Wolves of the Calla (The Dark Tower, #5)

by Stephen King

Onetwothreefourfi—” Again, the speed of the count leaves no time

“Your Man Jesus seems to me a bit of a son of a bitch when it comes to women,” Roland said. “Was He ever married?” The corners of Callahan’s mouth quirked. “No,” he said, “but His girlfriend was a whore.” “Well,” Roland said, “that’s a start.”

“My Da’ and Cuthbert’s Da’ used to have a rule between em: first the smiles, then the lies. Last comes gunfire.”

“Ka works and the world moves on.”

When things began going wrong and the dying started, they called that ka, too. Ka, the gunslinger could have told them, was often the last thing you had to rise above.

Now there was only Roland, the big revolver slung low on his left hip, looking across the road at the empty arroyo path.

“For Gilead and the Calla!” he roared. “Now, gunslingers! Now, you Sisters of Oriza! Now, now! Kill them! No quarter! Kill them all!”