and you are a liar. But not a snitch ! Excuse me ?
No, l don't think l will. - Mr Slade. - This is such a crock of shit !
[ Trask ] Please watch your Ianguage, Mr Slade. You are in the Baird school, not a barracks. Mr Simms, l will give you one final opportunity to speak up.
Mr Simms doesn't want it. He doesn't need to be labeled. .
. ''still worthy of being a Baird man. '' What the hell is that ?
What is your motto here ? ''Boys, inform on your classmates, save your hide; anything short of that, we're gonna burn you at the stake'' ? Well, gentlemen, when the shit hits the fan, some guys run.
. . and some guys stay.
Here's Charlie facin' the fire, and there's George. . .
hidin' in big daddy's pocket. And what are you doin' ? You're gonna reward George.
. . and destroy Charlie.
-Are you finished, Mr Slade ? -No, l'm just gettin' warmed up. [ Slade ] l don't know who went to this place.
William Howard Taft, William Jennings Bryant, William Tell, whoever. Their spirit is dead, if they ever had one. lt's gone.
You're buildin' a rat ship here, a vessel for seagoin' snitches. And if you think you're preparin' these minnows for manhood, you better think again, because l say you are killin' the very spirit. .
. this institution proclaims it instills. What a sham.
What kind of a show are you guys puttin' on here today ? l mean, the only class in this act is sittin' next to me. l'm here to tell you this boy's soul is intact.
lt's non-negotiable. You know how l know ? Someone here, and l'm not gonna say who, offered to buy it.
- Only Charlie here wasn't sellin'. - Sir, you're out of order. l show you out of order.
You don't know what out of order is, Mr Trask. l'd show you, but l'm too old, l'm too tired, too fuckin' blind. lf l were the man l was five years ago, l'd take.
. . a flamethrower to this place !
Out of order ? Who the hell you think you're talkin' to ? l've been around, you know ?
There was a time l could see. And l have seen. Boys like these, younger than these, their arms torn out, their legs ripped off.
But there is nothin' like the sight. . .
of an amputated spirit. There is no prosthetic for that.
