Quotes About Violence

I may be no kind of fisher, but I've always had a talent for making men bleed. Best put that stick down before I make you fucking eat it.

Evil turned out not to be a grand thing. Not sneering Emperors with world-conquering designs. Not cackling demons plotting in the darkness beyond the world. It was small men with their small acts and their small reasons. It was selfishness and carelessness and waste. It was bad luck, incompetence and stupidity. It was violence divorced from conscience or consequence. It was high ideals, even, and low methods.

War?' 'It's when a fight gets so big almost no one comes out of it well.

Downside was frowning at the Shanka corpses, weighing his axe and wondering where to start. "Never thought o' myself as a man who fills sacks with heads." "No one sets off in that direction," said Clover, puffing out his cheeks one more time. "But before you know it, there you bloody are.

Never thought o' myself as a man who fills sacks with heads." "No one sets off in that direction," said Clover, puffing out his cheeks one more time. "But before you know it, there you bloody are.

The more you kill, the better you get at it. And the better you get at killing, the less use you are for anything else.

If anyone had asked him, Clover would've said there was less than no chance this'd be settled with talk. But you never realise how much hope you're holding till it gets knifed and thrown off a roof.

Once your hands get bloody it ain't so easy to get 'em clean.

We tell the odd fond story of the good men. The straight edges. Your Rudd Threetrees, your Dogmen. But it's the butchers men love to sing of. The burners and the blood-spillers. Your Cracknut Whirruns and your Black Dows. Your Bloody-Nines. Men don't dream of doing the right thing, but of ripping what they want from the world with their strength and their will.

But that's what war is. A lot of folk getting killed that don't deserve it.

Didn't want to kill him, but in her experience it was far better to hit a man too hard than not hard enough.

Logen stepped round one of the stones and found himself looking straight into a face, close enough almost to feel its breath on his cheek. A young face. A good-looking one, with clean skin and a sharp nose, wide-open brown eyes. Logen smashed his forehead into it.

Here we stand, just days after a riotous mob thought they could use violence to silence the will of the people, to stop the work of our democracy, to drive us from this sacred ground. It did not happen. It will never happen. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

flinching, Santiago pulled the gun out of the backpack and shot the man in the chest several times. The blood bags under the "dignitary's" shirt erupted, and he dramatically collapsed to the ground. Silver almost immediately appeared on the scene and had Santiago close his eyes. The stuntman made a hasty exit as Silver then brought

Sirens wailed; the revolution had come to Harrisonville. Blood was flowing on Pearl Street.

There is no such thing as a good police shooting, it's either justified or not. - MSNBC 9/21/16

Tonight we're going to show you eight silent ways to kill a man.

Tonight we're going to show you eight silent ways to kill a man.

I liked AC/DC," Lee said. "If you were going to shoot someone, you'd really want to do it while you were listening to them." "What about the Beatles? Did you feel like shooting anyone listening to them?" Lee considered seriously for a moment, then said, "Myself." At the same time he was laughing, Ig was distressed. Not liking the Beatles was almost as bad as not knowing about them at all.

Just think, if you had a gun" he said to her "This story might have a different ending.

Sam Cleary reached the two old men fighting on the ground and used the fire extinguisher for the first time, bringing it down two-handed to hit Charlie Manx in the face. He would use it for the second time on Tom Priest, not thirty seconds later, by which time Tom was well dead. Not to mention well done.

She was trying to pull it up to stick it through his throat, but he had her wrist, kept the blade down and his face turned away from its questing edge

Then Glenn Beck burned to death on his Internet program, right in front of his chalkboard, burned so hot his glasses fused to his face, and after that most of the news was less about who did it and more about how not to catch it.

He'd possessed all the key elements of a school shooter: hormones, misery, ammunition. People wondered how something like Columbine could happen. Jude wondered why it didn't happen more often.