Con Air

Thirty-nine years old,
25 of them spent in our institutions.

But he's bettered himself inside. Earned
two degrees, including his Juris Doctor.

He also killed 11 fellow inmates,
incited three riots and escaped twice.

Likes to brag that he killed
more men than cancer.

Okay, open wide.
Lift your tongue.
Cyrus is a poster child
for the criminally insane.
He's a true product of the system.

What's that supposed to mean? Uh, what
is he, one of these sociology majors...

who thinks we're responsible
for breeding these animals?

No, but I could point a few fingers
if it would make you feel comfortable.

Ah, look at this walking penis.
Boy, you are one skinny Negro.

- Easy man. Shit.
- Open up.

Oh, man, it smells like
somebody shit in your mouth.

He told me he loved me.
- Get out of my face.
- All right, all right. Shit.

- Hey, Larkin, who's that guy?
- That is Cameron Poe.

A parolee hitchin' a ride home.
He's a nobody.

- Okay, let's do it.
- Willie...

nobody on the plane knows your
classification, not even my guards.

- Guard Bishop.
- Hey, Larkin.

Tell me, Skip, is
the U.S. Marshal Service...

in the habit of employing annoying,
wise-ass bookworm creeps?

Larkin's one of the best
we got.

Yeah, well, I'd still like to
crush his larynx with my boot.

Scan him.
Face me.
- What's this shit?
- It's my daughter.

I don't care if it's
the weepin' mama of Christ.

There's no personal possessions
on this aeroplane.

Just as long as you know I'll be
gettin' that back at some point.

Are you tellin' me what I'm
gonna be doin' here, numb-nuts?

- You heard me.
- Hey, hey, hey.

Come on,
break it up.

Oh, now, look at this fashion statement.
The do-rag gotta go, homeboy.