More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Coop didn’t feel so much like a drowning man as a drowning man wearing a chum tuxedo in a school of sharks. Sharks with tommy guns.
Coop sat back down feeling like he’d dodged a punch in the face just in time to shoot himself with a shotgun full of bees.
If it isn’t too late, I think I’d like to panic. "It’s never too late to panic,” said Morty. “I do it every morning with my cornflakes.”
“And that makes a difference?” said Coop. “Let me put it this way,” said Phil. “Were you fucked ten minutes ago?” “No.” “Are you fucked now?” “Yes.” “Then I guess it makes a difference.”
Froehlich froze, not so much like a deer in the headlights as a hang glider who’d just set a new altitude record being sucked into the engine of a 747.
What about Elizabeth Báthory? She was a society lady.” “Who’s that?” “A demented countess who used to bathe in the blood of young peasant girls.” “I think I saw a movie about her. Hungarian. What do you expect?”
Apparently, being dead and not having to breathe meant that once you got a good scream going, there wasn’t anything to stop you except boredom.
“I need a drink,” said Coop. “Me, too. Would you think less of me if I wept hysterically for a while?” “I just might join you.” “On three, then. One. Two . . .”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Mr. Woolrich, it’s that I trust me more.”
