I… Well, I ain’t any kind of a screenwriter as you know, but I’ve been kind of trying to come up with some sort of solution to your Vietcong psychopath conundrum and, goldarnit, I think I may have found one.
So, there’s this Vietnamese guy, and he’s in this hotel room in Phoenix, and he’s sweating. He’s sweating like hell. He’s burning up. He takes out from his pocket a 44. He checks it’s loaded. I don’t know why he checks it’s loaded. Surely he’s the one who loaded it. Anyway, a hooker comes out of the bathroom in a beautiful red dress. She says, “Would you like to make love, or should we have an intelligent conversation instead? I’ve been reading a lot of Noam Chomsky lately, I think he’s a marvel.” The Vietnamese guy, you know, he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. He’s Vietnamese. So, anyway, you said you wanted some sex in it, so I guess they’re having sex. [whispering in Vietnamese] Desist, brother. You know this will not help us. He sniffs the air. He says the single word: “Gasoline”. The hooker, she studied Vietnamese at Yale, “I don’t smell gas”.“You will.”
He drags her to the place where the convention’s being held. She’s got the dynamite tied to her. He’s got the gasoline he’s just bought. She backs away, petrified. He pours the gas out onto the floor. It reaches her feet. A little of it has splashed over himself. it doesn’t matter. He takes out a match. In perfect Vietnamese, the hooker whispers, “Desist, brother. You know this will not help us.”
He shuts his eyes. Then he opens them again. He ain’t in Phoenix anymore. He’s sitting in the middle of a street in Saigon circa 1963 in the orange robes of his Buddhist order, and he’s drenched himself in gasoline. As he finally manages to push the thoughts of anger and hate out of his gentle mind, a fellow monk pleads with him one final time, “Desist, brother. You know this will not help us”. And all angry thoughts finally dispelled. The first monk ever to burn himself to death to protest the war whispers, “It might.” It might. “It might.” And he lights the match.
So, you know, your Vietcong psycho story becomes the final thoughts of a man who chose not the darkness, but the light. The light being, you know, suicide by self-immolation.
But I think that’s the best we’re gonna get.
And, you know… I know you said dream sequences are for fags, but I think it could work, don’t you? We all gotta dream, don’t we?
Hans, Seven Psychopaths