Chapter 9 of 22 · 2'27"
A man on the street delivers a political rant: the bombs have already fallen, people cannot think outside their own caste system, and taxes pay for guns used to oppress them. By the end he is talking about terrorism and serious work for a weapon.
❝ Monologue · 23 lines The Bombs Have Already Fallen
❝ Monologue · 14 lines Travel and spices
A tender memory of spice-laden wind snaps shut on a death sentence.
On the street, a man monologues about bombs that have already fallen and a public that cannot think outside its caste system. He urges action, complains about taxes on guns, and hints at serious work that involves something permanent about death. He calls terrorism the surgical strike of the oppressed.
The scene is a street-corner sermon, and its power comes from how confidently it mixes the apocalyptic with the everyday. He begins with a good line — "the bombs have already fallen" — and keeps going until the politics turn into a personal threat. The uncomfortable turn is the gun talk: he says that if he pays taxes on weapons, he should get to own them, "because I have work for them right now," and then adds that the work is "something very permanent about death." That is the moment the speech stops being harmless. His closing phrase, "terrorism's the surgical strike capability of the oppressed," gives the whole rant a slogan, and the scene lets it stand without comment.
A1–C2 is the CEFR scale. Cards above the level you pick fade, and playback will not auto-pause on them.
“Everybody's running around here wondering when the bombs are gonna fall, and the fact of the matter is that the bombs have already fallen.”
The line sets up a waiting panic, then flips it: the disaster is already here.
Formal
“terrorism's the surgical strike capability of the oppressed.”
It reframes terrorism as a weapon of the powerless, turning a slogan into an argument.
Formal
“And it was as if we were being wafted into shore on a magic carpet.”
The smell becomes a carpet, and a rough voyage turns briefly into a fairy tale.
literary
“I have some very serious work for them. Something very permanent about death.”
He turns a line about owning guns into a quiet, almost poetic threat about death.
Informal
Everybody's running around here wondering when the bombs are gonna fall, and the fact of the matter is that the bombs have already fallen. People are running around here dwelling in the 11 th-hour concept... and it's well afternoon. I mean, our thought processes have been totally subverted... by the concepts these people lay before us. By the church, the schools and the media right now. I mean, it's almost impossible to find someone out here... that can think outside of their own caste system right now. I mean, look at this man across the street in a tie. This is a ruling-class man... and he's actually suffering from oxygen deprivation. He's brain-dead. Can I sell you a shirt? You know? And it's like, look at this magazine. Buy this magazine. You might be able to stimulate some thought in yourself... you know, switch your gestalt so that you might have some perception... and be able to see our way out of this. Alleviate suffering, make us enjoy it or something, you know. I mean, we're walking around here right now, and it's really time for us to take action. All right? We're being taxed out of our asses... to pay for a monopoly on guns by people to oppress us already. I'm saying if I'm gonna pay taxes on guns and weapons... that I at least wanna possess them, because I have work for them right now. I have some very serious work for them. Something very permanent about death.
I've traveled. And all it is is bad water, bad food, you get sick. You gotta deal with strange people. And when you get back, you can't tell whether it really happened to you... or you just saw it on TV. We finally got out of the terrific heat of the Red Sea into the Indian Ocean. It was just a few degrees cooler. And then as we got toward Bombay, a wonderful thing happened. There was a breeze blowing out to sea. And it brought the scent of spices out to us three miles out from shore. A great wall of incense and spices. And it was as if we were being wafted into shore on a magic carpet. The next person who passes us... will be dead within a fortnight.
Up next · 10occur to youThe scene: A Woman Says You Should QuitThat society is already ruined and that people cannot see it. He attacks the church, schools and media, complains about taxes on guns, and says terrorism is the weapon of the oppressed.
He says that if he pays taxes on weapons, he should be allowed to own them. Then he adds that he has serious work for a gun, which turns the argument into a threat.
It means within two weeks; a fortnight is an old British word for fourteen days. The line promises that the next person who passes will soon be dead.
A different voice takes over the film, remembering a voyage from the Red Sea to the Indian Ocean and the smell of spices carried out to sea near Bombay.
With a warning: the next person to walk past will be dead within a fortnight. It leaves the rant and the travel story hanging together as one unsettling mood.
