go.
- Go where?

L.A.

- Bill told me something strange.
- What did he say?

Come on, baby, spit it out.

What was on
Jesus-Loves-Me's mind?

He was going to show me
some poems.

- Evil poems.
- Let me guess.

Constipated verses
to poor little Mickey...

about their secret, sordid sex life.

Probably.

But someone else
got a hold of them first.

Satan.

We must track them down, sweetie.

We?

Someone was having
a lot of fun with Bill.

Who killed Mickey?

Who fiddled with Bill's car?

No evidence?

Just the smell of sex and violence...

and pages of Mickey's words.

Diana tells me that words are erotic,
yet really mean bugger all.

You walk in and the room
hushes like you.

You were a mysterious goddess.

And while you talk I tremble.

Mysterious goddess?

Mickey was meaning someone.

Are your students
besotted with you?

To most of them
I'm just a boring old bag.

Do any of them
ever write poetry to you?

There's always
a romantic cretin or crawler.

- Did Mickey write you a poem?
- Lf she did, she kept it to herself.

She liked boys. Boy poets.

For Mickey, other women
were competition.

- Not inspiration.
- Why are you helping me?

I can't afford to have...

any more of my poetry
class bumped off.

He's coming in for lunch at two
and I've got a class.

You're all shaky.

Those poems are so violent.
So desperate.

It's hard to believe that
that kid's dead.

Jilly...

You are so sweet.

Have you ever seen a corpse
before the funeral parlour tarts it up?

There's a smell.
Disinfectant and old piss.

Something else crawls
into your stomach.

The death smell.
And that stays on you for days.

You don't give a flying fuck, do you?

Live with your fashionable man...

and your state
of the fucking art fridge!

Lover's quarrel.

You'll get over it.

Her poetry was awful,

but she was a nice kid.

So you had an affair with her?

You could
call it an affair of the heart.

- You mean you fucked her, Tony?
- You don't give up, do you?

This is nice.

- I thought all poets were broke.
- I'm a kept man.

I've seen more poets
over the last month than in a lifetime.

Poetry was about
opening your legs one minute,

opening your grave the next.

I never knew that poetry
could be as sticky as sex.

I wouldn't have thought
you had any worries.

You'd be surprised.

Thank Christ I'm out of it.

A toast.

To Brisbane.

City of snooze.

To Sydney...

my glittering tart.

To Mickey.

Once upon a time,

Mickey the Monkey,

all knowing and
cunning little hands...

She knew where the nuts
were hidden and, Jesus...

she knew how to squeeze.

A solemn libation...

to Mickey the Martyr.

Mickey had to write
every fucking thing down.

Filled her books with fucking poems.

Fucking poems, all right.

She did not give a shit
about truth and beauty...

just fucking.

She even kept a bloody diary.

Like all budding poetesses...

she could not leave
her love life alone.

Where's the diary now?

Not with me, baby.

You ask Diana.

Diana?

Mickey handed it in
with her poetry assignment.

Poetry!

It gave Di a good laugh.

An embarrassment of riches.

I know Diana's a liar...

and I know I'm a fool.

Mickey's diary will name names.

Mickey's diary will point
the finger at me...

for ignoring the evidence.

I can't really talk here.

How about lunch?

Mickey, it's gone.

- How's Tony?
- Who's asking?

- His wife.
- Barbara?

How many wives
do you think he has?

He's not a fucking Mormon.

What do you want?

Your lover might fix
your car one day...

like she fixed Bill's.

She couldn't do a worse job
than my mechanic.

- Does she throw in an oil and grease?
- You're not funny.

You're just way out
of your fucking depth.

Diana told Tony everything.

She said you made a pass...
a big pass, at her.

That's not the whole story.

It sure isn't.

Don't waste your time.

Diana's been seeing Tony
off and on for months.

She's nuts about him.

Jill, what's happened?
You look terrible.

- Diana's fucking Tony.
- Is that all?

I thought someone else
had got bumped off.

Why are you so amazed
your goddess sleeps around?

I was hoping she had better taste.

She has. She married golden boy.

But she likes to play.
She likes to take a holiday.

Jill.

Louie...

you're my best friend.

Great job.

- Hi.
- Are you picking me up?

After you.

- I heard you lost that case.
- We didn't get the guy off.

- You win some, you lose some.
- You like to win.

You should grow your hair.

Do you love her?

- Your trophy wife?
- I do, as a matter of fact.

You love the bitch,
you cover her shit.

You love her too, don't you?

You've done wonders for my wife.

Her eyes shine...

after she's fucked you.

Are you cold?

No.

I came here with Diana once.

So did I.

You know,

you're beautiful in your own way.

- Thanks a bunch.
- No, really.

There's something about you.

I can see what she saw in you.

You are cold. Look, you're shivering.

It's over now, me and Diana.

I know.

Do you know why?
You'd be one up on me.

Don't take it personally.
She's an incurable flirt.

A female Don Giovanni.

Pot calling the kettle black.

- You've got a cheek.
- So have you.

You had an affair with my wife.

Have you ever been with a man?

Once or twice.
When you don't care.

When you could fuck a goat.

I'll be your goat.

Touch me.

Make my eyes shine too.

Fuck!

- You killed Mickey.
- Yeah.

And my wife came as she watched.

It's okay.

She's not watching now.

Rehearsing my wrap up
to Mickey's parents.

She wasn't murdered.
It was an accident.

Then what? Freud?
Masters and Johnson?

Get the experts
to explain the mess?

It was sex play that went wrong.

Mrs Norris's
missionary position face...

gagging on the broken hyoid bone...

of her daughter's sex life,
while I tell her...

strangulation orgasm
is a lot safer between girls.

What can we do for you?

For Wesley.

- What are you going to do?
- What are you going to do?

- Protect my interests.
- Don't protect Nick.

You can't make the mud stick.

- You open your mouth, we'll sue.
- Is it his youth?

- You've sold yourself fucking cheap!
- You forget I bought him.

Don't look so shocked.

He doesn't mind.

Mickey's parents are
mind-bogglingly boring people.

- Nick has really jazzed up their lives.
- Jealousy's making you hallucinate.

Without Nick...

they may never have known
the smell of the morgue.

Nor the smell of their daughter's
decomposing face.

I know the world as it really is.

Endless war, my heart in flames.

But I can smell the sweetest water.

When I swim in that water,

I am an angel.

I am an angel.

I'll be your goat.

Touch me.

- Make my eyes shine too.
- You killed Mickey.

Yeah.

And my wife came as she watched.

It's okay.

She's not watching now.

Forget the bitch.

Case closed.