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Real fighting is only slightly about form and technique. Mostly it’s about timing, and about being willing to hurt somebody.
“Well, darling. If you intended to dance, there would already be music. So perhaps we should talk.”
Death is only frightening from the near side.
Even as we curse monsters, we admire them.
Harry Dresden—I take responsibility for more impossible situations in the first twenty-four hours of being dead than most people do all day.
My gast was pretty well flabbered.
“Jump into an open grave? What kind of idiot are you?” Butters replied. “I might as well put on a red shirt and volunteer for the away team. There’s snow and ice and slippery mud down there. That’s like asking for an ironically broken neck.”
“There’s a difference between dead and … and gone.”
My stance declared me the ruler of the local space, a man who was in control of everything happening around him, one who others would follow, a mix of maestro and madman that would identify me, to instinct, as the most dangerous thing in the room.
“Orders? This isn’t the army, man, and Murphy isn’t the King of Chicago. She can’t order me to do anything.” “I notice you say that when she is not in the room,” I said. “I’m an independent thinker, not a martyr,” Butters replied.
You prepare your home for an assault and you don’t take zombies into consideration. I’d fallen victim to one of the other classic blunders, along with not getting involved in a land war in Asia and never going in against a Sicilian when death was on the line.
