All language subtitles for Night Gallery S02E18 en ingles

SERLING: Starring tonight:

Bill Bixby,

Carol Lynley,

Steve Forrest,

Donna Douglas,

Albert Salmi,

Gilbert Roland,

Lex Barker,

Buddy Ebsen,

and Jim Davis.

Felicitations and greetings
from this cavern of canvasses,

dedicated and devoted to bringing
you art lovers a few in-depth probes

through the crust of the
not-quite-real, the almost real

and the frankly and
flagrantly unreal.

Pictures, paintings, portraits
rendered onto canvas with brush

and sometimes claw.

Item number one.

In a $12.50 pine box reposes
the body of a Frontier Frankie.

Armed but disarming.

A victim of an Old
West philosophy

that any man with a good eye, a
limber finger and a well-honed trigger

skirts the pastures
of immortality.

But this chap found
out the hard way

that immortality
is a wish, a word,

but infrequently a reality.

He awaits your pleasure in a
painting we call The Waiting Room.

Whiskey.

Leave it.

You always this busy?

More or less.

Any less, you could plant
this place in winter wheat

and open it up for grazing.

Don't let me crimp you,
gentlemen. Go ahead and play.

You're not stopping
us, Mr. Dichter.

You know me?

The eminent Samuel Dichter,

past master of the six-gun,

with a lightning draw
and a devilish, deadly aim.

You're known, Mr. Dichter.

You've got the advantage.

Something funny?

Sad-funny, Mr. Dichter.

That you should think
we have the advantage.

There's no advantage
here. Particularly to you.

I'm betting, gentlemen.

Who's that Johnny I
seen strung up on the hill?

Some gunner.

A killer.

Did he have a name?

If he did,

it's no use to him now.

You go up there and watch it?

What you say?

The hanging. You
watch them do it?

Things like that don't
give me any pleasure.

They never bothered me.

As a matter of fact,
if they kick a little

and squirm around and
take their time doing it,

well, brother, that
don't bother me a bit.

I guess there are some people
who have a taste for death.

You're looking at one, brother.

I got a taste for death
and a talent for delivering it.

It's 9:00, Mr. McKinley.

It's that hour.

You want me to take your hand?

Whatever's your
pleasure, Mr. Dichter.

I meant till you come back.

He won't be coming back,
as well you know, Mr. Dichter.

As well I know?

Mister, you don't make
a hell of a lot of sense.

I don't know who he is, or where he's
going, or what the name of this town is.

I'm cold and bone tired
and I saw the lights,

and I come in here to get warm.

Now, what else am
I supposed to know?

You know me, Sam,
or at least, you used to.

McKinley.

Charlie McKinley.

The word was that you was
bushwhacked outside a saloon in Abilene.

Shot the back of your head off.

That was the word, huh?

Yeah.

Well, it's nice to see you
walking and warm, Charlie.

I'm relieved.

Are you for a fact, Sam?

Well, just don't get too warm

or too relieved.

Where you going, Mr. Dichter?

You got no ears?
You didn't hear that?

We heard.

Are you just gonna sit there?

We're gonna sit
right here, Mr. Dichter.

You're not going out there
and see what happened?

We know what happened.

A man just got the back
of his head blown off.

I happen to be a... physician,

and I can tell you unequivocally

the net result of a shotgun
well-aimed at the back of a man's head.

Instantaneous death.

Mr. McKinley has no need of
anything right now, except one shovel,

one grave digger,

two strong men to tote a
pine box and six feet of earth.

Care to join us
now, Mr. Dichter?

There's your hand, Mr. Dichter.

Jacks or better to open.

Well?

Patience, brother.

I gotta make damned sure
who I'm playing poker with.

Just old acquaintances.

And don't call me brother.

There's no flesh tying
us, for which I'm grateful.

I'd sooner be kin
to a vulture bird.

I'll make the assumption you
don't know who you're talking to.

That's a dead wrong assumption.

I thought we made
it clear to you.

We know who you are.

You're Sam Dichter,

who fancies himself
Lord of the Gun.

As we all did once.

The problem with you, Dichter, is
you've got no memory for things.

Fast hand, slow brain.

Now, dip into that muddy
swamp you call a brain

and try to stir up
a few recollections.

Bristol.

You're Joe Bristol.

At your service.

I've gotta be dead
drunk or crazy.

I saw you gunned down
in Monterey. I saw it!

Maybe you were dead drunk then.

The hell I was. It was
mid-morning, hot sun,

and that kid, that fast gun.

Auburn. Max Auburn was his name.

He called you on the street.

He took you by a
second and a half.

You were a corpse
before you hit the ground!

I know what it is. It's...

It's fever.

That's what's doing this. Fever.

I started feeling
it this morning.

This fever's crawling
into my mind.

You're a doctor.

Why don't you trot out
some pills or some medicine?

It wouldn't do any good.

Take a little whiskey, Mr. Dichter,
and stay out of the cold air.

What about the medicine?

I could prescribe,
but it's too late.

Besides, you wouldn't
take it anyway.

Try me!

The prescription would be

for you to take
off that gun belt

and get no closer
to lead than a pencil.

That lengthens the
odds for a full life.

I'm asking for
medicine, not advice.

This advice is medicine.
Am I right, gentlemen?

Are you beginning to
get the point, Mr. Dichter?

What point?

It's his gun hand
that's fast, not his brain.

All right, Bristol,

you better stand up
and say that to me.

It's 10:00, Mr. Bristol.

I believe that's your hour.

I reckon that's the case.

Where do you think you're going?

Out into the hot sun.

The hot sun?

You hear what he said?

He's going out in the hot sun.

Mr. Bristol is going
out into the hot sun.

Well, let me tell you, I ain't the
only one around here with a fever.

I'll tell you what's out there.

Pitch black and icy cold.

You're gonna have to ride south
to Mexico before you find the sun.

Bristol.

Joe Bristol, you coming out?

Yeah. I'm coming out.

Who's out there?

Who's calling you?

It's a fast kid

named Max Auburn.

As you were, Mr. Dichter!

Either you understand,
or you don't understand.

But don't ponder it.

There's nothing you
can do, Mr. Dichter,

except play a few
hands of poker.

There's still a pot to be won.

So much for Joe Bristol.

Mr. Dichter, it's five-card
draw, jacks or better to open.

I know it's fever.

None of this is happening.

We all got the fever.
Red hot and killing.

Still nothing?

I don't know what
you're talking about.

You just don't get it, do you?

I think this whole
shebang is a loony bin!

I think you're all crazy,
that's what I think.

What's going on?
What's happening?

It's my turn now, Mr. Dichter.

Your turn for what?

The name is Bennett.

Abe Bennett.

Oh, no!

Banks were my specialty.

Or don't you recall?

Yeah, I recall.

You wore a pearl-handled...

That's right.

Honed-down trigger.

Just a wish and a
little breeze could pull it.

My pride, Mr. Dichter,

until one day in Tombstone,

after I put a two-foot hole
in a 70-year-old bank teller,

oh, I got the bill from
the fiddler, all right.

For all the music I'd
played and all the dancing.

You ever hear what happened?

Something about...

Something about a church.

A belfry.

They were waiting
outside the bank for me.

I ran into this little church,

climbed a ladder,

and the minute I
stuck my head up,

there was one smart
deputy with a rifle

and the eyes of an eagle.

I went over the side,
hanging onto the bell rope,

and I set them to ringing.

They rang all the way down.

And they was still ringing when
they threw me on the back of a horse.

Me and my pearl-handled Colt
and 20 bucks in greenbacks.

20 bucks, Mr. Dichter.

That's what I risked a life

and took a life for.

Cheap morning all around.

Where you going?

Damn your eyes, Dichter.

Your wits slog along like
a crippled mule, don't they?

Where am I going?

I'm going out to a
bank in Tombstone

and then I'm going up to
a belfry in a little church.

And then I'm gonna drop
50 feet down to a dusty street

with a bullet between my
eyes and the sound of bells.

Some of the pieces beginning
to fall into place, Mr. Dichter?

The point looking
a little clearer?

What point?

The point.

We, all of us,

we had a vow with a gun.

A Colt .45 till
death do us part.

I stayed on the clean side.

Took care of the
boys that used the gun.

Old Doc Soames, your
friendly slug remover.

Bring me any carcass with one
breath left in it and for a price,

I would gouge out the lead

and make you run again

and shoot again and kill again.

Right up until the end,

these fingers never
pulled a trigger.

They were skilled, trained and
educated in the art of surgery.

A gift from God.

And then one
conscience-stricken day,

when I toted up

the killers that I had
saved, I suddenly realized

I'd spit in God's eye.

For every patient,
that I counted

I counted at least one victim.

Every man I saved had
gone out and killed again.

What does the Bible say about...

"He who lives by the sword
shall die by the sword."

Update that, Mr. Dichter.

Make it a gun.

And then one night I
walked into my office.

I pulled open a drawer.

I took out a gun,

blue-steel symbol of
my professional skill,

that long-barreled deity

that you and I have
worshipped for so long.

And I turned it on myself.

The point is, Mr. Dichter,
the elusive point

is that we, all of
us, were doomed

from the moment
we took up firearms.

I'm not doomed!

I've still got a right hand.

I can outdraw any man
alive. I got a talent for it.

You had a talent
for it, Mr. Dichter.

Do I have to ask you again?
What are you talking about?

Just how did you
figure it, Mr. Dichter?

That you were immortal?

That after every gunfight, the victim was
dragged away through the bloody sand,

and you walked to the
bar and had a drink?

Is that the way you figured it?

It never happened any other way!

Until that unfortunate moment
when somebody appears,

somebody younger,

quicker, faster,
tougher, deadlier.

That moment which
Mr. Bennett perceived

when you have to pay the bill.

That bill now due and payable

for yours truly.

What's the name of this
town? Where is it? What is it?

It's just a waiting
room, Mr. Dichter,

where each man waits
out what is ordained.

Some call it hell.

You don't make no sense either.

Fill it.

I'm afraid there's no more time.

I need that drink.

You want to drink, Mr. Dichter,

you don't need it.

It's your time now.

My time?

Mister, I got no appointment
with anybody anywhere.

But I'll tell you what you need.

You need to get
that clock fixed.

Now, you give me another
drink or you're gonna

be the coldest bartender
east of California.

What's that?

That would be the
voices of the jury.

The people who
passed judgment on you

after your last kill.

They're outside, waiting.

It's closing time, Mr. Dichter.

No doubt I will be
seeing you again.

You won't be seeing me again.

I don't like the place,
the drink or the company.

You won't be seeing me.

I'll be seeing you
again, Mr. Dichter.

To those amongst you with a
predilection toward antique collection

or the occasional
bargain hunting

that takes place in
out-of-the-way nooks and stalls,

this painting suggests a
certain required wariness

when it comes to your shopping.

Because there are moments
when, behind some dusty book

or in a cobwebbed corner
of an ancient vestibule,

you'll uncover a little objet d'art
which can horrify the heck out of you.

Such being the
case in this painting,

when a lady goes junking about
and uncovers a mythological statue

that has lived past its time

and intrudes on hers.

We call the painting the
Last Rites for a Dead Druid.

Jenny!

Jenny, you've got to come
and take a look at this.

What did you find, Mildred?

Oh, dear God.

Three guesses.

Three? Who needs three?

It's Bruce.

In his bathrobe.

Oh, Jenny, you've got to buy it.

Oh, he'll have a fit.

Oh, no, he'll love it. He'll tell
everybody it's his great-grandfather.

I wonder how much it costs.

Mr. Bernstein!

Did you call me, Mrs. Tarraday?

Mr. Bernstein, Miss McVane and I
were wondering about this statue.

Oh...

Yeah.

That's a very fine piece.

There's a story connected
with this piece, ladies.

What's the story?

I don't know the story.

How can it not have
a story? Look at it.

How much is it?

How much is it?

Considering the
craftsmanship and the material...

What is the material?

I couldn't tell you.

It isn't marble.
Feel it, it's rough.

And it isn't limestone
because it don't chip.

I don't know this stone.

It's weird stone,
I can tell you.

Where did you get it?

It was here.

Ten years ago, when I bought the store
and the stock from Pelham and Grogan,

it was standing in the back.

I brought him in here.

How much is it?

How can I tell you
how much it is?

Some days I look at
it and I say to myself

"I'll give him away to the first
customer who's strong enough to lift him."

Other days, I look
at him and I say,

"You're a nice piece,
whatever you are,

"you could bring a good profit
in the hands of the right party."

Hmm.

What are you telling
yourself today, Mr. Bernstein?

Today I'm telling myself I
just bought a bedroom suite

from an estate they're
settling in Beverly Hills,

and I could use
the space. 75 bucks.

Oh, Jenny, take it.

He looks just like Mrs.
Tarraday's husband.

You couldn't have told me
that sooner, young lady?

I'd have asked 100.

It was a steal, darling.

Which of you was the thief?

$75 to Mr. Bernstein and $5 to
his nephew who has a pick-up truck.

It was Mildred who found it.

I see. I didn't
know it was lost.

Well, look at it.

Mmm-hmm. I am.

Well, look closer. Who
does it remind you of?

Who does it remind me of?

Yes!

Look, Jenny, I hope you
aren't gonna try and tell me

you think you might have found some
lost Bernini in a Redondo Beach junk shop.

Bruce, it isn't the artist
that it reminds me of.

What subject?

Subject?

Yeah, see. Why do
you think I bought it.

Well, I think you bought it
because you keep forgetting

that your brainless friend, Mildred McVane,
has $1,000 a week alimony to live on,

and can spend 50% of it on
useless knickknacks like this,

while your husband is
only a seventh junior partner

in a law firm that has
only seven junior partners

and earns approximately...

I bought it because
it looks like you.

Objection.

Overruled.

I thought you were asleep.

I don't look like him.

Mildred noticed it first.

Mildred? Mmm-hmm.

Oh.

Mildred.

That female is
noticeably more noticed

than noticing.

That's very well put,
darling. Thank you.

You know that Bellicose and Brady,
Dennison and Dawes, Entworth and Fox

knew what they were doing when
they added Tarraday to their front door.

Mmm-hmm.

Not anything like him.

Yeah? Yeah.

Bruce, wake up.

Wake up, Bruce.

Bruce, wake up.
You're dreaming. Bruce!

Bruce, what were
you dreaming about?

I'm a complete non-believer
when it comes to witchcraft.

The casting of evil spells
and things of that matter.

But at this particular moment,

it would give me absolute
pleasure to have a replica

of Mildred McVane
to stick pins into.

And when I was
finished with her,

one glass of water would
turn her into a water sprinkler.

Bruce!

Good morning, Mrs. Tarraday.

Good morning, Marta.
Isn't Mr. Tarraday here?

He went out into
the garden, ma'am.

Oh. Well, you can
start breakfast now.

Yes, ma'am.

Bruce, breakfast is ready.

Coming, dear.

Really.

Mr. Tarraday, of
course, of course.

Your wife, Mrs. Tarraday,
is one of my customers here.

She's bought some fine
pieces here, very fine pieces.

Yes, yes.

It's a pleasure
to know you, sir.

Well, very nice to meet
you, too, Mr. Bernstein.

It is about one of those
fine pieces that I am here.

A statue?

The druid.

Druid? What is a druid?

Actually, it says on
the picture it's not druid.

It's pre-druid.

We haven't cleared this up.

Wait, you'll see.

You could call it a
very funny coincidence,

but on the very same day when your wife
was here with her pretty, young friend...

Oh, pretty, young friend.

A knockabout, let me tell you.

Listen to me.

Oh, if I was only 50 again...

But, of course,
if I was 50 again,

Mrs. Bernstein would
be 47 again, so...

Anyway, later in the day,

a customer comes in and he
wants to buy the roll top desk here.

A fine piece.

Solid wood. As soon as my nephew
shows up with the pick-up truck...

So while I'm cleaning out the
drawers to get it ready for my customer,

what do you think I find inside,

where I haven't even peeked
since I bought the entire stock

from Pelham and
Grogan 10 years ago,

but a complete set of books with
photographs of all the merchandise.

And what do you think I
find in one of the books,

but a picture of the very
statue your wife, Mrs. Tarraday,

bought earlier in the day

and was asking about, but I
couldn't say because I didn't know.

It's typewritten on the
back. Everything about it.

See? What did I
tell you? Pre-druid.

That's druid.

So, druid.

Tell me something.

What is this?

Oh, that I'm very sorry about.

But when I sold it to
your wife, Mrs. Tarraday,

I didn't know that
feature was missing.

I don't like to sell
defective goods.

It gives the
business a bad name.

But if you're dissatisfied, I could
give you back $10 on the cost.

What? No. No, no, that's...

That's all right, Mr. Bernstein.
Doesn't make any difference.

"Statue, sculptor
unknown, of hooded monk

"attributed to early pre-druid
or possibly later-Cambrian order

"of secret and
kabbalistic priesthood

"of Midlothian, and
possibly that of its leader,

"the later defrocked Abbot
of Penicude Cathedral,

"Father Balamaster,

"referred to as
Bruce the Black."

There!

What is "there"
supposed to mean?

Well, Mildred said that you would
claim him as a great-great-grandfather.

Oh, I would rather claim
Mildred as a third cousin.

Well, you're about to claim her as a
dinner guest in about a half an hour.

Oh, no.

You'd better start the barbeque.

What else does it
say about him, huh?

Well,

enough to suggest that you
may not have been as delighted

as you might have imagined had I really
been descended from Bruce the Black.

It seems he practiced sorcery.

Yes? Yes.

And the religious ceremonies of his
particular order were purely satanic.

And the worshippers
followed their leader's habit

of debauchery and rapine,

as well as sacrifices
both animal and human

on equinoxial celebrations.

I mean, that is according
to what it states here.

"To the eighteenth edition of
the Mal Fecorum, later deleted,

"he maintained his primacy among his
order of fellow murderers and immoralists

"by the power of turning
any would-be attackers

"into stone."

But you don't
believe in sorcery.

Any more than I believe in
sacrifices, whether animal or human.

Or murder, or adultery,
or worshipping the devil.

But I do believe that I would
not have been any happier

had I found out that Bruce
the Black was an ancestor

than he would be to find
that I was a descendent.

I will make the barbeque.

Darn it!

You are a piece

of not particularly well-executed
and totally worthless rock.

You are not, and have never
been a salacious sorcerer.

Or a pre-druidical priest
named Bruce the Black,

who I'm sure never
existed in the first place.

You are nothing
whatever except ugly.

And bearing absolutely
no resemblance to me at all.

You have no power.

You can't move.

And you neither impress

nor intimidate me.

And you are going back
to Mr. Bernstein's junkyard

where you came from
and where you belong.

Will you introduce me to
Bruce the Black, Bruce?

I mean, I met him
casually before

if you call being present when
someone gets bought for $75

plus $5 for delivery
a casual meeting.

But I didn't even
know his name then.

So it wasn't a proper
meeting, really, was it?

How did you know he
was called Bruce the Black?

Oh, there's nothing
magic about that.

I saw Jenny inside.

Oh, yes, yes.
Where is she? Jenny.

She went upstairs
to powder her nose.

Of course.

I would've said something a
good deal heavier than that.

I suppose you'll
go to Jenny about it.

What do you mean? Tell her?

Yes.

Only on one condition.

That you don't promise
you'll never do it again.

Now, look... I am.

And I'm seeing something
I never saw before.

And I don't mind it at all.

Get out of here!

Bruce! Bruce, is that you?

What do you want?

I... Who were you talking to?

Nobody. Just...

The neighbor's cat was
over here chasing some birds.

You're gonna have
to call them about it.

I will dear. Tomorrow.

Oh, look.

Look at your great-grandfather.

What about him?

Look what the
sunset's doing to him.

He's got eyes.

Jenny,

where's Marta with the
steaks? The fire is almost ready.

I'll tell her, dear.

Kitty.

Here, kitty.

Marta, what's wrong?

He... He would cook the cat.

What?

You crazy old
bag, get out of here!

Bruce!

I probably have a very
high temperature at this time.

Marta, I'm sorry.
Yeah, I pack tonight.

And I leave in the morning.

Mildred, have you noticed
anything different about Bruce lately?

Oh, no, honey. It's
the same old Bruce.

What do you want?

Kill her.

Kill her, then you can
have the other one.

The beautiful gold and
blue and emerald one.

Kill this one. Kill her.

How?

With your pillow.

It's easy. Your
pillow over her face.

In a minute, two minutes,
that's all it takes, she'll be dead.

Think of the other one.

You want her. You've
always wanted her.

Now she'll be yours.

But kill this one first.

Go on, kill her.
It's almost done.

Then the other one.
The one, she'll be yours.

She wants you, too, just
as much as you want her.

Only one thing
stands in the way.

This one.

It's easy. Your
pillow over her face.

Kill this one first.

Your pillow over her face.

No. In a minute.

Two minutes,
that's all it takes.

No. She'll be dead.

Kill this one first. No.

No.

No, no!

No more of this.

No more!

This is where it ends.

Bruce? Bruce, where are you?

Bruce?

Bruce!

Bruce!

A nice piece, I got to admit it.

A very nice piece.

Good stone, fine condition.

How much is she asking
for this piece, young lady?

I'm sure Mrs. Tarraday won't refuse
any reasonable offer, Mr. Bernstein.

If she'd offer me the pair together,
I could give her a good price.

The pair of 'em together
would be very valuable.

Very valuable, I can tell you.

It's a pity she isn't
offering the pair of them.

Yes, isn't it? A great pity.