Secret Window

Mort:
I killed a mirror.

Mort:
And my shower door.

Ted:
Maybe I should take a walk around the block.

Amy:
Yes, that'd be good.

Mort:
Aw heck, Ted, live a little - make it two. Rubbernecker.

John Shooter:
Thought you didn't smoke.

Mort:
I took it up recently, for my health.

Mort:
This is not my beautiful house. This is not my beautiful wife. Anymore.

Mort:
The only thing that matters is the ending. It's the most important part of the story. And this one, is very good. This one is perfect.

Mort:
What do you think it means you ignorant hick? I'm in the middle of a divorce. D-I-V-O-R-C-E divorce.

Ted:
You and I are going to have a little talk.

Mort:
Oh, I'm in trouble.

Mort:
I don't care. I'm just gonna smoke. I'm just gonna totally smoke. I'll finish these, go to the store and get a brand new pack, smoke the sh*t out of that one.

Mort:
I don't wanna call her. I want to go to sleep. I want to take a nap. Okay. No nap. I give her a call about the magazine. I go write some crap for a couple of hours and then I get to take a nap, right? Chico

Mort:
Chi-i-i-i-co-o-o-o, don't be disco-o-o-oura-a-a-aged. All right, go ahead and be discouraged, you blind bastard, see if I care.

Mort:
Gee Ted I'm sorry you had to miss that. I know how much you like my things.

Mort:
I know you're in there sh*t-head. If you don't come out on the count of five, I'm coming in there swinging. One, two...

Amy:
You were always gone.

Mort:
I worked from home, Amy.

Amy:
But I just wanted you to be happy, Mort.

Mort:
Well, I guess you shouldn't HAVE F***ED HIM THEN.

Mort:
I don't respond well to intimidation. Makes me feel *icky*.

Mrs. Garvey:
You're a good man, Mr. Rainey.

Mort:
You too, Mrs. Garvey.

Mort:
Bummer, Ted.

Mort:
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't on the verge of doing snoopy dances.

John Shooter:
Are you all right, Mr. Rainy? It sounded like you pitched a fit or something in there.

Mort:
I'm just peachy, Mr. Shooter. How are you?

Mort:
I'm a dairy farmer from Mississippi.

Mort:
Sh*t, sh*t, sh*t, sh*t. Stupid, stupid, stupid...

Mort:
I have the magazine, you lunatic. I have the MAGAZINE. I HAVE THE GODDAMN MAGAZINE.

John Shooter:
You stole my story.

Mort:
I'm... I'm sorry, do I... I don't believe I know you.

John Shooter:
I know that, that doesn't matter, I know you Mr. Rainey, that's what matters. You stole my story.

Mort:
You're mistaken. I don't read manuscripts.

John Shooter:
You read this one already. You stole it.

Mort:
I can assure you...

John Shooter:
I know you can. I know that. I don't want to be assured.

Mort:
If you want to talk to somebody about some grievance you feel you may have, you can call my literary agent.

John Shooter:
This is between you and me.

John Shooter:
We don't need no outsiders, Mr. Rainey.

Mort:
I don't like being accused of plagiarism, if that is in fact what you are accusing me of. Chico inside.

John Shooter:
I don't blame you for not liking it but you did it.

Mort:
You're gonna have to leave. I have nothing more to say.

John Shooter:
Yeah, I'll go. We'll talk more later.

Mort:
I'm not taking that.

John Shooter:
Won't do you no good to play games with me, Mr. Rainey. This has got to be settled.

Mort:
As far as I'm concerned it is.

John Shooter:
You stole my story.

Amy:
Will you call me if you need anything?

Mort:
I doubt it.

Ken Karsch:
What happened? You finally bang one of your groupies? Omaha Barnes & Noble? I'm sorry. Rotten profession.

Mort:
I buried my dog, mister.

Mort:
I don't know.

Mort:
Why would he want me to put his hat on?

Mort:
Maybe he wants me to what?

Mort:
Oh, I'm already confused, Pilgrim. Plenty confused. So don't talk to me about confusion.

Mort:
What about what?

Mort:
You know what? You're nuts. I don't need to listen to this sh*t from you.

Mort:
I'm wearing his bruises aren't I? Aren't I?

Mort:
Well...

Mort:
This doesn't make any sense.

Mort:
I'm gonna get a knife and cut you out of me.

Mort:
I didn't kill anybody.

Mort:
Wasn't loaded.

Mort:
No.

Mort:
You almost killed them. You wanted to.

Mort:
What do you want? You wanna kill me? Why don't you just do it? Just kill me.

John Shooter:
No, sir!

Mort:
I'm open to suggestions.

Mort Rainey:
What is happening to me?

John Shooter:
Oh, I think you know. I think you have a real good idea.

Mort Rainey:
You don't exist.

John Shooter:
Me? I exist, Mr. Rainey. I exist because... you made me. You thought me up. Gave me my name. Told me everything you wanted me to do. I did them things so you didn't have to. [Flashbacks show Mort killing Ken Karsch and Tom Greenleaf and setting fire to his ex-wife's house, wearing Shooter's hat] Didn't have the stomach to do it yourself, but you knew I did. Are we done yet? We got things all cleaned up around here? What's the real reason I come for?

Mort Rainey:
Fix the story.

John Shooter:
That's right.

Mort Rainey:
Fix the ending. Got to fix the ending.

John Shooter:
And how exactly do you suppose we ought to do that? [Shooter places his hat in Mort's hands as Amy's car pulls into the driveway]

Mort Rainey:
Glad you're here, I could use the break. I've been working lunch. I'm on a roll.

Sheriff Dave Newsome:
Yeah. Listen, both you and I know what you did.

Mort Rainey:
Oh.

Sheriff Dave Newsome:
Maybe we don't have enough to put you away right now, but eventually... we're gonna find those bodies, we're gonna tie you to them. And you're goin' away. In the meantime I'd appreciate it if you didn't come into town anymore. Makes people uncomfortable. You can do your shopping in New London. [Mort is calm and unconcerned, giving no response] Did you hear what I said?

Mort Rainey:
Sure. No problem. [Sheriff Newsome starts to leave] You know, the only thing that matters is the ending. That's the most important part of the story, the ending. And this one... this one's very good. This one's perfect.

Mort Rainey:
"I know I can do it", Todd Downey said, helping himself to another ear of corn from the steaming bowl. "I'm sure that in time, every bit of her will be gone, and her death will be a mystery... even to me."

John Shooter:
Won't do you any good to play games with me, Mr. Rainey. This has got to be settled.

John Shooter:
I suppose so. I suppose that's why I came all the way up here from Mississ'ippi.

John Shooter:
You strike me as the type of guy who's lookin' for a head he can knock off with a shovel. But what you don't understand is that if we do start to fight... this ain't gonna end, until the other one of us is dead.

John Shooter:
How'd you get it? That's what I really wanna know. How the hell did a big, money-scribblin' a**hole like you get down to a little shitsplat town in Mississippi and steal my goddamn story?

Ken Karsch:
What happened? You finally nail one of your groupies at a book signing? The Omaha Barnes and Noble? [Irritated, Mort reaches forward and shuts off Ken's session timer; Ken pauses] That was a dick thing to say, you know? Rotten profession. I apologize.

Sheriff Dave Newsome:
[Reading Shooter's note] "You have three days. I'm not joking. No police." Anytime somebody sits down and writes "No police"... That's exactly the time that a fella should get himself over to the police.