Quotes About Violence

Bombs are good. I love bombs.--Iggy

Call me crazy, but there's just something cheering about seeing huge raptors tear into Eraser flesh.

What are they teaching these thugs? -Why are there so many of them? -What is the Institute for Higher Aeronautics? -How many of the are there? There are only six of us! Why? -Why is DC public transportation so weird? -Why don't we mug those Eraser goons for money more often? -Fang's Blog

What we do know is that Aaron Hernandez was an escape artist. On the football field, no one could catch him. In Florida, he was a few steps removed from a terrible shooting that no one had answered for. In Boston, he almost certainly committed a double murder that he got away with. And when Aaron was caught, and convicted, for Odin Lloyd's murder, he continued to find new ways to escape. By killing himself, he escaped a long life behind bars.

I think if you did, you might not be shocked by it. Teachers are expected to do more and more, and much of the parenting authority has been ceded to us by the parents. In the media they call it teacher accountability, but really it's a lack of parent accountability. There's no respect anymore. I'm afraid I find the violence in this case shocking but not exactly the murder itself. Does that make sense?

That's the problem with stun guns, even an expensive eighty-thousand-volt Tensor. They don't always bring down a big man. Especially a crazed one with a sense of purpose.

Blow up demonic Erasers

Boy, you just can't kill people like you used to," said Fang.

Call me crazy, but there's just something cheering about seeing huge raptors tear into Eraser flesh.

Ruger in his waistband. Then he switched the .357 to his

It's done, Julio," he said. "She's dead. Now get the hell out of there. You killed Caroline Hopkins. Congratulations.

I've always felt like we were the civilized ones, fighting against the ones enjoying blowing up kindergartens, taking down civilian airliners, shooting up shopping malls.

slapped him so hard his head smacked against the window we were standing in front of.

Then I stood and dropped the phone. I may have screamed—I can't remember. Vincent lived in a gated mansion on the outskirts of Tampa, maybe an hour away. He would have sent help of his own. Mobsters who'd be pulling up the drive any minute. And they'd find me, the wife of a cop, alone in the house, dripping with Anthony's blood. Anthony, who'd been killed with a kitchen knife. Me, his personal chef.

The cartels' brutally simple and efficient negotiating tactic was called plata o plomo on the street. Silver or lead. Take the money or a bullet. Do business with us or die.

Now I suddenly think that Sarkar, Tracy Anne, and I are most likely the only ones present who can tell exactly what has happened: Katra Kovac, nine months pregnant, has been slit open. Her baby has been taken. The procedure—it's a disgusting lie to confuse this butchery with the term C-section—has left the mother barely clinging to life. And the baby? Who in hell knows what has become of the baby, this baby who was literally ripped from its mother's womb.

American violence mirrors that of my home country. And the laws here, much like where I was born, seem to favor criminals and not victims. Criminals get released very quickly.

usual nasal monotone. "The different profiles. How could a man who would set a girl on fire do it only once? How could that same person shoot someone from fifty yards away?" "What are you thinking, Sci?" "What if it's more than one piece of shit? What if it's more than one

I hit people for a living, son.

Rafe jumped Miller!" Gabe said. The problem was, it was true. There were about three dozen witnesses.

brutal mass murder had taken place in that white house on the cul-de-sac before us. The Daley family of Omaha—Calvin, Bea, Ross, Sharon, and Janet—were found dead in their home two nights before Christmas.

Doors slammed. Tires smoked. A pistol came out the

raping and beating her

They cut her and cooked her and ate her up.