Yeah, fuck you, too. Fuck *me*? Fuck *you*, Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in...

[Monty standing in the men's bathroom, talking to himself in a mirror with "FUCK YOU!" written on it] Monty Brogan: Yeah, fuck you, too. Fuck *me*? Fuck *you*, Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in it. Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back. Fuck the squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car - get a fucking job! Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking training. SLOW THE FUCK DOWN! Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped-up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35. Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English? Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you fucking came from! Fuck the black-hatted Chassidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds! Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gekko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for FUCKING LIFE! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a fucking break! Tyco! Worldcom! Fuck the Puerto Ricans. Twenty to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin' parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, 'cause they make the Puerto Ricans look good. Fuck the Bensonhurst Italians with their pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, their St. Anthony medallions, swinging their Jason Giambi Louisville Slugger baseball bats, trying to audition for "The Sopranos." Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Hermès scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart! Fuck the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play defense, they take five steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. Move the fuck on! Fuck the corrupt cops with their anus-violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust! Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. Fuck the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it, fuck J.C.! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in fuckin' Otisville, J.! Fuck Osama Bin Laden, al-Qaeda, and backward-ass cave-dwelling fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fuel fire in hell. You towel-headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal Irish ass! Fuck Jacob Elinsky. Whining malcontent. Fuck Francis Xavier Slaughtery my best friend, judging me while he stares at my girlfriend's ass. Fuck Naturelle Riviera, I gave her my trust and she stabbed me in the back, sold me up the river, fucking bitch. Fuck my father with his endless grief, standing behind that bar sipping on club sodas, selling whisky to firemen, and cheering the Bronx Bombers. Fuck this whole city and everyone in it. From the row-houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue, from the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho. From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in Park Slope to the split-levels in Staten Island. Let an earthquake crumble it, let the fires rage, let it burn to fucking ash and then let the waters rise and submerge this whole rat-infested place. [pause] Monty Brogan: No. No, fuck you, Montgomery Brogan. You had it all, and you threw it away, you *dumb* *fuck*!

Fuck me? Fuck you. Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in it. No, no, no. MONTY: Fuck the panhandlers grubbing for money, smiling at me behind my back. Fuck the squeegee men, dirtying up the clean windshield of my car. Get a fucking job! Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis, bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming outta their pores, stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking training. Slow the fuck down! Getting one of those operations that elongate your penis. Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped-up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jiggling their dicks on my Channel 35! Fuck the Korean grocers, with their pyramids of overpriced fruit, and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speak-ee English. Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafes, sipping tea in little glasses. Sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheeling, and dealing, and scheming. Go back where you fucking came from! Fuck the black-hatted Hasidim, strolling up and down 47th Street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff, selling South African apartheid diamonds. Come on. Your wife deserves this. Fuck the Wall Street brokers, self-styled masters of the universe, Michael Douglas, Gordon Gekko wannabe motherfuckers figuring out new ways to rob hard-working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for fucking life. You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a fucking break! Tyco. ImClone. Adelphia. WorldCom. Fuck the Puerto Ricans, 20 to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls. Worst fucking parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the dumb-in-the-cans 'cause they make the Puerto Ricans look good. Who's this fucking guy? Get the fuck outta here! Fuck the Bensonhurst Italians with their Pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, their St. Anthony medallions. Swinging their Jason Giambi Louisville Slugger baseball bats, trying to audition for The Sopranos! Fucking crack your fucking head open! Bensonhurst! Bensonhurst! Taxi! Taxi! Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Hermès scarves, - and $50 Balducci's Artichokes. - Taxi! Taxi! Overfed faces getting pulled, lifted and stretched all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart! Taxi! Fuck the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't wanna play defense, they take five steps on every lay-up to the hoop, then they wanna turn around and blame everything on the white man. (SHOUTING) We're not giving it up. Slavery ended 137 years ago. Move the fuck on! Fuck the corrupt cops with their anus-violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust! Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. Fuck the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it, fuck JC! He got off easy. A day on the cross, a weekend in hell and all the hallelujahs of the Legioned Angels for eternity. Try seven years in fucking Otisville, J. Fuck Osama Bin Laden, Al-Qaeda, and backward-assed cave-dwelling fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your 72 whores roasting in a jet-fueled fire in hell. You towel-headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal Irish ass! "I notice how many of what I once thought "were evidences of repression... - Fuck Jacob Elinsky. - "...sexual or otherwise." Whining malcontent. Fuck Francis Xavier Slaughtery, my best friend, judging me while he stares at my girlfriend's ass. Fuck Naturelle Riviera. I gave her my trust and she stabbed me in the back. Sold me up the river. Fucking bitch. Fuck my father with his endless grief, standing behind that bar, sipping on club soda, selling whiskey to firemen and cheering the Bronx Bombers. ALL: Let's go, Yankees! Fuck this whole city and everyone in it. From the row houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue. From the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho. From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in Park Slope, to the split-levels in Staten Island. Let an earthquake crumble it. Let the fires rage. Let it burn to fucking ash. Then let the waters rise and submerge this whole rat-infested place. No. No, fuck you, Montgomery Brogan. You had it all and you threw it away, you dumb fuck! - What do you think of Naturelle? - She's a good girl. - Your mother would've liked her. - Yeah, but do you trust her? - Do I trust her? - Mmm-hmm. - Why do I have to trust her? - You think I can trust her? - Where are you going with this? - I don't know. People are saying weird things. I'm hearing stuff around. Like, maybe she was the one that made the phone call on me. Why would she do a thing like that? Maybe they got to her, you know. It happens. They find something, put the screws on you... The girl loves you, Monty. I can't believe she would betray you. I don't know. I don't know. I mean, everything's gotten so strange, Pop. I look at these people around me, and I'm thinking, these are my friends? I don't even know these people. And Naturelle, even. Do I really know her? I don't know. It's all... The only people I trust are you, Jacob and Frank. - The guys I grew up with. - I miss those boys. I know. I'm supposed to be meeting them. They're waiting for me. - I oughta get going. - What about your food? - I can't. - Okay. I'll see you in the morning. No. No, why? I'm taking the bus up. Forget about the bus. I'll drive you. Take half as long. Take this. They'll let you keep it. When you was a little kid, you used to sleep in that fireman's helmet. You wanted to be just like your daddy. I ever tell you about the fights we had naming you? Yeah, you wanted to name me James. James Brogan Junior. Good strong name. Nah, your mother thought it was too borin' for you. - She liked Montgomery Clift. - Loved him! A Place in the Sun. Her favorite movie. I kept saying, "Montgomery Clift? Look what happened to that poor fuck. "Died way too young. Bad luck." Bad luck. I'm gonna go. Okay? I'll see you soon, Pop. Monty... FRANCIS: He'll be working for me. I'll have his job. - (KNOCKING) - Listen, I gotta go. Talk to you tomorrow. Cocksucker. - How you doing, brother? - Hey. - Good to see you. - How you doing? - Good. - Come on in. - Want a beer? - Yeah. Cool. - There you go. Cheers. - Thanks. Jesus Christ! Yeah. New York Times says the air's bad down here. Oh, yeah? Fuck the Times! I read the Post. EPA says it's fine. Somebody's lying. (CHUCKLES) Yeah. - You gonna move? - Fuck that, man! As much good money as I paid for this place? Hell, no. Tell you what, bin Laden could drop another one right next door, I ain't moving. (SIGHS) What do we say to him? We say nothing. He's going to hell for seven years. What do we do, wish him luck? Just get him drunk. Make sure he has one last good night. - That's it. - So you're up for this? Yeah. I don't even know why he invited me. What are you talking about, man? We hardly ever see each other anymore. You and I are his friends from the past. Yeah, like his friends from the present have done him much good! I just... Just can't believe he's going away for seven years. Someone turns him in and... Oh, don't feed me that shit! - What shit? - Come on, Jake. Don't feed me that bullshit. Yeah, he got caught. But hello, Monty's a fucking drug dealer! Shit. What, are you driving a vintage Super Bee? - No. - No. He is. Yeah. Paid for by the misery of other people. He got caught. He's gonna get locked up. I tell you something else. You two are my best friends in the whole world, I love him like a brother, but he fucking deserves it. He deserves it. What's he planning to do with Doyle? How the fuck should I know? Maybe leave him with Naturelle or something. They should at least let him take Doyle with him. What? Let him take Doyle. He wouldn't be so lonely. You can't take a fucking dog to the hoosegow, Jake. I'm just saying, it'd be kind of nice if he could. (CHUCKLES) Yeah. It'd be nice. Monty's tough. I think he'll be okay. If it were me, I'd never last a day. But Monty, he's different. - Oh, yeah? You believe that? - Yeah. - You don't fucking get it, do you? - What don't I get? You want the simple version, Jake? Guys who look like Monty don't do well in prison, right? Now he's got three choices. None of them are good. One, he can run. Two, catch the bullet train. - Bullet train? - I'm not saying what he's gonna do, I'm saying what his choices are. His third choice is he goes to prison, that's it. Yeah, and that's what he's gonna do. He'll go, and I'll see him when he gets out. Maybe. I'll tell you what. After tonight, it's bye-bye, Monty. What does that mean? Man, if he runs, he's gone. He ain't coming home. He pulls the trigger, they close the casket, he's gone. They lock him away, he's gone. You'll never see him again. - I'll see him again. - You won't. No, I'll visit him up there, and I'll see him when he gets out. You know what? This is such horse-shit. This is so much like you, Jake. - You're not gonna see him... - Like me? Yeah. Exactly. You will never see him again. You think you're gonna kick back with some beers, reminisce? Old times, you're still gonna be friends. It's over after tonight, Jake. Wake the fuck up.