Quotes from David Wong

Well," I said. "Nothing to do right now but wander the fuck into that abandoned building, totally unarmed.

John tipped a finger at him and said, "Yep. Thanks for calling us, Drake. You're the kind of man a man wants when a man wants a man.

I've developed a pretty good survival system involving nothing more than mental alertness exercises, positive thinking and amphetamines.

Hollywood raised us. Your mind processes the world through a filter formed by comic books and action movies on Cinemax. That's why kids put on trench coats and take guns to school. The Devil knows how to control us.

I said before that my skin was "on fire" with the pain but being confronted so soon after that sentiment with the actual experience, I admit that other thing was nothing like my skin actually being on fire.

For a moment, nothing. John was about to supply the "it's not working" when, with a wet, tearing KERRRAAAAACTCH sound, Molly exploded like a meat piñata at a birthday party for very strong, invisible children.

There," said the large man. "The kittens will make your sad go away.

In the real world, bullets that miss their targets keep traveling until they hit something. They fly through windows, and into the bodies of bystanders. And even successfully killing a bad guy creates blowback, sets off a whole chain of consequences that are impossible to predict. Guns always represent a failure of negotiation.

John jolted awake to find himself staring down a shotgun wielded by his greatest enemy: himself.

You have to talk through the bratwurst from now on.

John said, "When they get here, let me do all the talking." I said, "Amy, when they get here, I want you to do all of the talking. I'll be busy restraining John.

John looked at him and yelled, "What are you waiting for? Shoot him in the mouth!" The word "mouth" could not be heard over the gunshots.

I closed my eyes and let out a breath that smelled like I'd eaten an entire wet dog and washed it down with sweat wrung from a hobo's undershirt.

I'm a productive citizen. Well, not productive, I mean if you add up what I bring to society and what I take out, society probably breaks even. And I'm not crazy. I mean, I know anybody can say that. But a crazy person can't fake sane, right?

Falconer was wearing his street clothes—jeans, a black turtleneck and an empty shoulder holster under his armpit. Cowboy boots. Little bit of beard stubble. John wondered if the guy would walk from one end of the street to the other without winding up covered in bitches.

If you had to choose, and if you were not allowed to see either ahead of time and had no other information to go on, would you rather fight Mindcrow or Gonadulus?

Inappropriate laughter is the universal first sign of madness.

I'm burning out, John. Seriously. I don't know if I'm up for this. I feel stretched out, like too little butter scraped over too much waffle. And then it all falls down into one of the waffle holes and there's none left for the rest of the waffle and you sort of have to tilt it to make it run out.

Anyway, it's two in the morning and we're taking turns pissing off of the tower (rather than going at the same time, because we weren't raised by wolves).

That is how the human brain works, when it looks at a formless cloud, it tries to see a shape, or a face, or otherwise associate it with something that makes sense in some known cultural context, like the proverbial image of the Virgin Mary seen in the grain of a tree stump, or a slice of toast. But make no mistake—the observer supplies the face.

Crotch-punchingly real!

Nope. No idea.

Six centuries ago, the pre-Colombian natives who settled here named this region with a word that in their language translates to, 'The Mouth of the Shadow.' Later, the Iroquois who showed up and inexplicably slaughtered every man, woman, and child in those first tribes renamed it a word that literally translates to, 'Seriously, Fuck this Place.

They had puddled in the floorboards and they poured out onto the pavement like the jackpot from the Devil's slot machine, the bugs raining down with a sound like frying bacon.