Sling Blade Quotes

All the general fear I've been feeling condenses into an immediate fear of this girl, this predator who might kill me in seconds. Adrenaline shoots through me and I sling the pack over one shoulder and run full-speed for the woods. I can hear the blade whistling toward me and reflexively hike the pack up to protect my head. The blade lodges in the pack. Both straps on my shoulders now, I make for the trees. Somehow I knew the girl will not pursue me. That she'll be drawn back into the Cornucopia before all the good stuff is gone. A grin crosses my face. Thanks for the knife, I think.

Girl3 "You don't have to be a jerk" SlingBlade "Quite the contrary, my sloppy penile scholar.Order me another drink and be quick about it.

She tells stories of working beside her father, cleaning out fence rows with his sling blade and hoe. Her stories help me to see, as we work together, that history is being made as it gets told. Passed on as it passes by.

Highest on the wall, in a place of honor, is the slingBlade I used at the Institute. I look at it for a long time before I take it down. It is far heavier than my razor and far smaller than I remember. I swing it till it makes a swish swish. I laughed at him when I saw it there the first time, laughed even harder when I found out how much trouble he went through to track it down. But I think I skipped past the part that mattered—how much the blade meant to him. With his father always away, always secretive and frightened to show his love, that blade gave Sevro something to follow. Something to dedicate his life to. Until he found something else.

I hadn't realized how supremely shit-housed I was until we stumbled into our room at the Embassy Suites. You ever been so drunk you forgot that you have to shit until the last minute? Well I was at that stage. I nearly had my pants completely off when SlingBlade snaked past me and got into the toilet first. Fine, I go get out of my bar clothes and change into a t-shirt and pink Gap boxers to sleep in. I wait patiently for about three minutes, then I start pounding on the door, screaming at him that I am going to shit on his bed if he doesn't get out of there. A short time later he opens the door laughing his ass off, and says, "That was perhaps the most prodigious shit ever. I just put that toilet into therapy." I take a gander into the bathroom. It looks like Revelations. The toilet is overflowing, brown shit water is spilling out all over the bathroom floor, and the tank is making demonic gurgling noises. THE MOTHERFUCKER CLOGGED UP A HOTEL TOILET! Hotel toilets are industrial size; they are designed to be able to accommodate repeated elephant-sized shits, and their ram-jet engine flushes generate enough force to suck down a human infant, yet skinny ass 170-pound SlingBlade completely killed ours.

SlingBlade: “If you EVER speak ill of the McGriddle again I will personally force-feed you one while I fuck you in the butt using the wrapper as a condom and then donkey punch you when the infused syrup nuggets explode in your mouth.

He doesn’t have a knife or a bat. No, he has something I’m far more interested in. A question mark of a sword. A slingBlade for reaping grain.

When he sees how I twirl the slingBlade in my hand, the last uninjured boy knows it’s time to surrender.

I don’t drop it. It is close to the shape of my slingBlade from home.

This is your slingBlade, son. It will scrape the earth’s veins for you. It will kill pitvipers. Keep it sharp and if you get stuck in the drills, it will save your life for the price of a limb.” So said my uncle.

I ordered Pad See Ew from the Thai place, ate half of it, watched the 1995 remake of Sabrina starring Harrison Ford, took another shower, downed the last of my Ambien, and found the porn channel again. I turned the volume down low, shifted my body away from the screen so that the grunts and moans could lull me. Still, I didn’t sleep. Life could go on forever like this, I thought. Life would, if I didn’t take action. I fingered myself on the sofa under the blanket, came twice, then turned the TV off. I got up and raised the blinds and sat in a daze for a while and watched the sun go down—was it possible?—then I rewound Sabrina and watched it again and ate the rest of the Pad See Ew. I watched Driving Miss Daisy and Sling Blade. I took a Nembutal and drank half a bottle of Robitussin. I watched The World According to Garp and Stargate and A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors and Moonstruck and Flashdance, then Dirty Dancing and Ghost, then Pretty Woman.

But embracing Sam was different, somehow. Like she wanted to curl into his warmth, like for one moment, she didn’t have to worry about anything or anybody. “Sam,” she murmured into his chest. “Hmm?” She peeled away from him, stepping out of his arms. “If you ever tell anyone about me embracing you … I’ll gut you.” Sam gaped at her, then tipped his head back and laughed. He laughed and laughed, until dust lodged in his throat and he launched into a coughing fit. She let him suffer through it, not finding it very funny at all. When he could breathe again, Sam cleared his throat. “Come on, Sardothien,” he said, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “If you’re done liberating slaves and destroying pirate cities, then let’s go home.” Celaena glanced at him sidelong and grinned.

They caught the sound of footfalls at the same moment, and both stood as a tall figure ran toward them, his blade in hand. “Stop there, traitor,” Sabre said, raising her sling. “Or I’ll fell you before you take another step.” “The advantage of a missile weapon,” Moria said. “Exactly. And it appears he has enough experience with yours to respect mine.” “No, he’ll only pretend he’s listening, as he talks and distracts, and then creeps close enough to use his sword.” “I can hear you,” Gavril called. “Good,” Moria said. “Then you can hear that I’m not under any duress, and you can presume that if our visitor was helping me escape, we’d be gone by now, not chatting like girls at a tea ceremony. Since I know you’ll not stay where you are, you may approach half the distance, then lay down your sword and come closer.” “May I?” “Only if you behave. And keep quiet. Otherwise, stay where you are.” “I think you forget who is—” “—in charge here? No, Kitsune, I do not. I am in charge, because if you do not return with me, you will pay the price. That is why you’ve accommodated me so far and it’s why you’ll continue to do so now.” Sabre chuckled. Gavril stalked closer.

I was always inspired by Billy Bob Thornton and how he made Sling Blade, how he made and financed that movie based off of a short. I always feel like, if I’m going to sell something, I want to show a short. That would be my advice to people who want to pitch. Make it yourself and show it. Because it’s a visual creation. Show them. And, more than anything, you have to prove that you’re the only person that can make the show. Make people trust that you believe in it so much that you are the best and only person who can do it.

I must have fallen asleep on a rock. It’s digging into my shoulder blade. I scrunch up and start to roll over, but then freeze. It’s not just a single rock. It’s a giant one. Like concrete. I go numb as I realize what this means. It can’t be…I ease open my eye, and then in an instant I’m sitting upright and looking around. And all I see are cars. And people in blue jeans. And street signs. And I smell smog and I hear radios crackling in the passing cabs. I close my eyes for at least ten seconds and then open them again, but it’s all still there. The twenty-first century. I can’t stop my face from falling. I’m back. Just when I’d realized I don’t want this at all, I’m back. My shopping bags are strewn around me. I’m wearing jeans. A T-shirt. My heels. I glance back to realize the Prada shop is still a few yards behind me, just where I’d left it. I’m sitting in the exact spot I’d fallen down. I never left at all. I stay put for a few moments as a pounding headache fades. Alex. Emily. Even Victoria. They were all make-believe. Some figment of my banged-up brain. That means the kiss…God, I made it all up! Every single thing! I want to lie back down, close my eyes, and go back. I want horrible soup and stiff corsets and lump mattresses. I’ll trade it all to see Alex again. To go to Emily’s wedding. A man trips on my foot and then has the nerve to glare at me, even though he basically kicked me in the shin. Yes, I’m definitely in the twenty-first century. I scramble to my feet and wipe the dirt off my jeans and lean over to pick up my bags. And then I notice them. My heels. My beautiful, damaged heels. I glance over my shoulder. Yes, the Prada shop is definitely still behind me. I’ve gone maybe four steps from the door. Nowhere near enough to ruin the heels like this. They’re scuffed, dented, and scratched. I gather up the rest of my bags, my grin in full-force. It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t make-believe or a dream or anything. It happened. As sure as the mud on the heels, it happened. There’s even a dent where the front door of Harksbury bounced off the toe. I don’t know how or why or anything, but somehow, I was there. I danced with Alex and helped Emily. I played a piano for a duke and a countess, and I ate more exotic animals than I ever wanted to. But it happened. I don’t understand it; I only know that the last month was real, and it was the best of my life. I sling the bags over my shoulder and practically skip down the block. No matter what happens next, no matter what happens for the rest of my life, I have something no one else will ever have. An adventure to rival Indiana Jones. A crazy month that can never be replicated.

Sam” she murmured into his chest. “Hmm?” She peeled away from him, stepping out of his arms. “If you ever tell anyone about me embracing you… I’ll gut you.” Sam gaped at her, then tipped his head back and laughed. He laughed and laughed, until dust lodged in his throat and he launched into a coughing fit. She let him suffer through it, not finding it very funny. When he could breathe again, Sam cleared his throat. “Come on, Sardothien,” he said, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “If you’re done liberating slaves and destroying pirate cities, then let’s go home.

A crowd of Gammas and their new allies rush toward the Snowball to celebrate the pilot and his prophetic maneuver against the torchShip. From a distance, they think it was me and not the small human by my side. As they see our faces, they slow and then stop, gathering in a sort of wary perimeter. Their faces are young and old, all sunburnt. They hold antique rifles, household pistols, even slingBlades. A ripple of recognition goes through them when they spot Pax and Electra. Then understanding as they see the pilot halo Pax wears. It isn’t disbelief on their faces when he takes it off. It is fulfillment. As if they believed in something once, grew to laugh at the naïveté of their own conviction, only to see that they were right all along. I sense the weight of the moment, and it chills me.

Some people thought to travel with chunks of dry ice, suspended in towel slings from the inside windows of the car—again a potentially lethal idea, as the release of all that carbon dioxide could cause everyone in the car to black out right on the road. Less dangerously, there was a small rubber-bladed fan that plugged into the cigarette lighter and clipped on to the dashboard to give the driver a breeze. Failing any of these remedies, drivers joked about the least expensive cooling system of all: “Four-Forty Air Conditioning—four windows down, forty miles an hour.

You guys had a good run. You can’t expect her to lose her sense of judgment forever. You know, Theo, every now and then Eraserhead will hook up with Tinker Bell, or Sling Blade Carl will marry Lara Croft—that sort of thing gives us hope—but you can’t count on it. You can’t bet that way. Why, guys like us would always be alone if some women didn’t have a deep-seated streak of self-destruction, isn’t that right, Professor?

he has something I’m far more interested in. A question mark of a sword. A slingBlade for reaping grain. He faces me with his back hand on his hip and the crooked blade out like a razor. If it were a razor, I’d be dead. But it’s not. I make him miss, block one of Cassius’s attackers’ blows.