Quotes About Confrontation

I thought about the type of person who would steal a sled from Bigs Maloney. The thief would have to be brave, big, and tough. And more than a little crazy. Only a nut would mess with Bigs Maloney. It was my job to find the thief. And then, if I could, to stop Bigs from ripping off the poor guy's arms and legs.

Bigs jabbed a finger into my chest. Ping. It felt like an aluminum baseball bat. "I paid you," he said. "Now I want my Velma back." "Easy on the chest, will you, Bigs? I store my heart in there.

Sin'jari didn't give her a chance to formulate a plan. He lunged at her. But years of karate training and four older brothers had honed her reflexes.

When mankind pushes, natures sometimes pushes back

Have you given us a character worth following?  - Have you created a disturbance in the opening pages? - Do you know the death stakes of the story? - Have you created a scene that will force the character into the confrontation of Act II? - Is it strong enough? Can the Lead character resist going into the battle?  - Does it occur before the 1/5 mark of your total page count?

Halil could sense the cruel-eyed man humming with the power to end his life, straining at the leash like a snarling dog.

In his hand, Marc still had the Glock semi-automatic. Both of them knew what should happen next. The right choice, the expedient choice, was to put a bullet in this man's head and keep running. Marc kept running

When his parents announced the newest rules to Jamal, he defiantly announced back to them that, as a matter of principle, he would not be "manipulated or forced into complying with a Fascist parenting style.

jeans jacket, catching him in a chokehold, pistol at

Elizabeth Blair of brother Frank: he could "not let even a great man set his small dogs on him without kicking the dog & giving his master some share of the resentment.

When Taft gives way to his (anger), one reporter observed, it is to inflict a merciless thrashing upon its victim, for whom thereafter he has no use whatsoever. With Roosevelt is a case of powder and spark; there is a vivid flash and a deafening roar, but when the smoke is blown away, it is the end.

What had happened was that the formal pattern of black-and-white, mistress-and-servant, had been broken by the personal relation; and when a white man in Africa by accident looks into the eyes of a native and sees the human being (which it is his chief preoccupation to avoid), his sense of guilt, which he denies, fumes up in resentment and he brings down the whip.

He can make you want to knock him down, if he feels like it, by simply saying "good morning". He possibly said simply "good morning" to Lord Culter. The difference was that, being his brother, Culter hit him.

There's some of them'll be nursing a guid scratch or two on their hinder-ends this night.… Man, it was a rout.' 'I imagine,' said Piero Strozzi, his dark face impassive, 'that my lord Grey's army would not relish their defeat either.' 'Oh, aye, the English,' said Buccleuch absently. 'We are, after all, at war with them and not with the Kerrs,' the Marshal said mildly.

Why did you decide to join me?" "Why … ?" repeated Redhead, needing time to think. "Word of three letters," said Lymond. "Come along, for God's sake: no need to let me have it all my own way. What was it? Rape, incest, theft, treason, arson, wetting the bed at night …" "… Or burning my mother alive," said the other sarcastically. "Oh, be original at least.

I have a feeling that someone is going to be malicious, and we may as well set them a standard. Shall we go in, lewd and rude, and provoke them?

He didn't always tell his father when it happened, because the old man's face turned mottled blue over his doublet, and unless Will got in first, he would send a runner round all the estates, and the threshing would stop while grousing, reluctant men straggled back for their pikes and swords and mail shirts, taking a long time about it, waiting for Buccleuch the Younger to come up, furious on his sweating horse, and tell them curtly to get back to the fields.

Our motive in locking it, if it matters, was to spare you the embarrassment of an interruption. Unless the comte de Sevigny of today is really so different from the Master of Culter of ten years ago?' Perfectly at his ease, the decorative young man he was addressing leaned back on the shutters and studied him. 'I hope so,' Lymond said. 'When you were twenty, Mr Erskine, you killed a priest in the belltower at Montrose. Would you do so again?

Gilles made up his mind, and snapped, 'D'you write Latin?' Sometimes Jerott forgot that the blazon of chivalry, with all the status it once had carried, was no longer his. In any case, he had an incredible headache. He stared at this enormous, round-shouldered old man in the filthy nightgown and buskins, and snapped back. 'Of course.

They play at gods,' said Piedar Dooly, and spat. 'French and English alike. Gods out of hell would you say, harrowing green land for their tennis courts and dressing lapdogs in treasure that would keep half Ireland in bread for a year. The heroes of Tara would have put them face to schisty face and used them for millstones.

This,' said Lymond, 'is by no means a game I will play, or consider playing. Move.

Quarrelling with the Prince of Barrow was like fighting a curtain. Robin Stewart gave up.

In order to rule, one must face reality.

Hell's hell again: the de'il's back.