Henry Fool

Here, you want some?

You're dead, motherfucker!

Where the hell have you been?

Mom! Come on and eat!

- I'm not hungry. - Then why'd I cook?

I don't know why you cooked.

I don't know why you bother.

Eat, Simon.

Come on over here, before I blast ya!

God, I wanna get fucked.

You okay?

See ya.

Get up off your knees.

Where do you have to go to get a six-pack of beer around here?

Say something.

She's mute.

What?

Kiss my ass.

Fucker.

Fuck! Asshole!

Centuries ago, it had an "E" at the end.

Where do you come from?

Nowhere in particular.

I go where I will and I do what I can.

That's why I'm in trouble.

I'm sort of what you might call...

in exile.

Why are you in trouble?

An honest man is always in trouble, Simon.

Remember that.

How do you know my name?

I am not retarded.

Yeah, well I'll take your word for that.

People...

I mean...

They think...

You know.

Because...

I see.

Here... take this.

And, uh... this.

Keep them with you at all times.

You ever feel like you got something to say

and you can't get it out,

stop and write it down, okay?

What are these?

My life's work.

My memoirs.

My confession.

What have you done?

I've been bad.

Repeatedly.

But why brag?

The details of my exploits are only a pretext

for a far more expansive consideration of general truths.

What is this?

It's a philosophy.

A poetics.

A politics, if you will.

A literature of protest.

A novel of ideas.

A pornographic magazine of truly comic book proportions.

It is, in the end, whatever the hell I want it to be,

and when I'm through with it, it's gonna blow a hole this wide

straight through the world's own idea of itself.

They're throwing bottles at your house.

Come on, lets go break their arms.

No!

I don't want trouble.

Once, I forget where I was...

Central America maybe, somewhere hot.

Stupid job, bad pay.

Dangerous location, and water so foul

the natives wouldn't even piss in it.

This crowd of drunken motherfuckers,

hired by the local drug cartel,

shows up at my hotel room

and threatens to tear me limb from limb.

And I say...

Listen, hombres.

Okay, you got me outnumbered here four to one,

and you're gonna kill me here tonight,

and not a soul in this dimly lit world

is gonna notice I'm gone.

But one of you, one of you...

one of you is gonna have his eye torn out.

Period.

Silence.

I repeat myself.

One of you poor, underpaid jerks is gonna have an eye

ripped out of its socket.

I promise.

It's a small thing, perhaps, all things considered.

But I will succeed.

Because it's the only thing I have left to do in this world.

So, why don't you just take a good look at one another

one last time...

and think it over a few minutes more.

And then what happened?

Well...

...here I am.

Still.

After all.

Did you throw up all over some girl?

They were throwing bottles at the house, you know.

She's got some ex-con in there she met at the bar.

Tattoos all over himself and a big, red, bloated nose.

Did you take your pills?

You want me to tell her to be quiet?

What's the use?

She might as well get it while she can.

She's not always gonna have the ass she has now, you know.

That's just how life is.

Good morning, Simon.

Glorious day, huh?

Here, have a donut.

Can you lend me $20?

Thanks.

Where's the library in this scruffy little burgh?

Down the highway about a mile and a half.

Then make a left.

Excellent.

I'm polishing up the final chapters of my confession.

And I need a reasonably well stocked...

...reference section.

I thought, um...

I was...

I wanted to...

...maybe...

Can I take this?

I'll correct the spelling.

Yeah!

Simon, who did this to you?

I was gonna tear out their eyes, and I knew I could do it.

- Whose eyes? - I told them.

I told them, like you said, and I knew I could do it.

You should take him home. He smells like a toilet.

Mr. Fool... what is this?

It's poetry.

Are you sure?

Of course I'm sure.

I corrected the spelling myself.

It made my daughter sing.

- Keep still. - Let me do it!

Fine, you do it, Simon, I don't care.

Mom! Simon's got a broken rib, a dislocated shoulder or something,

and he won't let me disinfect the gash in his head!

Fay, just take him to the hospital, will you?

But he won't go!

Simon Grim, you go to the hospital with Fay right now, you hear me?

We gotta talk.

What the hell were you trying to do when you wrote this thing?

Nothing.

Well, you know you wrote it in a kind of iambic pentameter.

Iambic what?

Verse.

Look, in my opinion, this is pretty powerful stuff.

Though your spelling is Neanderthal

and your reasoning a little naïve,

your instincts are profound.

But the whole thing needs to be given a more cohesive shape.

It can be expanded, followed through, unified.

Do you see what I'm getting at?

Are you willing to commit yourself to this?

To really work on it?

To give it its due in the face of adversity and discouragement?

To rise to the challenge you yourself have set?

And don't give me that wonderstruck

"I'm only a humble garbage man" bullshit, either.

It hurts to breathe.

Of course it does.

Have a drink.

Do you find me attractive?

Yes.

I look young for my age, don't I?

How old are you?

How old do you think I am?

You look young.

How young?

I don't know.

Young.

But how? I mean, do I look more like 20 or, you know, 30?

30.

Listen, you geek, after a couple of drinks,

plenty of people mistake me for 18.

Hey, Warren, are you a registered voter?

Bug off, Vicky.

"Saving America From Itself."

What the fuck is this?

It's everything you need to know about the upcoming elections

and Congressman Owen Feer,

and all the really good things he's going to do for our country.

Oh, yeah, like what?

He wants to win back this country for us Americans, Warren,

and restore some kind of cultural moral standard

to our way of life.

What time does your kid go off to school?

9:00.

How about I come over to your house later?

Well...