Despite being on Court TV, and therefore ostensibly safe for late-night consumption, the reruns of Homicide in which Frank Pembleton's got someone in the box and is being, well, you know, are epically unsafe late-night fare:
There’s a word for your face, for the teeth you have left, and that word is danger, grave danger, because that word is “fear,” but it sounds like “snap,” because that word is “pain,” and it whistles, up through the lungs it’s got left, “What happened to my teeth? My teeth. What happened — to my — tee-th.” Court it within shot of my ears – my ears – again, and the word whispered will be “death.” Two syllables, you see, not one, but two: “Death.” But not– not – before “pain.” Never before “pain.
Transcribing that, I realize how little sense it makes unless you can imagine his delivery ... but the menace is there. It's just that before tonight I never realized quite how much of a run Pembleton can give Swearengen for his money, and I think I maybe didn't want to.