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“Where’s your dread rod?” “I left it at home,” replied Cabal. “Didn’t think I really needed it.” “You can’t summon me without a dread rod!” said Lucifuge, appalled. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
Some excitedly speculated that he must be a messenger from the Other Place, that the end times had finally arrived. Others pointed out that nothing in Revelation referred to a man in a black hat and sensible shoes.
Sartre said that Hell was other people. It transpires that one of the other people was Trubshaw.
She suffered a series of accidents, all of them fatal.
If you think you can buy off that sort of loyalty for some dirty little bribe, you’ve got another thing coming!” He stormed into his office. Cabal followed him. “How about a dirty big bribe, then?” he asked experimentally.
“Madam,” he said. “Or may I call you ‘florid termagant’?” “Ooo la!” she said, delightfully outraged. She patted her resinous perm. “I’m a married woman.”
Yes, its true function was to tempt to contentiousness, to blasphemy, argumentation, and murder, but you could also win coconuts.
He smiled with all the warmth of a dollhouse oven.
“An army of lunatics. Fancy. There’s a football match on, then?”
Cabal dimly recalled that the musical genius who’d decided to put on Necronomicon: The Musical had got everything he deserved: money, fame, and torn to pieces by an invisible monster.
You never understood the powers that I was acquiring, never understood the cosmic influences that ran through this mortal frame. I have magic that you cannot begin to comprehend.” “You’re talking about the one where somebody signs a playing card, you burn it, and then it reappears whole, rolled up in the middle of an orange, yes? You’re right, that one’s always baffled me.”
An idea started to crystallise in the melt of his imagination.
The classical example of a sentence that is grammatically correct yet semantically meaningless. I’m sure you knew that.
Accelerant,” he said quietly. “Yeah?” Bones tried another sniff. “Smells like gasoline to me.” “Arson.” “Well, make your mind up.”
I have a sixth sense that tells me when I’m being made a fool of.” “Oh, I’ve heard of that. ‘Clinical paranoia,’ I think it’s called.”
I actually think he’s a very moral man. I just don’t think that he’s using the same morals as everybody else.
Have you ever seen an army of the dead? They’re more expensive than a living one, and far less use. A shambles; they march ten miles and their legs fall off. Napoleon would have approved—that really is an army that marches on its stomach. Until it falls out.
As an outlaw of the Old West, he had never really considered what awaited him after death; he had been far too busy rooting and tooting at the time.
