It’s 1994. Bill Hicks is in his bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He’s pretty high on acid. An overhead light casts brooding shadows around his face. Two pinpoints of light in his pupils.
As Bill delivers Bonasera’s opening lines from The Godfather in a perfect Italian accent, his reflection stares back without moving lips, without blinking.
I believe in America. America has made my fortune. And I raised my daughter in American fashion. I gave her freedom, but I taught her never to dishonor her family. She found a boyfriend. Not an Italian. She went to the movies with him. She stayed out late. I didn’t protest. Two months ago, he took her for a drive with another boyfriend. They made her drink whiskey. And then they tried to take advantage of her. She resisted. She kept her honor. So they beat her like an animal.
Bill looks down, then slowly looks up at his unmoving reflection.
Then I said to my wife, ‘for justice we must go to Don Corleone.’
Bill’s reflection stares back and begins to speak. Now Bill’s lips aren’t moving. Just the lips on the reflection as it responds as a pitch-perfect Don Corleone.
You come to me and you say, ‘Don Corleone give me justice.’ But you don’t ask with respect. You don’t offer friendship. You don’t even think to call me Godfather. Instead, you come into my house on the day my daughter is to be married and you ask me to do murder, for money.