Say yes and I'll give you what you've wanted all these years. [...] A war that lasts forever, a war that never ends, but you have to say the word, Frank--
And now, every night, I go out and make the world sane.
In his heart, he knew it was wrong. But it was what he wanted. So he went ahead and did it, and hoped everything would work out all right. That's why he deserved to be punished.
Don't think you can change anything, redeem anything. Don't think the past means shit to me. Run.
You have to be f_cking kidding me. His next step's a reflex action. So's the next one. Got to be.
Trouble with a bomb is there's no one to get your hands on, no way to return fire. No one to kill.
Anyone not wanting to die for Ireland...better clear on out the back.
I've news for you: all I did was pull the bandages off. You screamed your head off and passed out straightaway. That was two hours ago. Tell us everything.
Been a long, long time...Since I killed people from a Huey.
Thought the cops'd show up sooner than this. Would've liked to get the others but three dozen Westies is a good night's work. One more mag, then quit.
Still don't like this. Nesbitt buying these maggots off with his will. I hated someone like he hated them, I'd go ahead and waste them.
You work for the devil, you better be ready to die for him.
That's everything you need to know to break into a nuclear missile base. Except for the next part, where you kill every living thing you find.
Twelve-point-seven millimeter Dushka's just like our fifty cal. really designed to be used on aircraft. You use it on people, you turn them into paint.
I'm here, Galina. It's going to be all right.
If you do not immediately and unconditionally agree to these terms...I will burn Russia and its people from off the face of the Earth.
If the thought of it seems crazy...you weren't crazy enough to begin with.
Now and again some f*ck pops up and tries to fill the vacuum. And I remind them why it pays to be afraid.
There's a dream I have from time to time. And in the dream I don't stop.
Something in me's saying, "Stop. Back off. Run proper recon. Wait them out and let them sweat, then go in like the wrath of God!" But this cold, white fury that I feel says no. Suicide Run. If I die now, a world of f_cks will go unpunished. But I drive on.
Sawn-off twelve-gauge. Both barrels, point-blank. Consider that my wake-up call.
Low in the stomach. Your guts'll fill up with sh_t. You'll die of blood poisoning, maybe take a couple of nights to do it. No one'll hear you, way out here. You made it personal, Cavella. But all that buys you is a little more pain than most.
Later on, she told me the whole story. About the day she left her village. About the old man, about Cristu and Vera. About the thing her father said. About her baby. When she was done, I knew a lot of men would have to die.
F_cking a girl who doesn't want it. Whats that called?
The things I'd have to do to break those men...to make them talk...would be extreme.
Prison held no terror for a man like him. Neither did torture nor did death. How would you make him afraid? How would you even talk to him? You'd start by showing him you speak the language.
All that counts is you can't stop me. I'm stronger than you, so I can do anything I want.
Because by this time tomorrow, the wolves will all be dead.
Someone that anxious to avoid the police, I usually let them have him. If I'm not killing him anyway.
Later... beaten half to death, cut and bleeding, drowning in the Atlantic with a five-meter shark closing in for the kill... I remember thinking just how wrong you can be.
I knew if I didn't move I was a dead man. Baracuda'd find me in the morning, kill me if I hadn't died already. That's all right, I remember thinking. I'd just have to kick the shit out of him in Hell.
I helped myself to everything. Knew he wouldn't have any objection. By the time I was through with him, the fu@&er wouldn't have a head.
What's the only thing more dangerous than a Barracuda?
I knew who was meant to be with who from watching them outside Tojo's. Figured it couldn't hurt to take some pictures...I accidentally got the money shot, I'm truly sorry to say.
You go to war in Afghanistan...and everybody dies.
Everything in moderation.
Effective range of a claymore mine is something like a hundred yards. Which most people who use them know by heart. In fact, to be hit by shrapnel from one of your own...you'd have to be a f*cking moron.
She's dead, right when I was starting to like her.
In the end I didn't gut him. Didn't hang his innards from a tree. Didn't pulp his face and break his limbs against plate glass, then send him screaming fifty floors to the street. Didn't douse him in gasoline and light a match. The things I did last year...I didn't do.
There are times I'd like to get my hands on God.
Calm down. Nobody dies that doesn't deserve to.
All the same, I didn't like it. Made the decision to quit then and there. Then something happened I liked even less.
Goodbye, I thought. You strange, sad creature. If I could, I'd kill every single one of them. I'd wipe them out. And you'd never have to exist at all.
The war was where I lived. And we went to the park that day. And in the worst way possible...they were my way home after all.
She was precious beyond gold, and I couldn't have her hurting for another second.
The sun slipped away behind me, the last sliver seeming to pause on the horizon, then succumbing to the black. And I drove on through the shadows of America...through the long, cold, dark night that I've made of my life.
They aren't soldiers. They're executives in a corporation.
I don't do redemption.
Alright, let's find out what the f*ck's going on around here.
You've got to work them in rotation. Switch hands when the wrists get tired. Tape off so the knuckles don't bruise. They hold out. But not for long. They talk. And they do not lie.
I clean my guns and she is dead. I jam my mags and she is dead. She is dead. She is dead. She is dead. And soon...soon, they will be, too.
That's the thing with meth-heads...all that strength...all that confidence...but they never consider the angles.
That's the good thing about meth labs. Highly flammable.
I've always known that what I do will get me killed someday. I just never thought I'd have advance notice. Well, six hours left. Better make the most of them.
Thought the last name rang a bell. Say hi to your brother for me.
A death squad for hire. And there's only one thing death wants. More death. Any way it can get it.
I'm still in hell and there are still people to punish.
I have no weapons. No guns. No knives. No explosives. I have to be quick and quiet. I have to improvise. And I have to get it right the first time.
Oh, and one more minor detail: She's crazy as a shithouse rat.
You can usual count on normal people to run from gunfire. These aren't normal people.
I have this habit. Making things my business. Usually works out. This time it didn't.
Like I said before. Running isn't my style. Killing these bastards is.
Never look away, not even for a second.
There is no God. There are no souls. All that we are is meat and bone. These are certainties I learned long ago.
The day finally has some meaning. Always more work. Always. Just get home. All broken inside. Home will heal me. Never stop. Heal, then back to work. Always more work. Just gotta get...home...just gotta...get...
Mm. Let's you and me take a trip.
To the N.V.A., a combat loss is a combat loss. Doesn't matter if it's a bullet or the syph.
Only problem was it wasn't me.
I guess I just knew how he felt.
The world went crazy on a summer's day in Central Park. In the time before Uzis and berettas, before nine-millimeter popguns ruled the streets. It was a Thompson, like the ones our fathers carried, and I recognized its rattle even as its big, man-stopping forty-fives punched blood and breath from my lungs. I hit the ground besides my daughter. She's been gunshot, badly, and when she saw the things that boiled and wriggled from her belly the expression on her face was not a little girl's. My wife bled out later on the operating table, her heart a gaping hole her life drained through. Whenever I get careless, that yearning in her eyes creeps up and brings me to my knees. Right then the old man's soldiers started shooting back. My son dropped wordlessly, without a mark on him. I took a breath that cut like glass, spat blood, rose to my knees, picked up the boy and searched in vain for entry wounds. The bullet had entered through his open mouth. That was our picnic in the park. And now every night I go out and make the world sane.
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