- The Butcher: Most women are poor creatures. Being without a cock, the only way they can feel strong in front of a man is to betray him by latching on to another cock, especially when it's got more money. The part i like is after stuffed her snatch her prince charming dropped her like stinky cheese. She acted like filth, but she was smart enough to admit it. The past always catches up to you. You always end up paying for your acts. And if she threw herself in front of a subway train, it's not my fault. She obviously didn't deserve better...
- The Butcher: People think they're free. But freedom doesn't exist. Just laws that unknown people made to protect themselves.
- [after the opening bar scene, the title sequence begins with the following in block letters: Les Cinemas de la Zone present the tragedy of a jobless butcher struggling to survive in the bowels of his nation]
- [SEUL CONTRE TOUS, literally, Alone Against All, is displayed one word at a time as the narrator begins]
- Narrator: To each his own life, to each his own Morality. My life?
- [Various photographs, relevant to the narration are displayed, as the narrator continues]
- Narrator: There's nothing to it. It's the life of a sorry chump. They should write that someday. The story of a man like so many others, as common as can be. It starts off in France, shithole of cheese and Nazi lovers. Our man is born near Paris in 1939. In '41 his mother abandons him. He'll never see her again. At the War's end, he finally finds our who his father was. A French Communist killed in a German death camp. He's now six years old. Inner turmoil is part of him. Meanwhile, an educator nabs his innocence in the name of Jesus. At the age of 14, driven by survival, he learns to be a butcher. For ten years he works around saving up penny after penny to pay for his market place. At 30, he succeeds and sets up shop in Aubervilliers. After a rough couple of years, his horsemeat trade gains momentum.
- Narrator: At last he can start living. He dates a young worker and bursts her hymen at the Hotel of the Future across the street from the factory she works in. But events precipitate. Nine months later, he fathers a baby girl, Cynthia, rejected by the mother. She abandons them and he's forced to raise his daughter on his own. Years go by. The meat market struggles on. The butcher pays installments on a small flat. He raises his daughter, who's locked in muteness.
- Narrator: She reaches puberty. She takes on shapes. The father, unwilling bachelor, must resist temptation. And that's when tragedy strikes. The young girl has her first period.
- Narrator: Stricken by an unfamiliar pain, she heads for her father's shop. A worker tries to seduce her on her way over. A neighbor spots them and takes the girl to her father. Seeing blood on her skirt, he can only think of rape. He grabs a knife and takes off after the criminal. On a nearby construction site he sees another worker. The butcher stabs his knife into his face. The innocent man survives, the butcher winds up in jail and his daughter is placed in an institution. He writes a few letters to her. Months go by. The butcher is forced to give up his flat and shop. He's out of jail, but all is lost.
- Narrator: To survive, he takes a job in a bar. He becomes the matron's lover. She gets pregnant and offers to sell her bar to start over from scratch, in another city. With the proceeds, she can afford to lease a meat market. Having no other choice, the man accepts.
- Narrator: For the first time, he visits his daughter. He tells her goodbye. She watches him leave without a word. The next morning, he drives out of Paris with the matron hoping to escape the dark tunnel of his existence.
- Narrator: They reach Lille and stay with the matron's mother, waiting to find a flat and shop of their own. Unlike his native Paris, streets in northern France seem sad and deserted. For the first time in his life, he feels like a stranger. Images of his dead father, a deportee, rise to the surface.
- Narrator: But the butcher, like every man, is a being of pure survival. He decides to forget his past & his betrayal of his daughter. And his love for her. Well, Love is a mighty big word. Few can claim to know what Love is.
- [Death Opens No Door: shown in block letters on black screen]
- Narrator: Death isn't much of anything in the end. We make such a big deal out of it. But up close, it's like nothing. A body without life, nothing more. People are like animals. You love them, you bury them and then it's over. Still, it's my first time seeing it. Hers too. But she seems all upset. Yet there's nothing to get all mushy over. All right, yeah. I'll walk her home. She looks fragile. Besides... she's pretty.
- The Butcher: [after an unsuccessful job interview at a slaughterhouse] What? A fairy treating me like that? Tell me I'm dreaming! As if I didn't know his wife dropped him the day she caught him having his sphincter rimmed by an employee. All the horsemeat butchers in Paris know that little Mr. Blanchat likes cock. He lets his ass do the blow jobs. And who's he to be so proud? I hear his father was of the same ilk. I wonder why there are so many queers among the rich. Must be their lack of strenuous effort. They lounge around doing jack shit and their genes grow soft and degenerate. Yes indeed, that's the way it is. France Fruitcake, not Horsemeat! Bullshit liar! I'm ashamed this guy is French.
- The Butcher: Feels strange to be back in this room where my daughter was conceived. What a great fuck her mother was. But if I knew she was going to lay a runt on me I'd have never spurted inside her. But that's how it goes. I let the jissom flow. And today my daughter exists.
- [MORALITY, in huge block letters, is displayed against a black screen at opening of film]
- [cut to a man holding court, talking to another patron while sitting at a table in a bar]
- Every Man his Moral: You know what Morality is? I'll tell you what it is. Morality is made for those who own it. The rich. And you know who's always right? The rich. And the poor pay the price.
- [cut to the word JUSTICE displayed and then back to bar]
- Every Man his Moral: You want to see my Morality?
- Captive bar patron: Yeah.
- Every Man his Moral: Yeah?
- Captive bar patron: Yeah.
- Every Man his Moral: Sure you won't regret it?
- Captive bar patron: I don't know.
- Every Man his Moral: I think it's gonna scare you. Take a look.
- [Pulls out and displays an automatic pistol]
- Every Man his Moral: That's Morality for you. You know why I carry this around? Huh? Because the guy in blue who shows off his Morality, dig? He's got the upper hand, dig? He and his fucking Justice. But I... But I... Here's my Justice.
- [bar patron is obviously disturbed but is trying hard not to show his discomfort]
- Every Man his Moral: Whether you're right or whether you're wrong. Same difference, friend.
- [He finally stops waving the pistol and with a sense of satisfaction puts it back beneath his leather jacket]
- Camionneur: I hope you like good music.
- [Plaus euphoric electronic music as he and the Butcher drives through the night]
- Title card: Attention! You have 30 seconds to leave the screening of this movie.
- [it starts counting down]
- Narrator: Weird how when I like a girl I fuck it up. Even when they want me. For sure this one does, but broads always have a man tucked away in a closet. A life is like a tunnel. And to each his own tunnel. But at the end of the tunnel, there's not even light. Yep, nothing. Even memory goes before the end. Old folks know that. A little life, a little savings, a little retirement, and then a little grave. And all of it for nothing. It's all useless. Even children. When you're old and poor your kids will throw you in a rest home to croak alone, in silence. Children don't care. Familial love doesn't exist. It's a myth. Your mother, you love her as long as she gives you milk. And your father when he lends you money. But when her breasts are all dried up, or when your father's pockets are empty, the best thing to do is lock them up and let them die before they cost you too much. That's how it goes, the law of life. Children pretend to be nice only when there's an inheritance. But when the inheritance is a fridge or a TV set, it's not even worth pretending. Or strictly when necessary, enough to buy a good conscience. Phone once a month, shed a few tears when they die, and your duty is done. Love, friendship, it's all bullshit. Juvenile illusions to hide the fact that human relations are nothing but cheap business. Friendship and love suit us, but in a calculating way. Reality is much more venal. You love your mother because she feeds you and stops you from dying. Your friend because he gets you a job that feeds you and stops you from dying. And your fat old lady because she cooks, empties your balls and gives you kids to care for when you're old and afraid of dying. But slap your kid just once and he'll take revenge when you're old. In fact, that slap is exactly what he wants. When he throws you in the rest home, it'll be his excuse to mask the natural disinterest that we all feel toward our sires. No, that baby they want to trap me with, I don't like him. And I know he'll feel the same. No, fucking isn't worth it. It costs a bundle. Yet it makes the time go by. But stop wanting to fuck and you know your time on earth is over. That's the best this shitty world has to offer. Nothing but a reproduction code written in your balls that you blindly respect. Come into the world, eat, wag your bone, give birth and die. Life is a huge void. It always has been and always will be. A huge void which could manage perfectly well without me. I'm sick and tired of playing this game. No. No more. I want to live something personal, something intense. I won't be the last interchangeable cog in a huge machine. The day of my death I want to know that I've done more than the same crap done by a shitload of groveling morons. When it comes down to it, any asshole's done what I've done. I don't know, I've got to find a reason, whatever. Anything to make me want to hang on for another twenty years till I die. If I could start my life over again, I'd make porno flicks. There, at least, things are clear. The people who do that grasp the meaning of our species. Either you're born with a cock and you're only worthwhile when you act like a nice hard cock that wags around in holes, or you're born with a hole and you're only good if you get reamed. But in both cases you're all alone. As for me, I'm a cock. Yes sir. I'm a miserable cock. And to be respected I must always stay good and hard. But with my fat old lady I can't get it up anymore. I'd just as soon do the old hag. Or why not a threesome? Me, the mother and the daughter. I'm sure they'd like that, the two perverts. Me sticking it to both of them on daddy's bed. That fat bitch would go wild!
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