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So anyway, this lawyer fella says to me, your brother died a rich man, oil wells and shit, close to a million bucks. A million bucks? Yeah. Fucking incredible how lucky some assholes get. Jeez Louise, you gonna see any of that? 35,000. That’s what he left me. Dollars? Yep. Holy shit, that’s great. That’s like winning the sweepstakes. Isn’t it? Dumb shit, what do you think the government’s gonna do to me? Take a big wet bite out of my ass is what. Andy, you nuts? Keep your eyes on your mop, man. Andy. Well, all right, you’re gonna pay some taxes, but you’ll still end up with what? Oh, yeah, yeah, maybe enough to buy a new car, and then what? I gotta pay tax on the car. Repair, maintenance, goddamn kids pestering you to take them for a ride all the time. Then at the end of the year, you figure the tax wrong, you gotta pay them out of your own pocket.
Mr. Hadley, do you trust your wife? Oh, that’s funny. What I mean is, do you think she’d go behind your back, try to hamstring you? That’s it. Step aside, Mert. This fucker’s having himself an accident. You don’t push him off the roof. Because if you do trust her, there’s no reason you can’t keep that 35,000. What did you say? 35,000. 35,000? All of it. All of it? Every penny. You better start making sense. If you want to keep all that money, give it to your wife. The IRS allows a one-time only gift to your spouse for up to $60,000. Bullshit. Tax-free? Tax-free. IRS can’t touch one cent. You’re that smart banker who killed his wife, aren’t you? Why should I believe a smart banker like you? So I can end up in here with you? It’s perfectly legal. Go ask the IRS. They’ll say the same thing. Actually, I feel stupid telling you this. I’m sure you would have investigated the matter yourself. Yeah, fucking A. I don’t need no smart wife-killing banker to tell me where the better shit in the buckwheat. Of course not. But you do need someone to set up the tax-free gift for you. And it’ll cost you. A lawyer, for example. Bunch of ball-washing bastards. Right. I suppose I could set it up for you. That would save you some money. If you get the forms, I’ll prepare them for you. Nearly free of charge.
I’d only ask three beers apiece for each of my co-workers. Co-workers? Get him. That’s rich, ain’t it? I think a man working outdoors feels more like a man if you can have a bottle of suds. It’s only my opinion. Sir. And that’s how it came to pass that on the second-to-last day of the job, the convict crew that tarred the plate factory roof in the spring of 49 wound up sitting in a row at 10 o’clock in the morning drinking icy cold, Bohemia-style beer.
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I have no idea to this day what those two Italian ladies were singing about. Truth is, I don’t want to know. Some things are best left unsaid. I like to think they were singing about something so beautiful it can’t be expressed in words and makes your heart ache because of it. I tell you, those voices soared. Higher and farther than anybody in a great place dares to dream. It was like some beautiful bird flapped into our drab little cage and made those walls dissolve away. And for the briefest of moments, every last man at Shawshank felt free. It pissed the warden off something awful. And you couldn’t play something good, huh? Hank Williams or something? They broke the door down before I could take requests. Was it worth it? Two weeks in the hole? Easiest time I ever did. Oh, shit. No such thing as easy time in the hole. That’s right. A week in the hole is like a year. Damn straight. I had Mr. Mozart to keep me company. So they let you tote that record player down there, huh? It was in here. In here. That’s the beauty of music. They can’t get that from you.
Haven’t you ever felt that way about music? Well, I played a mean harmonica as a young man. Lost interest in it, though. Didn’t make much sense in here. Here’s where it makes the most sense. You need it so you don’t forget. Forget? Yeah, forget that there are places in the world that aren’t made out of stone, that there’s a… There’s something inside that they can’t get to, that they can’t touch. It’s yours. What are you talking about? Hope. Hope. Let me tell you something, my friend. Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope can drive a man insane. It’s got no use on the inside. You better get used to that idea.
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