Quotes from David Wong

I struggled for something to cling to, the way soldiers in foxholes picture their families, or a flag. My car, I thought crazily. This fucker crashed the Wongmobile. And for that, he must taste death.

Oh, hey, he'd figured out how to work the stupid ramp mechanism. It'd have been nice to have done that before he was forced to steal some guy's tow truck, but that was how every single possible thing had gone so far in this situation. Just a little bit behind the curve, a little slow to figure out the right thing. Story of his fucking life.

Scientists talk about dark matter, the invisible, mysterious substance that occupies the space between stars. Dark matter makes up 99.99 percent of the universe, and they don't know what it is. Well I know. It's apathy.

They say Los Angeles is like The Wizard of Oz. One minute it's small-town monochrome neighborhoods and then boom—all of a sudden you're in a sprawling Technicolor freak show, dense with midgets.

The people with health insurance get antidepressants and Adderall, the rich get cocaine, the clean-living Christians settle for mug after mug of coffee and all-you-can-eat buffets. The reality is that society had gotten too fast, noisy, and stressful for the human brain to process and everybody was ingesting something to either keep up or dull the shame of falling behind. For those few who truly live clean, well, it's the self-righteousness that gets them high.

War is about remaking the world to suit the whims of some powerful group over the whims of some other powerful group. The dead are just the sparks that fly from the metal as they grind it down.

No, war is never about killing the enemy. War is about remaking the world to suit the whims of some powerful group over the whims of some other powerful group. The dead are just the sparks that fly from the metal as they grind it down.

I was about to warn the girl about John's coffee, which tasted like a cup of battery acid someone had pissed in and then cursed at for several hours, but John turned to her and in a lawyerly voice said, "Shelly, tell us your story.

What, then, is the soul but a prisoner of your flesh? An undying yet constrained energy, bound and enslaved within a shuffling, steadily rotting suit of tissue and savage needs?

someone with no social skills

Okay, there is no possible combination of English words that would form a dumber plan than that.

The bathroom was clean. Well, not clean, but there were no corpses in there.

I had gotten hungry for bratwurst and had been walking toward the entrance of one of the four McDonald's franchises in Undisclosed (if you think it's weird getting a bratwurst from a McDonald's, then you're not from the Midwest). I glanced at the cartoon clown logo in the window and let out a scream. Just a little scream, and a manly one. But I still frightened one little girl on the sidewalk so badly that she screamed, too.

John trotted up, carrying his satchel. "Yes. Wexler's gone. We need your car." "What? Why?" John circled around to the passenger-side door and said, "Car chase.

So, they dig up my address and stick it in the mail. "David Wong will know what to do with it!" No, I absolutely will not. It just piles up and the stuff that doesn't seem too dangerous gets sold on eBay (there's a whole "Metaphysical" category on the site now, it's great).

At this point, John flung himself to the ground and screamed, "YOU SHOT ME! AAARRRRGHHH!" Not a shot had been fired. I rushed to John's side. "You shot him! He has four kids! Or should I say, four orphans.

That black pool of shame bubbled up in my head again. Then, a spark came along and set it alight. The choice between feeling the toxic ooze of self loathing and the fire of mindless rage is no choice at all.

Trust me, we need it. Or rather, we need it to not wind up in the hands of somebody else. Oh, wait! Damn it!" "What?" "It just occurred to me that I could have written Dave a message on a wall using my own shit!

You think the jellyfish ate her?" "Bones and all?" "We're talking about a tentacled flying lamp fucker, Dave. What are you prepared to call unlikely?

I said I heard them, it's like a, like a chittering I guess. You hear it, you don't hear it really but you just get the sound in the middle of your head, like an itch. It's not so much like a swarm of bees but more like a crowd, a crowd at a concert because you can pick out words and, I say it out loud and it sounds insane, but you can hear them talking to each other, coordinating. And more than that, you can hear their hate.

Kools never did get along with partners. He once stabbed a fella over whose turn it was to drive. Kools says I want to drive and the other fella says sure and Kools stabbed him in the face.

Our world," he said, "is far more advanced than yours. For reasons you'll understand shortly." A thin, bony naked woman entered the room, carrying two small, white kittens. She sat one of the fluffy cats in my lap and stuffed the other down my shirt. She turned and left. "There," said the large man. "The kittens will make your sad go away.

Saving the world, that's Hollywood bullshit. The best I can do is save a little bit of the world, this little corner that me and this girl stand in. And every time I think that, somewhere I can hear laughter. Them laughing. Like the game is over.

I don't see it right now - maybe it was in a different book - but anyway, he says that when you read the Bible, the Devil looks back at you through the pages." "What, like his Bible was possessed? Holy shit, he must have been the worst priest ever.