Quotes from Jeff Strand

Mandy gave him the finger. "You can have the rest of the booze, if you want," Stanley offered. "Go to hell." "Yes, ma'am.

A bumper sticker read "Grandma Went To Hell And All I Got Was This Lousy Bumper Sticker.

You mean it got out of the specimen room?" "Yes, sir." "Holy crap!" "Agreed, sir. Permission to unlock the gun case?" Paul shook his head. "You don't shoot two years' worth of work just because somebody lost an arm.

Hate. Hate is the key. Control your hate. Control your rage.

Stanley awoke in his hotel room bed. Veronica, Martin, and Brant were there, as was Dr. Arnzin, who was currently hovering over him and prodding him with a small metal thingie. "Ow," said Stanley. "Oh, good, you're awake," said Dr. Arnzin. "How do you feel?" "Not delightful. What is that thing?" "This? I use it to prod people." Dr. Arnzin set the metal thingie aside.

You could beat an orphan to death with a dead nun and not deserve what will happen to you if Mr. Burke catches us. I don't want to overhype him, but the man is mentally unhinged!

She'd probably be more upset over the loss of her phone than being kidnapped.

A tree looked like it was eating somebody, but it may also have been bathing them.

It didn't consume his every waking thought- that would be a sign of criminal insanity- but he figured he thought about it maybe a dozen or so times a day.

His mouth spewed out a gigantic waterfall of stupid comments on a regular basis, but he'd always said them on purpose. Being an accidental dullard was something new. Did sudden celebrity turn one into an idiot? It would certainly explain a lot...

Being able to separate fantasy from reality was a real bummer. I

Depressed, I went for a long walk to figure out what to do about my healthy mental state. Didn't electroshock therapy mess up your mind if you were sane when they zapped you? I thought I'd read something about that somewhere, but I also didn't have access to an electroshock therapy device. The best I could do was stick my finger in a light bulb socket. That didn't seem like the answer. What did insane people do? Well,

What a nutzo way to die, huh? Not that it's a competition, but my demise is going to be far more spectacular than my wife's.

at least things didn't appear to be moving in a "Let's snap the wishbone" direction.

Gotta kill the monster before you bring a kid into the world.

Shirley offered to drive us in her car, but Roger and I thought it was best if we took his car, since we knew that his vehicle was not equipped with a hidden button that you could press to make spikes burst out of the seats. Not that we thought Shirley's car had the spiked-seat feature, but it could have something ghastly, like a cobra compartment, and it just seemed like a wise idea not to let the possible serial killer drive.

I didn't much want to listen to constructive criticism from somebody whose decision making process so far seemed to be "What can I do that's more insane than the last thing I did?

What else kills monsters?" Lou shrugged. "Direct sunlight?" "Well, Lou, I'm afraid we already know his weakness isn't direct sunlight, because we've seen him out in the direct goddamn sun!" "We're brainstorming! You don't criticize ideas in a brainstorming session!

Sounds too good to be true. How can you afford to give out that much cash?" "We're extremely well-funded.

God, Owen, what have you done?" asked Toby, stepping onto the lawn. "Why do things always get so screwed up with us?" Owen signed: Scared. "Me too.

problematic. Yes, if you're brave, determined, strong, and a little insane, you too can construct a zombie raft. I'm

My problem is that Guffaw is dead in the trunk of this car, and we may very well be joining him. In being dead. Not in being in the trunk.

My tombstone: Andrew Mayhem. He survived knives, chainsaws, guns, and being buried alive. Then the dumbass drank poison.

Admittedly, there was an element of counting chickens before they hatched involved in my "next couple of minutes" prediction, since there were still plenty of places that bodies could be hidden. Or, for that matter, sitting out in the open with "Surprise!" written on the floor in their blood. But like I've always said, it's easier to count eggs that are just lying there in the nest than baby chickens that are running all over the place.