He’s a bloody preacher, for Christ’s sake. He’s a preacher, all right? You know, his job is to… is to, uh… To tell you the truth, I don’t… I don’t know exactly what his job is, but I know it’s not walking around, just casting judgement.
I’m in the middle of South West nowhere here, all right? I have no money. I have no transport. I’m runnin’ dangerously low on drugs. And I’ll do somethin’ desperate, I swear to God.
Honestly, boys, I don’t know how you keep finding me. Truly, I don’t. But I do know that you’re going to be sorry you did. And not just the kind of “I took half a sheet of LSD down at the bullfight last night” kind of sorry, neither. No, no, no, no, no, boys. No, this kind of sorry it’s much worse.
His plan for me is to let you know that his plan for you is the dumbest, most boring plan He’s ever come up with.
All right. Three possible explanations here for all of this. Number one: Terminator. Machine sent from the future to kill one of us. Number two: Terminator 2. Machine sent from the future to kill all three of us. Or number three, he’s Nazgûl, Fell Rider. Lord of the Rings, brilliant film.
Now, there are three possible explanations here. Number one, John Travolta, you know the movie where he gets his power from a brain tumor. Number two, Jason Bourne, gets his power from a secret government agency. Or, and it’s the least likely, but it’s my favorite scenario, you’re a Jedi.