You choose.
We count off 20 paces, turn, and shoot.
Okay. [They cock their guns]
Uh, back to back. Saw it in a movie.
[Carl and Bryan both count to twenty and Bryan shoots himself in the leg near the knee]
What the hell did you do that for?!
I don't want to go to West Point!
Fucking kid--
It's my dad! [He screams] I want to go to Sarah Lawrence and be a poet.
What?
[Gasping] Hey, hey, hey... Oh, I'm a--I'm a cripple now. I don't have to go into the military.
Yeah, I don't know if it works like that. It's a flesh wound. Probably heal up pretty quick.
Shit! Shit! Shoot me.
What?!
Yeah, through the bone. All right, I'll have a limp. Great poets have limps.
No fucking way.
"I wander, lonely as a cloud that floats on high o'er vale and hills, when all at once, I see a crowd, a host, of golden daffodils..."
Jesus, knock off that golden daffodils shit.
"Besides the lake beneath the trees, fluttering, dancing in the breeze, continuous as the stars that shine and twinkle in the..." [Carl shoots Bryan deep in the leg near his crotch] Oh! Fuck! Fuck! Thank you. [Gasping with Carl standing over him with a look of schadenfreudesque pleasure] Ah! Oh! Ah! Oh, one was enough. I'm good. [Carl walks away] Ah, hey. Hey, thanks, man. Dude, kill it at West Point!
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