Quotes About Truck

But when the truck straightened out and began to gain speed, I was still holding on. I tapped the window with the Colt. The passenger was that same guy who'd given me the glowering look at the top of the pass into Hog Hollow.

Ranger] How's your mental health? he asked. I heard about Soder. [Stephanie] I'm rattled. I have a cure. Oh, boy. He put the truck in gear and headed for the exit. I know what you're thinking, he said. And that wasn't where I was going. I was going to suggest work. I knew that. He looked over at me and grinned. You want me bad. I did. God help me.

It says here she held up a Frito-Lay truck?" "Apparently she was on that no-carbohydrate diet, got her period and snapped when she saw the truck parked in front of a convenience store. Just got whacked out at the thought of all those chips. She threatened the driver with a nail file, filled her car with bags of Fritos, and took off, leaving the driver standing there in front of his empty truck.

There's something very surreal about driving a truck, looking in the rearview mirror, and seeing 20 cop cars behind you. Even though you know, 'We're just shooting. This is just a scene; we're making a movie here,' it's very unsettling.

I went and got a tire tool out of my truck, and straightened him out as cold as a block of ice. It was an attitude adjustment, and it'll work every time.

I drive a big F-350. It's a dually. I put Ranch Hand front bumpers on it so it sticks out about another 12 inches.

If I could have anything, I would probably get an old Ford F-150 from the '70s.

We left in the same kind of truck that had brought us to the camp ten years earlier. When it started up, I was taken back to our departure from Pyongyang, and to my mother's tear-lined face as it receded into the distance. The vision struck me with new and unexpected force - for I had all but forgotten my mother.

How much longer would they last? How long before one of them got stabbed in a bar fight, not just knocked out? How long before this old truck swerved off the road or head-on into a bus? Bit it didn't make much difference anyway. The drinking and hell raising were just things they did, as he had done sitting at the ranch all afternoon, watching the yellow cat bite the air for flies; passing the time away, waiting for it to end.

My dad had this old truck that he used to take on back roads and showed me how to drive when I was nine or ten.

I'm a Taurus, which sounds like the name of a pickup truck. I'd prefer to be born under the sign of the rock wallaby. If you're going to interpret your life pursuant to an utterly irrational dogma, why can't it have a cute mascot? Rock wallabies really are fabulous animals, and in any remotely just world, they would have their own star sign.

Lina liked going to the market plaza. It was always alive with people and animals, and the market had things she'd never seen before-sandals made of old truck tires, hats and baskets woven of straw.

Sometimes the autobiographical link in each story is very literal, like I did work at The Texas School for the Blind, and I did once lose a mattress out of the back of a friend's truck.

smell of natural gas, piped from the big metal tank in the backyard, filled once a month by a truck.

It wasn't Glen's jealousy that surprised him. "You owe Roy money?" "Yep. Borrowed it to get my truck painted." "Roy's a loan shark, too?" "You ever see JAWS ?" Snakebite asked. Glen said he had. "How 'bout THE GODFATHER ?" "Yeah." "Well, if Michael Corleone waded out in the ocean and fucked that shark, then you'd have old Roy." from the Tom Franklin short story "Grit" (page 31) from POACHERS:STORIES

The truck pulled through, and the gate was locked behind it. "Well, that's all we can do here," Caleb said in a relieved tone. "My God, do I need a decaf cappuccino after this nightmare of an evening." Stone said, "We need to get inside the fence." "Right," Reuben agreed. "Are you both insane!" Caleb cried out.

Their faces was different and their wife's faces in the truck, fine and showing teeth and him with a arm around the Mrs. and a wave at Daddy as they back out.

Traffic lurched forward. I crawled slowly past a flatbed truck that was pulled off onto the grass beside the road. The hood of the truck was up. Seven or eight men in dingy clothes sat on the bed of the truck. They were waiting, too, but they seemed a little happier about it than I was. Maybe they weren't being pursued by an insane homicidal artist.

I drive a big Dodge truck. I drive American cars.

Her expression changed then, becoming fearful rather than merely pained. It was the look you get when facing a sudden and insurmountable danger: the errant truck, the shakey ladder, the crazy person who pins you to the linoleum and insists, with increasing urgency, that everything you know and love can be undone by a grape.

My neighborhood is known for its old rich people and, subsequently, its hospitals. The closest of them now had a refrigerated truck parked outside in which dead bodies were being stored.

watched as the cow, transfixed with fear, was literally backing away from something invisible as fast as its legs could move. Tom reached through the window of his truck and grabbed his compass. He had learned a long time ago that strange events caused the compasses to act strangely.

We followed him to the cut bank of the river and watched as the underside of his truck suddenly became visible. The jump didn't get very far and, as anticipated, the wheels and most of the front of the Toyota sank into the soft mud of the Powder River effectively ending the vehicular portion of George's getaway.

He jumped in the bed and I closed the tailgate twice because, of course, the first time it didn't line up. Vic rolled down the driver's-side window of my truck. "You're going to be all right up here playing cowboy with the Indians?