
It’s 1974: You’re a tough guy, you’re 22 years old, you’re name’s Michael Gordon Peterson. You rob a Post Office, and for those 26 £ you robbed, you get 7 years in prison.
Now it’s 2009: You’re name’s Charles “Charlie” Bronson, and you’re still in prison. Of all those years, you served all — all but 4 — in solitary confinement.
I mean those sick fucks forget one thing: A guy just wants to have fun. And you have fun.
What fun? (What do you mean … what fun?) Well, what’s there to do in prison?
You can take hostages, you can beat the shit out of someone, you can probably … kill someone?
I mean, c’mon, nothing fancy here!
But those fucks? They don’t get that. So they move you a lot. 120 different prisons, three (very) special hospitals.
This year’s parole was refused, but still … 2009’s a good year. They make a movie about you: 92 minutes on the art of rage. You’re fuckin famous! And isn’t that what you always wanted?
Here are the very first lines of the movie Bronson:
“My name’s Charles Bronson. And all my life, I wanted to be famous. I knew I was made for better things. I had a calling. I just didn’t know what as. I wasn’t singing. Can’t fuckin act. Running out of choices really. Don’t we?”
PS: And what about the gypsy he pissed on?
After his first fight, he gets paid, and it’s peanuts, of course, and Bronson complains to his promoter, Paul Daniels, saying: “I gave you fuckin magic in there!”
But Paul’s unimpressed. “Magic? You just pissed on a gypsy in the middle of fuckin nowhere.”
***