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Event Horizon [ RACKETEER INFLUENCED AND CORRUPT ORGANIZATIONS US Title 18 ]
Doctor, please, don't start|in with that physics shit.
I'm telling you, I saw it.
It would mean the gateway was open.
Then the gateway was open.
It couldn't be because the|gravity drive wasn't activated.
I'm telling you what I saw...
It can't start by itself!
Mr Cooper, you are out of line!
Doctor, Mr Justin may die.
Now, whatever happened to him|could happen to all of us.
Mr Cooper says he saw something.
I believe he saw something.
I need an explanation.
Well, in my view, Mr Cooper's|delusional...
but maybe he saw an optical effect
caused by gravitational distortion.
An optical effect!|That's fucking poetic.
I'm sorry. I'm all right. OK.
Gravitational distortion...
what could create that, Doctor?
If, somehow, a burst of gravity|waves escaped from the core
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0052561/quotes
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The Internet Movie Database
Memorable quotes for
Anatomy of a Murder (1959)
Lt. Frederick Manion: [Roars at "Duke" Miller, who has just given his testimony] You're a *liar!* You're a *lousy, stinking liar!*
Paul Biegler: I apologize to the court for my client's outburst. But it's almost excusable, since the prosecution has seen fit to put a felon on the stand to testify against an officer in the United States Army.
Stephen King
The Stand - The Complete & Uncut Edition [ RACKETEER INFLUENCED AND CORRUPT ORGANIZATIONS US Title 18 ]
Page 968
Who, if not his son?
The rabbit was done. He slipped it off the spit and onto his tin plate.
"All right, all you asshole gyrenes, chow down!"
That made him grin right out loud. Had he been a Marine once? He thought so. Strictly the Parris Island variety, though. There had been a kid, a defective, name of Boo Dinkway. They had ...
What?
Flagg frowned down at his messkit. Had they beaten ole Boo into the ground with those padded poles? Scragged him somehow? He seemed to remember something about gasoline. But what?
In a sudden rage, he almost slung the freshly cooked rabbit into the fire. He should be able to remember that, goddammit!
"Chow down, grunts," he whispered, but this time there was only a whiff of memory lane.
He was losing himself. Once he had been able to look back over the sixties, seventies, and eighties like a man looking down a double flight of stairs leading into a dark-ened room. Now he could only clearly remember the events since the superflu. Beyond that there was nothing but a haze that would sometimes lift a tiny bit, just enough to afford a glimpse of some enigmatic object or memory (Boo Dinkway, for instance ... if there ever had been such a person) before closing down again.
The earliest memory he could now be sure of was walking south on US 51, heading toward Mountain City and the home of Kit Bradenton.
Of being born. Born again.
He was no longer strictly a man, if he had ever been one. He was like an onion, slowly peeling away one layer at a time, only it was the trappings of humanity that seemed to be peeling away: organized reflection, memory, possibly even free will ... if there ever had been such a thing.
He began to eat the rabbit.
Once, he was quite sure, he would have done a quick fade when things began to get flaky. Not this time. This was his place, his time, and he would take his stand here. It didn't matter that he hadn't yet been able to uncover the third spy, or that Harold had gotten out of control at the end and had had the colossal effrontery to try to kill the bride who had been promised, the mother of his son.
Somewhere that strange Trashcan Man was in the desert, sniffing out the weapons which would eradicate the trouble-some, worrisome Free Zone forever. His Eye could not follow the Trashcan Man, and in some ways Flagg thought that Trash was stranger than he was himself, a kind of human bloodhound who sniffed cordite and napalm and gelignite with deadly radar accuracy.
In a month or less, the National Guard jets would be flying, with a full complement of Shrike missiles tucked under their wings. And when he was sure that the bride had conceived, they would fly east.
He looked dreamily up at the basketball moon and smiled.
There was one other possibility. He thought the Eye would show him, in time. He might go there, possibly as a crow, possibly as a wolf, possibly as an insect - a praying mantis, perhaps, something small enough to squirm through a care-fully concealed vent cap in the middle of a spiky patch of desert grass. He would hop or crawl through dark conduits and finally slip through an air conditioner grille or a stilled exhaust fan.
The place was underground. Just over the border and into California.
There were beakers there, rows and rows of beakers, each with its own neat Dymo tape identifying it: a super cholera, a super anthrax, a new and improved version of the bubonic plague, all of them in this place; assorted flavors, as they used to say in the Life Savers commercials.
How about a little in your water, Free Zone?
How about a nice airburst?
