Quotes from Jeff Strand

I know I'll die someday, but I buy books like an immortal.

I cursed. (S-word, f-word, s-word, d-word, s-word times three, f-word, and a z-word I made up on the spot.) I kicked a brick wall. I said the z-word again in response to the pain that came from kicking a brick wall.

What makes you think I'm coping?" "Well, for one thing, you're not lying on the floor in the fetal position. That's a good start.

Pregnant women shouldn't be lifting dead bodies.

You don't want me to die alone, do you? Nobody should have to die alone." "You won't be alone," said Rachel. "The assassin will be there with you.

You know Hitler? I like Hitler more than I like you, and I'm a Jew.

This is a really lame exchange of hidden messages.

If Raiders of the Lost Ark taught us anything, it's that you don't swing your sword at somebody who has a gun.

I'm doing this because I'm insane. Doesn't my mad cackle make me sound insane?

I didn't do anything to you." "You're right. You didn't. And if I kept shouting 'Revenge!' the whole time I was cutting you, that argument would have some substance. But since I've given no indication that my actions are vengeance-based, it was a pointless thing to say.

I'm not sure when "destruction" officially becomes a "rampage," but when that vampire started kicking down the buildings next to the police station I decided that we had a good old fashioned rampage on our hands.

Stay quiet or the last sound you'll hear is your brain exiting through your eye sockets. It's sort of a bang/slurp sound. Trust me, you wouldn't like it.

I'm a liar, but this is the truth. I

He held my finger over the toilet at chest-level, let it dangle for several seconds, then dropped it. It landed with a small splash. "Adios, dear finger," said Mr. Burke. He flushed the toilet and watched happily. "Going . . . going . . ." I wondered if this was payback for his being dunked in the toilet once too often by bullies in school. "Going . . ." He frowned. "Aw, shit, it's still there. Fuckin' low-flow toilets.

Oh, no, you are not going all boa constrictor on me!" he told it,

Yes, somehow I'd reached the point of mental instability where I was making up excuses to justify my actions to my own brain.

New York, New York. The Big Apple. The City That Never Sleeps. Spider-Man's hometown. I assume it's a pretty cool place to visit, when you're not stuck in a fleabag motel for three days cramming for finals week in the psychopath exams.

You know, if I look at the wound on an angle, it reminds me of a stripper I know." I amended my "complete asshole" assessment to include the words "from hell." "So this is where we part ways, slowly drift apart, and eventually fail to keep in touch altogether, right?" I asked.

it's crazy to think he wouldn't call the police. But I despise him. I don't care how irrational it is; if my mind worked normally, I wouldn't have killed eight people for the fun of it.

Okay, obviously I didn't die or I wouldn't be able to relate this tender little narrative. Unless, of course, I'm a ghost, writing these words through an Ouija board. That would be pretty cool, but also incredibly time consuming, and the human I was channeling through would probably try to steal all the credit.

Fishing poles. The weapon of choice for the traveler in distress. We also had lots and lots of marshmallows. Maybe we could immobilize these guys with sticky gooey goodness.

So I'm going to do an H.P. Lovecraft and write that it was so horrible that it cannot be described, and leave it at that.

The alarm went off at the unholy hour of five-fifteen. I got up off the couch, staggered around for a moment wondering what planet I was currently residing on, then used Roger's shower. The soap didn't jolt me into a state of euphoric alertness like the commercials said it would, but I felt a bit more human.

I could imagine his eulogy: "Fucker's dead. Throw some dirt on him. Let's go play some poker.