How to Become the Dark Lord and Die Trying (Dark Lord Davi #1)

by Django Wexler

If I got into therapy and unloaded half the shit I’ve seen, Dr. Freud would take a running leap out the nearest window.

“I,” I announce to the world, “am going to become the fucking Dark Lord.”

Always act like you know what you’re doing—if you win, you look awesome, and if you lose, then you’re dead and who cares if they think you’re a poseur?

“First of all, someone make sure that motherfucker is dead this time.”

The thing about manipulating a crowd is that you don’t have to convince everyone. Ninety percent of the shouting comes from 10 percent of the mob. Get the loudest voices on your side, and the rest will convince themselves.

I float through life after life, never really touching anything or anyone, because it only makes it hurt more when I lose it all.

He bids me ask what the hell you think you’re about.”

Civilization! You can tell because it smells real bad.

Never fuck anyone you would be upset having to kill,

I check my weapons are secure—nothing worse than stabbing yourself

There’s even a cloak that ripples dramatically behind me! Everybody loves a good cloak.

Yes, come and join the Modern Horde! Diversity is our strength! Diversity and stabbing!

nobody hates the people on the bottom of the ladder as much as those clinging to the second rung.

Q: How does a girl with tusks go down on you? A: Very carefully, and with commendable attention to detail.

She looks at me, starts to say something, looks away, rubs her head, until finally I can’t take it anymore and I am morally obligated to drag her by the wrist into my tent and fuck her brains out.

the really miraculous stuff is always safely in the past, where nobody can check up on it.