Below The Belt Quotes

You think they've killed before?" "I'd bet your ass on it" "Why my ass?" Eyes slitted, Peabody jabbed a finger in the air. "Because it's bigger? Because it has more padding? That's hitting below the belt." "Your ass is below your belt. I'd bet mine, too, if it makes you feel better.

The other package has pieces of dried stag stick. The pups like chewing on those." "What's a stag stick?" Meg asked, taking the packages. He stared at her for a moment. Then he put a fist below his belt and popped out a thumb. "Oh," Meg said. "Oh.

My late unlamented father taught me one valuable lesson. 'Boy', he would say to me in the thick brogue of a champion drunk, 'the only way to fight is to fight dirty. The only place to hit is below the belt.

Night flight to San Francisco; chase the moon across America. God, it’s been years since I was on a plane. When we hit 35,000 feet we’ll have reached the tropopause, the great belt of calm air, as close as I’ll ever get to the ozone. I dreamed we were there. The plane leapt the tropopause, the safe air, and attained the outer rim, the ozone, which was ragged and torn, patches of it threadbare as old cheesecloth, and that was frightening. But I saw something that only I could see because of my astonishing ability to see such things: Souls were rising, from the earth far below, souls of the dead, of people who had perished, from famine, from war, from the plague, and they floated up, like skydivers in reverse, limbs all akimbo, wheeling and spinning. And the souls of these departed joined hands, clasped ankles, and formed a web, a great net of souls, and the souls were three-atom oxygen molecules of the stuff of ozone, and the outer rim absorbed them and was repaired. Nothing’s lost forever. In this world, there’s a kind of painful progress. Longing for what we’ve left behind, and dreaming ahead. At least I think that’s so.

I just didn't want her to get hurt. I thought she was going to be. But everyone gets their share, don't they? Sure. Pow, in the nose. Pow, in the eye. Pow, below the belt, down you go, and the ref just went out for a hot dog.

She never saw the point of making fun of strangers – how could you possibly know enough about them to hit below the belt?

The Only place to love a man or fight a man is below the belt

Did I expect him to think sucking my cock was anything other than disgusting? I‟d never even kissed a girl, and believe me, if someone forced me to take part in some below-the-belt mouth-to-vagina action, I think I‟d probably vomit.

Soft citizens of the American democracy learned to kick a man below the belt and make the bastard scream.

Pain. You just have to ride it out, hope it goes away on its on. Hope the wound that caused it heals. There are no solutions, no easy answers. You just breath deep and wait for it subside. Most of the time pain can be managed, but sometimes the pain gets you when you least expect it, hits way below the belt and doesn't let up. Pain. You just have to fight through, because the truth is you can't outrun it... And life always makes more.

Don’t use “below-the-belt” tactics. These include: blam- ing, interpreting, diagnosing, labeling, analyzing, preaching, moralizing, ordering, warning, interrogating, ridiculing, and lecturing. Don’t put the other person down.

The shirt touches his neck and smooths over his back. It slides down his sides. It even goes down below his belt— down into his pants. Lucky shirt.

Whatcha do to Ricky Ricardo? Found him talking real fast in Spanish." "Nothing." She looked at Tony. "He's just moody, and the moodier he gets, the less you can understand him.

THE MOON was but a chin of gold A night or two ago, And now she turns her perfect face Upon the world below. Her forehead is of amplest blond; Her cheek like beryl stone; Her eye unto the summer dew The likest I have known. Her lips of amber never part; But what must be the smile Upon her friend she could bestow Were such her silver will! And what a privilege to be But the remotest star! For certainly her way might pass Beside your twinkling door. Her bonnet is the firmament, The universe her shoe, The stars the trinkets at her belt, Her dimities of blue.

She waited to feel a pang of shame at hitting below the belt like this and was pleased - or maybe it was relief she felt - when no pang came. I guess maybe I'm just tired of pretending she thought.

You’re in damn so sexy nightgown causing trouble to a man below his belt. Yet you think it’s you who is in trouble.

Below the belt is a pleasure-only zone,” Casey said, gesturing to her skirt. “I don’t approve of fighting there.

monogamous from the chin up. Below the belt-buckle, however, there’s a wahoo stampeder who just doesn’t give a shit.

For a minister’s daughter,” he said, “you hit hard ... and quite often, below the belt too.

That's just how time travel looks like to the untrained eye. The reason why there aren't more travelers is that your average physicist refuses to be eaten by a giraffe in the name of science.

He moves to look in my eyes and everything below the belt swoops, then his big hands are around my face and he’s angled to brush his mouth against my lips. I reach up to put my hands over his.

He foll0wed her as she crossed to the four-station apparatus. His attention was glued to her butt the whole way. realizing what he was doing, he snapped his gaze away and checked to make sure no one had noticed. Nope. They were all too busy staring at Jamie's butt.

What’s a stag stick?” Meg asked, taking the packages. He stared at her for a moment. Then he put a fist below his belt and popped out a thumb. “Oh,” Meg said. “Oh.” He spun around and ran back to the Market Square. She closed the door, looked at the packages in her hands, and said, “Eeewwww.

Her mouth was on his with such ferocity, it knocked him back a step. He managed to haul her back so he could gasp for air and answers. "Not that I'm complaining." "Then don't. Shut up and put out Savoie." "You are so romantic, detective." She chained rough kisses about his neck. "What if I can't perform under this unexpected pressure?" Her hand dropped below his belt for an assessing fondle. "Just my luck. Appears to be high performance all the way." He chuckled and began to nuzzle and nip at her rather roughly, his attention supercharged by her aggression. "And what kind of handling are you looking for?" "Fast and reckless

He was a real mean one … below the belt … you ain’t called on to teach folks like that … them ain’t Maycomb’s ways, Miss Caroline, not really … now don’t you fret, ma’am.

Reality was a bad choice of enemy — it had no need for disguise, didn't respect the rules, and hit below the belt.

Astrid Dane. . . Her long colorless hair was woven back into a braid, and her porcelain skin bled straight into the edges of her tunic. Her entire outfit was fitted to her like armor; the collar of her shirt was high and rigid, guarding her throat, and the tunic itself ran from chin to wrist to waist, less out of a sense of modesty, Kell was sure, than protection. Below a gleaming silver belt, she wore fitted pants that tapered into tall boots (rumor had it that a man once spat at her for refusing to wear a dress; she’d cut off his lips). The only bits of color were the pale blue of her eyes and the greens and reds of the talismans that hung from her neck and wrists and were threaded through her hair. . . “I smell something sweet,” she said. She’d been gazing up at the ceiling. Now her eyes wandered down and landed on Kell. “Hello, flower boy.

Hot.” The last word, barely a whisper, lost itself in my hair as he pressed his lips to that spot just below my ear that can, apparently, flip the off switch in my brain. Before I realized it my hands were inside that jacket, stroking the hard planes of his chest and stomach. And then, as if moving without any prompting from me they reached down, undid his belt, pulled it loose, and…“Ahhh, that feels great,” I moaned.“I am completely grossed out over here!” Cassandra informed us.Vayl, who’d been peering down at me with an expression of utter disbelief, stared at Cassandra over the top of my head. “It is not what you think,” he assured her.“As if I’d do something that disgusting,” I said, pulling away from him, but keeping the belt, because the buckle relieved the itching so much better than fingernails. I continued using it to scratch the inflamed skin across my stomach as I sat down by Cassandra. “You are pathetic,” she told me. “I’d get all offended, but I’m pretty sure you’re right.

What I saw of our air war, as the European conflict neared an end, had the earmarks of being an irrational war for war’s sake. Soft citizens of the American democracy learned to kick a man below the belt and make the bastard scream.

I'll fix things up with George soon as she gets here," Anthony mumbled. "You may depend upon it." "Oh,I know you will, but you'll have to hie yourself back to London to do so, since she ain't coming here. Didn't want to inflict her dour mood on the festivities, so decided it ould be best to absent herself." Anthony looked appalled now and complained, "You didn't say she was that mad." "Didn't I? Think you're wearing that black eye just because she's a mite annoyed?" "That will do," Jason said sternly. "This entire situation is intolerable.And frankly, I find it beyond amazing that you have both utterly lost your finesse in dealing ith women since you married." That,of course, hit quite below the belt where these two ex[rakes were concerned. "Ouch," James muttered, then in his own defense, "American women are an exception to any known rule, and bloody stubbron besides." "So are Scots,for that matter," Anthony added. "They just don't behave like normal Enlgishwomen,Jason,indeed they don't." "Regardless.You know my feelings on the entire family gathering here for Christmas.This is not the time for anyone in the family to be harboring any ill will of any sort.You both should have patched this up before the holidays began. See that you do so immediately, if you both have to return to London to do so." Having said his peace, Jason headed for the door to leave his brothers to mull over their conduct,or rather, misconduct, but added before he left, "You both look like bloody panda bears.D'you have any idea what kind of example that sets for the children?" "Panda bears indeed," Anthony snorted as soon as the door closed. James looked up to reply drolly, "Least the roof is still intact.

In boxing there are rules. You wear padded gloves. It’s always a one-on-one fight. You can’t hit below the belt or use a weapon. I may get beat, but at least I’ll always have a fair chance of winning. The rest of the world isn’t always like that.

I am blood. I am death, I am vengeance,” she said, her voice flat, empty. Then she wiped the seax clean and slipped it into her belt, finally placing timber and stone on to the barrow, sealing Thorkel inside. She stooped, lifted her sack and picked up her spear, then strode out through the gateway. With a hiss of wings Vesli flew around her, hovered over her. “Vesli come with you, help mistress get Breca back,” the tennúr said. “No,” Orka said. “Death is my only companion. Stay and help Spert.” Vesli looked at the two seaxes that had slain Thorkel, thrust inside Orka’s belt. “What are you going to do with them, mistress?” the tennúr asked. Orka looked out, over the sloping hills and down to Fellur village, a smear far below. “I’m going to find the owner of these blades, and give them back to him,” Orka snarled.

The moon was but a chin of gold    A night or two ago, And now she turns her perfect face    Upon the world below. Her forehead is of amplest blond;    Her cheek like beryl stone; Her eye unto the summer dew    The likest I have known. Her lips of amber never part;    But what must be the smile Upon her friend she could bestow    Were such her silver will! And what a privilege to be    But the remotest star! For certainly her way might pass    Beside your twinkling door. Her bonnet is the firmament,    The universe her shoe, The stars the trinkets at her belt,    Her dimities of blue.

Rolfe chuckled, striding to the door and opening it for them. “As you wish. I’ll have baths drawn for you as well.” Celaena and Sam followed him out into the narrow, dark hallway. “You could both use one,” he added with a wink. It took all of her self-restraint to keep from punching him below the belt.

--How I Was Visited By Messengers-- Something clicked in the clock on the wall, and I was visited by messengers. at first, I did not realize that I was visited by messengers. instead, I thought that something was wrong with the clock. but then I saw that the clock worked just fine, and probably told the correct time. then I noticed that there was a draft in the room. and then it shocked me: what kind of thing could, at the same time, cause a clock to click and a draft to start in the room? I sat down on a chair next to the divan and looked at the clock, thinking about that. the big hand was on the number nine, and the little one on the four, therefore, it was a quarter till four. there was a calendar on the wall below the clock, and its leafs were flipping, as if there was a strong wind in my room. my heart was beating very fast and I was so scared it almost made me collapse. "i should have some water," I said. on the table next to me was a pitcher with water. I reached out and took the pitcher. "water should help," I said and looked at the water. it was then that I realized that I had been visited by messengers, and that I could not tell them apart from the water. I was scared to drink the water, because I could, by accident, drink a messenger. what does that mean? nothing. one can only drink liquids. could the messengers be liquid? no. then, I can drink the water, there is nothing to be afraid of. but I couldn't find the water. I walked around the room and looked for the water. I tried putting a belt in my mouth, but it was not the water. I put the calendar in my mouth -- that also was not the water. I gave up looking for the water and started to look for the messengers. but how could I find them? what do they look like? I remembered that I could not distinguish them from the water, therefore, they must look like water. but what does water look like? I was standing and thinking. I do not know for how long I stood and thought, but suddenly I came to. "there is the water," I thought. but that wasn't the water and instead I got an itch in my ear. I looked under the cupboard and under the bed, hoping that there I might find the water or the messengers. but under the cupboard, in a pile of dust, I found a little ball, half eaten by a dog, and under the bed I found some pieces of glass. under the chair I found a half-eaten steak, I ate it and it made me feel better. it wasn't drafty anymore, the clock was ticking steadily, telling the time: a quarter till four. "well, this means the messengers are gone," I said quietly and started to get dressed, since I had a visit to make. -August 22, 1937

Below the waterbag were his guns,finely weighted to his hand. The two belts crisscrossed above his crotch. The holsters were oiled too deeply for even this Philistine sun to crack. The stocks of the guns were sandalwood, yellow and finely grained. The holsters were tied down with raw hide cord, and they swung heavily against his hips. The brass casings of the cartridges looped into the gun belts twinkled and flashed and heliographed in the sun. The leather made subtle creaking noises. The guns themselves made no noise.

Careful, demon. I’ve shrunken heads bigger than yours.” Her pointed stare at the stop below his belt buckle had him growling.

The conservatives had started bringing demagoguery to the table on the [Afghan] war issue the previous fall [fall 2006]. Whenever opposition members criticized the war policy, assorted Tories accused them of being disloyal and of failing to support the troops....[Harper] was gaining the reputation of a leader who couldn't see a belt without wanting to hit below it.

The Consul gripped the edges of the mat with fingers gone white. He had tied the strap of his duffel bag around his belt, otherwise the bag would have tumbled off to a glacier far below.

It seems to be little noticed that this yearning to dragoon and terrify all persons who happen to be lucky is at the bottom of the puerile radicalism now prevailing among us, just as it is at the bottom of Ku Kluxery. The average American radical today likes to think of himself as a profound and somber fellow, privy to arcana not open to the general; he is actually only a poor fish, with distinct overtones of the jackass. What ails him, first and last, is simply envy of his betters. Unable to make any progress against them under the rules in vogue, he proposes to fetch them below the belt by making the rules over. He is no more an altruist than J. Pierpont Morgan is an altruist, or Jim Farley, or, indeed, Al Capone. Every such rescuer of the downtrodden entertains himself with gaudy dreams of power, far beyond his natural fortunes and capacities. He sees himself at the head of an overwhelming legion of morons, marching upon the fellows he envies and hates. He thinks of himself in his private reflections (and gives it away every time he makes a speech or prints an article) as a gorgeous amalgam of Lenin, Mussolini and Genghis Khan, with the Republic under his thumb, his check for any amount good at any bank, and ten million heels clicking every time he winks his eye.

Long after midnight when you park, and stand Just for a moment in the chromium wash, Sometimes it seems that, some way off, Between the river and the tower belt, say, The roofs show black on pomegranate red As if, below that line, they stood on fire.

A reporter from St. Louis passed on a tip that the governor was homosexual. Nixon insisted he would never use it. “Even if I thought there was anything to that story about Stevenson’s being a queer (which I don’t) I wouldn’t dream of allowing it to be used in the campaign,” Nixon wrote back. “This personal stuff (true or false) is below the belt.” But in early September, on a shakedown cruise of New England, Nixon made sport of Stevenson’s masculinity, labeling him “Sidesaddle Adlai” and snorting, “Let the other side serve up the clever quips which send the State Department cocktail set into gales of giggles.”*1

If I wanted to punish myself, I’d keep looking at your face.” “Isn’t my face in half the pictures taped to your bunk wall?” “Maybe I keep them there to scare away the devil.” “Just show him your feet,” he said, going for her weak spot. She had adorable toes, but she hated that her second one was longer than the first. “He’ll run screaming back to hell with his forked tail between his legs.” “Keep talking and I’ll send you there to meet him.” “I’ll say hello to your demon-spawn mother while I’m there.” “Try not to wet yourself like you did at the palace.” “Hey!” He drew back an inch. That was hitting below the belt. “I was only four when that happened, and your mom was legitimately scary.

You think they’ve killed before?” “I’d bet your ass on it.” “Why my ass?” Eyes slitted, Peabody jabbed a finger in the air. “Because it’s bigger? Because it has more padding? That’s hitting below the belt.” “Your ass is below your belt. I’d bet mine, too, if it makes you feel better.” “Let’s bet Roarke’s ass, because really, in my opinion, of the three of us his is the best.” “Fine. We’ll bet all the asses on it. They’ve killed before. Together most likely, impulse, accident, deliberately—that I don’t know yet. But I’d bet Mira’s shrink’s ass that the kill is what turned this corner for them. That, and getting away with it.” “Mira has a really nice ass.” “I’m sure she’d be thrilled to know you think so.” “Jeez, don’t tell her I said that.” Peabody’s wince included a defensive hunch of shoulders. “I was just following the theme.

Emma, I came out here to tell you that you don't have to mate with Grom." I raise a brow. "Uh, I was never going to mate with Grom." "What I mean is, Grom is mating with someone else who has the gift of Poseidon. Which means that-" "I don't have to mate with Grom," I finish for him. "That's what I just said." "I mean, I don't have to feel like I've let the entire species of Syrena go extinct because I won't mate with Grom." He grins. "Exactly." "But that doesn't change what I am-a Half-Breed. You still can't be with me, can you?" He rubs his thumb over my bottom lip, thoughtful. "The law forbids it right now. But I think if we give it time, we could get it overturned somehow. And I'm not going anywhere until I do." He turns us toward the SUV, stopping to retrieve my heels from the side of the road. He helps me in the passenger seat of the Escalade, then hands me my shoes. "Thank you," I tell him as he walks around to the driver's side. "It's a little late to blush," he says, strapping in. "I don't think I'll ever stop blushing." "I really hope not," he says, shutting his door. Taking my face into both hands, he pulls me to him again. His lips brush mine, but I want more. Sensing my intention, he puts his hand over mine and the seat belt I'm trying to unsnap. "Emma," he says against my lips. "I've missed you so much. But we can't. Not yet." I'm not trying to do that, I just want to get in a better position to accept his lips. Telling him so would just embarrass us both. But he says yet. What does that mean? That he wants to wait until he can get the law overturned? Or will he give it time, and if it doesn't work out, break Syrena law to be with me? For some reason, I don't want the answer bad enough to ask. Images of "that girl" flare up in my head. I don't want Galen to break his laws-it's a big part of why I love him so much. His loyalty to his people, his commitment to them. It's the kind of devotion almost nonexistent among humans. But I don't want to be "that girl" either. Syrena or not, I want to go to college. I want to experience the world above and below sea level. But it's not like any decisions need to be made right now, do they? I mean, life-changing decisions take time to make. Time and meditation. And physical space between my lips and his. I pull back. "Right. Sorry." He seizes a few tendrils of my hair and runs them along his face, grinning. "Not as sorry as I am. You'll have to help me keep my hands off you." I laugh, even as a charge runs through my veins. "Yeah. No." He laughs too and turns to start the car, then stops. Letting go of the keys, he says, "So. About breaking up." "Let me think about it some more," I tell him on the brink of giggling at his expression. "I'll see what I can do to help you make up your mind." We stay parked for another fifteen minutes. But at least we're not broken up anymore.

On thick-built men like Joe Mulvane, they tend to bind around the thighs, the back seam has an annoying tendency to crawl between the buttocks. When such men sit and lean forward, say, against a bar, the waistband of their trousers binds them in the belly, while at the base of their spines an unattractive gap appears and seems to tug their shirttails out as well as to create a natural channel for sweat to pour. A belt doesn't close the trench in back; it only presents a retaining wall that bites into the flesh below the navel.

I’ve heard that when you’re in a life-or-death situation, like a car accident or a gunfight, all your senses shoot up to almost superhuman level, everything slows down, and you’re hyper-aware of what’s happening around you. As the shuttle careens toward the earth, the exact opposite is true for me. Everything silences, even the screams and shouts from the people on the other side of the metal door, the crashes that I pray aren’t bodies, the hissing of rockets, Elder’s cursing, my pounding heartbeat. I feel nothing—not the seat belt biting into my flesh, not my clenching jaw, nothing. My whole body is numb. Scent and taste disappear. The only thing about my body that works is my eyes,and they are filled with the image before them. The ground seems to leap up at us as we hurtle toward it. Through the blurry image of the world below us, I see the outline of land—a continent. And at once, my heart lurches with the desire to know this world, to make it our home. My eyes drink up the image of the planet—and my stomach sinks with the knowledge that this is a coastline I’ve never seen before. I could spin a globe of Earth around and still be able to recognize the way Spain and Portugal reach into the Atlantic, the curve of the Gulf of Mexico, the pointy end of India. But this continent—it dips and curves in ways I don’t recognize, swirls into an unknown sea, creating peninsulas in shapes I do not know, scattering out islands in a pattern I cannot connect. And it’s not until I see this that I realize: this world may one day become our home,but it will never be the home I left behind.

Boney freckled knees pressed into bits of bark and stone, refusing to feel any more pain. Her faded t-shirt hugged her protruding ribs as she held on, hunched in silence. A lone tear followed the lumpy tracks down her cheek, jumped from her quivering jaw onto a thirsty browned leaf with a thunderous plop. Then the screen door squeaked open and she took flight. Crispy twigs snapped beneath her bare feet as she ran deeper and deeper into the woods behind the house. She heard him rumbling and calling her name, his voice fueling her tired muscles to go faster, to survive. He knew her path by now. He was ready for the hunt. The clanging unbuckled belt boomed in her ears as he gained on her. The woods were thin this time of year, not much to hide behind. If she couldn’t outrun him, up she would go. Young trees teased her in this direction, so she moved east towards the evergreens. Hunger and hurt left her no choice, she had to stop running soon. She grabbed the first tree with a branch low enough to reach, and up she went. The pine trees were taller here, older, but the branches were too far apart for her to reach. She chose the wrong tree. His footsteps pounded close by. She stood as tall as her little legs could, her bloodied fingers reaching, stretching, to no avail. A cry of defeat slipped from her lips, a knowing laugh barked from his. She would pay for this dearly. She didn’t know whether the price was more than she could bear. Her eyes closed, her next breath came out as Please, and an inky hand reached down from the lush needles above, wound its many fingers around hers, and pulled her up. Another hand, then another, grabbing her arms, her legs, firmly but gently, pulling her up, up, up. The rush of green pine needles and black limbs blurred together, then a flash of cobalt blue fluttered by, heading down. She looked beyond her dangling bare feet to see a flock of peculiar birds settle on the branches below her, their glossy feathers flickered at once and changed to the same greens and grays of the tree they perched upon, camouflaging her ascension. Her father’s footsteps below came to a stomping end, and she knew he was listening for her. Tracking her, trapping her, like he did the other beasts of the forest. He called her name once, twice. The third time’s tone not quite as friendly. The familiar slide–click sound of him readying his gun made her flinch before he had his chance to shoot at the sky. A warning. He wasn’t done with her. His feet crunched in circles around the tree, eventually heading back home. Finally, she exhaled and looked up. Dozens of golden-eyed creatures surrounded her from above. Covered in indigo pelts, with long limbs tipped with mint-colored claws, they seemed to move as one, like a heartbeat. As if they shared a pulse, a train of thought, a common sense. “Thank you,” she whispered, and the beasts moved in a wave to carefully place her on a thick branch.

The bottom of the sea was aflame with a vast bloody glow that spread beneath the schooner; the light slid under the keel and illuminated the sails and rigging from below. It was as though we were on a boat in the Drury Lane Theatre, lighted by an invisible row of flares. ‘Phosphorescence?’ I ventured. ‘Look,’ whispered Jellewyn. The water had become as transparent as glass. At an enormous depth, we saw great dark masses with unreal shapes: there were manors with immense towers, gigantic domes, horribly straight streets lined with frenzied houses. We appeared to be flying over a furiously busy city at an incredible height. ‘There seems to be movement,’ I said. ‘Yes.’ We could see a swarming crowd of amorphous beings engaged in some sort of feverish and infernal activity. ‘Get back!’ Jellewyn shouted, pulling me violently by the belt. One of those beings was rising toward us with astounding speed. In less than a second its immense bulk had hidden the undersea city from us; it was as though a flood of ink had instantaneously spread around us. The keel received a tremendous blow. In the crimson light, we saw three enormous tentacles, three times as high as the mainmast, hideously writhing in the air. A formidable face composed of black shadows and two eyes of liquid amber rose above the port side of the ship and gave us a terrifying look.

It looked like every cartoon of a flying saucer Newt had ever seen. As he stared over the top of his map, a door in the saucer slid aside with a satisfying whoosh, revealing a gleaming walkway which extended automatically down to the road. Brilliant blue light shone out, outlining three alien shapes. They walked down the ramp. At least, two of them walked. The one that looked like a pepper pot just skidded down it, and fell over at the bottom. The other two ignored its frantic beeping and walked over to the car quite slowly, in the worldwide approved manner of policemen already compiling the charge sheet it their heads. The tallest one, a yellow toad dressed in kitchen foil, rapped on Newt's window. He wound it down. The thing was wearing the kind of mirror-finished sunglasses that Newt always thought of as Cool Hand Luke shades. 'Morning, sir or madam or neuter,' the thing said. 'This your planet, is it?' The other alien, which was stubby and green, had wandered off into the woods by the side of the road. Out of the corner of his eye Newt saw it kick a tree, and then run a leaf through some complicated gadget on its belt. It didn't look very pleased. 'Well, yes. I suppose so.' he said. The toad stared thoughtfully at the skyline. 'Had it long, have we, sir?' it said. 'Er. Not personally. I mean, as a species, about half a million years. I think.' The alien exchanged glances with its colleague. 'Been letting the old acid rain build up, haven't we, sir?' it said. 'Been letting ourselves go a bit with the old hydrocarbons, perhaps?' 'I'm sorry.' 'Could you tell me your planet's albedo, sir?' said the the toad, still staring levelly at the horizon as though it was doing something interesting. 'Er. No.' 'Well, I'm sorry to have to tell you, sir, that your polar ice caps are below regulation size for a planet of this category, sir.' 'Oh, dear,' said Newt. He was wondering who he could tell about this, and realizing that there was absolutely no one who would believe him. [...] The small alien walked past the car. 'CO2 level up 0.5 percent,' it rasped, giving him a meaningful look. 'You do know you could find yourself charged with being a dominant species while under the influence of impulse-driven consumerism, don't you?

He dressed quickly, Colt pistol stuffed under his belt, ears alert to the several voices below. When he got to the kitchen he found the breakfast table abandoned after being half set, a sudden interruption of the morning routine. The morning paper lay on the table with its headline of the latest news of the war. He glanced at the first paragraph, but shifted his attention to people scurrying in the courtyard. He looked through the kitchen, through the open library doors, and beyond to the swimming pool. The old caretaker had a lawn rake that he carefully extended in long reaching motions onto the surface of the water. There was something floating in the middle of the pool. On second glance, Mueller saw that it was a body. Mueller made his way through

But Jung did speak out against Hitler some years before he left the society. In 1936 he condemned the Fuehrer as a “raving berserker” and a man “possessed” who had set Germany on its “course toward perdition.”37 And a year earlier, in his lecture series at London’s Tavistock Clinic, Jung broke off his remarks to refer to his prophecy of 1918. “I saw it coming,” he told his fellow psychologists, “I said in 1918 that the ‘blond beast’ is stirring in its sleep and that something will happen in Germany. No psychologist then understood at all what I meant . . .” Commenting on the power of the archetypes to overrun conscious decision, Jung called them “the great decisive forces.”38 They “get you below the belt and not in your mind, your brain just counts for nothing, your sympathetic system is gripped.”39 Remarks like these led to accusations that Jung gave people a way of avoiding responsibility for their actions: they didn’t decide to become Nazis, the archetypes “made them do it.” Yet they are remarkably similar to what the philosopher Jean Gebser, who had firsthand experience of Nazism, believed was at work: the “magical structure of consciousness,” which Gebser characterized as a “vegetative intertwining of all living things,” and which requires a “sacrifice of consciousness” and “occurs in the state of trance, or when consciousness dissolves as a result of mass reactions, slogans, or ‘isms.’ ” Curiously, Gebser believed the “magical structure” was also responsible for synchronicities,40 and in an interview in 1938, Jung himself said that “Hitler’s power is not political; it is magic.”41

The definitive characteristic of the sexosophy of Christendom is the doctrine of the split between saintly love and sinful lust. This doctrine is all-pervasive. It penetrates all the institutions of contemporary Christendom . . . The cleft between saintly love and sinful lust is omnipresent in the sexuoerotic heritage of our culture. Love is undefiled and saintly. Lust is defiling and sinful. Love exists above the belt, lust below. Love is lyrical. Lust is lewd. Love is heralded in public. Lust is hidden in private. Love displayed is championed, but championships for lust are condemned. Love is candid, and speaks its name. Lust is clandestine and euphemizes its name. In some degree or other, the cleavage between love and lust gets programed into the design of the lovemaps of all developing boys and girls.12

You didn’t allow me anything! I allowed you! I allowed you to fool yourselves into thinking you had a choice!” Strom took a breath. When he had his anger under control, he spoke again. “You are clearly unfit to serve as Grand Mage,” he announced, “and all three of you are unfit to serve on the Council of Elders. By the authority vested in me by the international community I am hereby taking command of this Sanctuary. You are relieved of your duties.” Nobody moved. Valkyrie was frozen to the spot, though her eyes darted from person to person. Moving slowly, Grim reached for his jacket, and Skulduggery drew his revolver and pointed it into his face. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Skulduggery said. The bodyguard raised his hands. Strom’s eyes widened. “What you just did is illegal.” “We’re in charge,” Ravel told him. “You think we’re going to roll over just because you tell us to? Who the hell do you think you are?” “I am a Grand Mage, Mr Ravel, a title I earned because of hard work and dedication. Whereas you, on the other hand, are Grand Mage because nobody else wanted the job.” “Whoa,” said Ravel. “That was a little below the belt, don’t you think?” “None of you have the required experience or wisdom to do what is expected of you. I know you’ll find it hard to believe, but we didn’t come here to take control. We came here to help.” “And now you want to take control anyway.” “You have proven yourselves incompetent. And what are you doing now? You’re holding a Grand Mage at gunpoint?” “Technically, Skulduggery is only holding a Grand Mage’s bodyguard at gunpoint. Which isn’t nearly as bad.” “You all seem to be forgetting that I have thirty-eight mages loyal to the Supreme Council in this country.” “And you seem to be under the illusion that we find that intimidating.” “If I go missing—” “Missing?” Ravel said. “Who said anything about going missing? No, no. You’re just going to be in a really long and really important meeting, that’s all.” “Don’t be a fool,” said Strom. “You can’t win here, Ravel. There are more of us than there are of you. And the moment our mages get wind of what’s going on down here, the rest of the Supreme Council will descend on you like nothing you’ve ever seen.” “Quintin, Quintin, Quintin... you make it sound like we’re going to war. This isn’t war. This is an argument. And like all arguments between grown-ups, we keep it away from the kiddies. You’ve got thirty-eight mages in the country? Ghastly, how many cells do we have?” “If we double up we’ll manage.” “Don’t make this any worse for yourselves,” said Strom. “An attack on any one of our mages will be considered an act of war.” “There’s that word again,” said Ravel. “This is insanity. Erskine, think about what you’re doing.” “What we’re doing, Quintin, is allowing our people to do their jobs.” “This is kidnapping.” “Don’t be so dramatic. We’re just going to keep you separated from your people for as long as we need to resolve the current crisis. Skulduggery and Valkyrie are on the case. When have they ever let us down?” Ravel turned to them, gave them a smile. “You’d better not let us down.” Skulduggery inclined his head slightly, and Valkyrie went with him as he walked away. “Holy cow,” Valkyrie whispered when they were around the corner. “Holy cow indeed.

The dragon roared, deep and thundering, but its triumphant victory call was cut short. I did not hear the weapon discharge over the din of the creature’s bellowing, but I saw, as if in slow motion, the harpoon sailing through the air. It struck the dragon solidly in the chest. A foot higher and it might have slipped through the broken scales to do some damage, but instead our best shot clanked off the dense hide and thudded into the dirt below. The dragon swallowed its roar in surprise and turned its golden eyes to my employer. Jackaby tossed the spent harpoon gun aside and drew the dull machete from his belt. Silhouetted against the firelight, it was almost possible to imagine that he was some brave knight from the storybooks. My desperate mind could turn his ragged coat into a cape and the rusty blade into a sword—although it refused to let the atrocious knit cap become a shining helmet. Even delusions have their limits. Jackaby stood alone against the looming dragon. “Well, Peanut?” he called out. “Shall we finish this?

She kissed his lips and felt his smile form. Alone in this beautiful space, Blake and Livia made things right. Blake kissed her slowly and patiently, like he had all the time in the world. Carefully, they eased back to lie down, and Blake braced himself above her. He smelled of mint and fresh soap. Livia put her hands on his chest and felt the densely packed muscles there. Empowered by his adoration, she shrugged off her fleece shirt, enjoying the feeling of being trapped between his arms. Blake’s eyes became stormy seas. “Damn it all to hell,” he cursed. Despite his words, Livia believed she was winning this battle of seduction. Blake kissed her mouth and sucked on her bottom lip. He moved to her earlobe and breathed, “First, I will blow, then I will lick, last I will bite.” Holy crap. Blake blew a gentle stream of minty breath along the outside of Livia’s ear, down to her neck, and along the edge of her breasts where they peeked out of her bright blue bra. Blake took his time creating an elaborate pattern on her stomach, and Livia was pretty sure he’d spelled the word torture. He increased the pressure of his breath as he grazed below her belly button to the top of her jeans. He skipped back to her mouth and gave her another long, slow kiss. “And now I lick,” he murmured. Livia bit back the embarrassingly loud moan she felt building. He gently traced the same trail his breath had left, this time with his tongue. When he reached her breast, she lost control and grabbed his hair, intent on kissing him. “No. No.” Blake held her wrists above her head. “I’ve done this to you so many times in my mind. I won’t have you rush me.” Livia groaned and arched her back in an effort to change his mind. But his slow, sexy smile told her he was doing it his way. “Fine.” Livia dutifully kept her hands above her head as he picked up where he’d left off. His tongue had her making noises that surely scared the wildlife. He spent an inordinate amount of time licking just above her belt buckle. Then again he was back to her mouth. He spoke through his kiss. “I’m going to bite you now.” Blake began down the same flaming path on Livia’s body with his teeth, nibbling in time with her heartbeat. When it speeded up, he bit slightly harder. After what seemed to be sixteen million glorious years, Blake was at the top of her jeans again. A light, almost invisible, mist from the gray clouds now gave the clearing a slick sheen. The cool rain and his hot mouth were ecstasy. Blake unbuckled her belt and used his tongue and teeth to unbutton her jeans. He chuckled as he flipped her zipper with his teeth. Each pop of the releasing zipper filled the woods as he blew again on the newly revealed skin. Livia knew what to expect this time: blow, lick, bite. Oh, sweet God! This is heaven. At last, Livia could no longer obey and reached her hands down to his angelic face. Blake glanced up as if to rebuke her, but quickly smiled and let her sit up to meet his lips. Love. Crazy, soon, ever. Love, Livia’s mind raged. She tried to tell him with kisses, but it wasn’t enough. Blake knelt before her, and Livia straddled his thighs. She pulled back to try putting it into words and noticed how Blake glistened, covered in tiny raindrops. The clear, cool pond she’d described to Cole had just exploded over them. But instead of drowning, they wore it like a cloak.

The Mouse was not much heavier than a very large cat. Eustace had him off the rail in a trice and very silly he looked (thought Eustace) with his little limbs all splayed out and his mouth open. But unfortunately Reepicheep, who had fought for his life many a time, never lost his head even for a moment. Nor his skill. It is not very easy to draw one’s sword when one is swinging round in the air by one’s tail, but he did. And the next thing Eustace knew was two agonizing jabs in his hand which made him let go of the tail; and the next thing after that was that the Mouse had picked itself up again as if it were a ball bouncing off the deck, and there it was facing him, and a horrid long, bright, sharp thing like a skewer was waving to and fro within an inch of his stomach. (This doesn’t count as below the belt for mice in Narnia because they can hardly be expected to reach higher.) “Stop it,” spluttered Eustace, “go away. Put that thing away. It’s not safe. Stop it, I say. I’ll tell Caspian. I’ll have you muzzled and tied up.” “Why do you not draw your own sword, poltroon!” cheeped the Mouse. “Draw and fight or I’ll beat you black and blue with the flat.” “I haven’t got one,” said Eustace. “I’m a pacifist. I don’t believe in fighting.” “Do I understand,” said Reepicheep, withdrawing his sword for a moment and speaking very sternly, “that you do not intend to give me satisfaction?” “I don’t know what you mean,” said Eustace, nursing his hand. “If you don’t know how to take a joke I shan’t bother my head about you.” “Then take that,” said Reepicheep, “and that--to teach you manners--and the respect due to a knight--and a Mouse--and a Mouse’s tail--” and at each word he gave Eustace a blow with the side of his rapier, which was thin, fine, dwarf-tempered steel and as supple and effective as a birch rod. Eustace (of course) was at a school where they didn’t have corporal punishment, so the sensation was quite new to him. That was why, in spite of having no sea-legs, it took him less than a minute to get off that forecastle and cover the whole length of the deck and burst in at the cabin door--still hotly pursued by Reepicheep. Indeed it seemed to Eustace that the rapier as well as the pursuit was hot. It might have been red-hot by the feel.

NOVA SLUNG THE BAG over her shoulder and reached for one of the weighted ropes she’d set up in the alley the night before. She wrapped her arm around the rope and untied the sailor’s knot from the weights holding it to the ground. The weights attached to the opposite end dropped, dragging it through the pulley on the rooftop above. Nova jerked upward, holding tight as the rope whistled past the building’s concrete wall. The second set of weights crashed into the ground below. She stopped with a shudder, her hand only a few inches shy of the pulley, her body swinging six stories in the air. Nova threw her bag onto the rooftop, then grabbed the ledge and hauled herself over. She dropped down into a crouch and riffled through the bag, pulling out the uniform she had designed with Queen Bee’s help. She slung the weaponry belt across her hips, where it hung comfortably, outfitted with specially crafted pockets and hooks for all of her favorite inventions. Next, the snug black hooded jacket: waterproof and flame-retardant, yet lightweight enough to keep from inhibiting her movements. She zipped it up to her neck and tugged the sleeves past her knuckles before pulling up the hood, where a couple of small weights stitched into the hem held it in place over her brow. The mask came last. A hard metallic shell perfectly molded to the bridge of her nose that disappeared into the high collar of the jacket, disguising the lower half of her face. Transformation complete, she stooped and pulled the rifle and a single poisoned dart from the bag.

When Dennis McKenna drank ayahuasca , he had a vision in which he became “a sentient water molecule, percolating randomly through the soil, lost amid the tangle of the enormous root fibers of the Banisteriopsis World Tree.” I could feel the coolness, the dank dampness of the soil surrounding me. I felt suspended in an enormous underground cistern, a single drop among billions of drops … as if squeezed by the implacable force of irresistible osmotic pressures, I was rapidly translocated into the roots of the Banisteriopsis tree …” He was “carried through the articulating veins toward some unknown destination”. McKenna found himself within the extraordinary cellular mechanisms that turn light into “the molecular stuff of life”. Pulled on a kind of conveyor belt to the place where photosynthesis occurs. His consciousness exploded as he was “smited by the bolt of energy emitted by the phytic acid transducers and my poor water-molecule soul was split asunder”. As this vision ended, he found himself “embedded in the matrix” of the plant’s biochemical makeup. Suddenly he was suspended above the Amazon rainforest, looking over its vast expanse: “The vista stretching to the curved horizon was blue and green and bluish green, the vegetation below, threaded with shining rivers, looked like green mold covering an overgrown petri plate.” McKenna felt: “anger and rage toward my own rapacious, destructive species, scarcely aware of its own devastating power, a species that cares little about the swath of destruction it leaves in its wake as it thoughtlessly decimates ecosystems and burns thousands of acres of rainforest.” He wept. Suddenly a voice spoke to him: “You monkeys only think you’re running things. You don’t think we would really allow this to happen, do you?

The Soviet Union was the only nation involved in the Second World War to put women in the sky as fighter and bomber pilots, and what women they were! Products of the Soviet aviation drive of the 1930s, these young fliers were championed by Marina Raskova, the Amelia Earhart of the USSR. The day bombers and the fighter pilots (among the latter, Lilia Litviak, seen in cameo at the Engels training camp, was killed in an aerial dogfight during the war, but became history’s first female ace) eventually integrated with male personnel . . . but the night bombers remained all-female throughout their term of service and were fiercely proud of this fact. The ladies of the Forty-Sixth Taman Guards Night Bomber Aviation Regiment went to war in the outdated Polikarpov U-2, an open-cockpit cloth-and-plywood biplane, achingly slow and highly flammable, built without radio, parachute, or brakes. (It was redesignated the Po-2 after 1943; I was unable to pinpoint an exact date for the change, and continued to use the term U-2 for clarity.) The women flew winter and summer, anywhere from five to eighteen runs per night, relying on stimulants that destroyed their ability to rest once off-duty. They flew continuously under these conditions for three years, surviving on catnaps and camaraderie, developing the conveyor belt land-and-refuel routine that gave them a far more efficient record than comparable night bomber regiments. The women’s relentless efficiency waged ruthless psychological warfare on the Germans below, who thought their silent glide-down sounded like witches on broomsticks, and awarded them the nickname “die Nachthexen.” Such dedication took a toll: the regiment lost approximately 27 percent of its flying personnel to crashes and enemy fire. The Night Witches were also awarded a disproportionately higher percentage of Hero of the Soviet Union medals—the USSR’s highest decoration.

Ночной перелет в Сан-Франциско. Погоня за луной через всю Америку. Господи, уже сто лет не летала на самолетах. Поднявшись на 35 тысяч футов, мы достигли тропопаузы, огромного пояса безветрия. Ближе к озоновому слою я еще никогда не была. Вот бы оказаться там, вот бы самолет поднялся выше тропопаузы и достиг внешнего слоя - озона изношенного, рваного, продырявленного, как кусок сыра, и от того страшного. Но я бы видела больше остальных, благодаря своей способности замечать такие вещи. Я бы видела души, поднимающиеся с поверхности земли. Души людей, которые спаслись от голода, войн, чумы. Они взлетают как прыгуны с трамплина, только наоборот, с широко раскинутыми руками, кружась вокруг своей оси. И достигнув высшей точки, они берут друг друга за руки, формируя огромную необъятную сеть душ. Именно души состоят из трех атомных молекул кислорода, которые и латают износившийся озоновый слой . Ничто не пропадает навсегда. Даже в нашем мире есть пускай и мучительный, но все же прогресс. Он оставляет все былое позади, а мечтания - впереди. По крайней мере, я в это верю. "Ангелы в Америке" Night flight to San Francisco; chase the moon across America. God, it’s been years since I was on a plane. When we hit 35,000 feet we’ll have reached the tropopause, the great belt of calm air, as close as I’ll ever get to the ozone. I dreamed we were there. The plane leapt the tropopause, the safe air, and attained the outer rim, the ozone, which was ragged and torn, patches of it threadbare as old cheesecloth, and that was frightening. But I saw something that only I could see because of my astonishing ability to see such things: Souls were rising, from the earth far below, souls of the dead, of people who had perished, from famine, from war, from the plague, and they floated up, like skydivers in reverse, limbs all akimbo, wheeling and spinning. And the souls of these departed joined hands, clasped ankles, and formed a web, a great net of souls, and the souls were three-atom oxygen molecules of the stuff of ozone, and the outer rim absorbed them and was repaired. Nothing’s lost forever. In this world, there’s a kind of painful progress. Longing for what we’ve left behind, and dreaming ahead. At least I think that’s so.

You!’ the first guard yelled. ‘Hands on your head, don’t move.’ Wing slowly put his hands on his head, showing no hint of emotion. ‘What the hell?’ the other guard said. ‘He’s just a kid.’ He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt and slowly moved behind Wing and grasped one of his wrists. In one fluid motion, Wing grabbed the guard’s own wrist with his free hand and twisted hard. There was a sickening crunch, the guard howling in pain as Wing stepped backwards, too close for the man to bring his gun to bear. He pulled the guard’s wounded arm further over his own shoulder, dragging the man closer, and jerked his head backwards, his skull connecting with the man’s nose with a crunch. Wing rotated around the guard, pressing the wounded arm up into the small of the man’s back and ducking behind him, giving the other guard no clean shot without hitting his associate. He pushed hard, sending the stunned guard staggering towards his partner, and delivered a sharp kick to the base of his spine. The wounded guard’s momentum sent him careering into the other man, yowling with pain and confusion. Wing took two short steps and in a blur of movement pulled the handcuffs from the wounded man’s belt and snapped them closed around both his broken wrist and the wrist of the unwounded guard’s gun hand. Wing pressed his fingers into the pressure point behind the wounded guard’s ear and he collapsed, instantly unconscious, pulling the other guard down with him and pinning his gun to the ground. The conscious guard snatched for the gun with his free hand, but Wing dropped on to him, his knee pressing into his throat hard enough to choke him but without crushing his windpipe. Wing delivered a sharp knuckle jab to the guard’s shoulder and his free arm was instantly disabled too. Wing could hear the sound of at least half a dozen more guards racing up the stairs from below. He knew there would be more than he could handle. He reached down and took a smoke grenade from the webbing on the pinned guard’s chest and pulled the pin with his teeth, tossing it through the doorway into the stairwell. There were cries of confusion from just below as the confined space filled with impenetrable clouds of white smoke. Wing pulled a flashbang stun grenade from the other side of the pinned guard’s webbing and waited a couple of seconds before tossing it into the stairwell too. He closed his eyes, the flash of the grenade clear even through his eyelids. ‘Who the hell are you?’ the guard pinned beneath Wing gasped. ‘Just a kid,’ Wing said with a slight smile and punched him unconscious.

In the tumultuous business of cutting-in and attending to a whale, there is much running backwards and forwards among the crew. Now hands are wanted here, and then again hands are wanted there. There is no staying in any one place; for at one and the same time everything has to be done everywhere. It is much the same with him who endeavors the description of the scene. We must now retrace our way a little. It was mentioned that upon first breaking ground in the whale’s back, the blubber-hook was inserted into the original hole there cut by the spades of the mates. But how did so clumsy and weighty a mass as that same hook get fixed in that hole? It was inserted there by my particular friend Queequeg, whose duty it was, as harpooneer, to descend upon the monster’s back for the special purpose referred to. But in very many cases, circumstances require that the harpooneer shall remain on the whale till the whole flensing or stripping operation is concluded. The whale, be it observed, lies almost entirely submerged, excepting the immediate parts operated upon. So down there, some ten feet below the level of the deck, the poor harpooneer flounders about, half on the whale and half in the water, as the vast mass revolves like a tread-mill beneath him. On the occasion in question, Queequeg figured in the Highland costume—a shirt and socks—in which to my eyes, at least, he appeared to uncommon advantage; and no one had a better chance to observe him, as will presently be seen. Being the savage’s bowsman, that is, the person who pulled the bow-oar in his boat (the second one from forward), it was my cheerful duty to attend upon him while taking that hard-scrabble scramble upon the dead whale’s back. You have seen Italian organ-boys holding a dancing-ape by a long cord. Just so, from the ship’s steep side, did I hold Queequeg down there in the sea, by what is technically called in the fishery a monkey-rope, attached to a strong strip of canvas belted round his waist. It was a humorously perilous business for both of us. For, before we proceed further, it must be said that the monkey-rope was fast at both ends; fast to Queequeg’s broad canvas belt, and fast to my narrow leather one. So that for better or for worse, we two, for the time, were wedded; and should poor Queequeg sink to rise no more, then both usage and honor demanded, that instead of cutting the cord, it should drag me down in his wake. So, then, an elongated Siamese ligature united us. Queequeg was my own inseparable twin brother; nor could I any way get rid of the dangerous liabilities which the hempen bond entailed. So strongly and metaphysically did I conceive of my situation then, that while earnestly watching his motions, I seemed distinctly to perceive that my own individuality was now merged in a joint stock company of two; that my free will had received a mortal wound; and that another’s mistake or misfortune might plunge innocent me into unmerited disaster and death. Therefore, I saw that here was a sort of interregnum in Providence; for its even-handed equity never could have so gross an injustice. And yet still further pondering—while I jerked him now and then from between the whale and ship, which would threaten to jam him—still further pondering, I say, I saw that this situation of mine was the precise situation of every mortal that breathes; only, in most cases, he, one way or other, has this Siamese connexion with a plurality of other mortals. If your banker breaks, you snap; if your apothecary by mistake sends you poison in your pills, you die. True, you may say that, by exceeding caution, you may possibly escape these and the multitudinous other evil chances of life. But handle Queequeg’s monkey-rope heedfully as I would, sometimes he jerked it so, that I came very near sliding overboard. Nor could I possibly forget that, do what I would, I only had the management of one end of it.

I never hit below the belt, especially if that belt is the rust belt and I’m in Texas.

As if that wasn’t enough, she was a woman. Okay, that was a given otherwise he wouldn’t be having issues below his belt.

God damn you!” Alfred said. “You belong in jail!” The turd wheezed with laughter as it slid very slowly down the wall, its viscous pseudopods threatening to drip on the sheets below. “Seems to me,” it said, “you anal retentive type personalities want everything in jail. Like, little kids, bad news, man, they pull your tchotchkes off your shelves, they drop food on the carpet, they cry in theaters, they miss the pot. Put ’em in the slammer! And Polynesians, man, they track sand in the house, get fish juice on the furniture, and all those pubescent chickies with their honkers exposed? Jail ’em! And how about ten to twenty, while we’re at it, for every horny little teenager, I mean talk about insolence, talk about no restraint. And Negroes (sore topic, Fred?), I’m hearing rambunctious shouting and interesting grammar, I’m smelling liquor of the malt variety and sweat that’s very rich and scalpy, and all that dancing and whoopee-making and singers that coo like body parts wetted with saliva and special jellies: what’s a jail for if not to toss a Negro in it? And your Caribbeans with their spliffs and their potbelly toddlers and their like daily barbecues and ratborne hanta viruses and sugary drinks with pig blood at the bottom? Slam the cell door, eat the key. And the Chinese, man, those creepy-ass weird-name vegetables like homegrown dildos somebody forgot to wash after using, one-dollah, one-dollah, and those slimy carps and skinned-alive songbirds, and come on, like, puppy-dog soup and pooty-tat dumplings and female infants are national delicacies, and pork bung, by which we’re referring here to the anus of a swine, presumably a sort of chewy and bristly type item, pork bung’s a thing Chinks pay money for to eat? What say we just nuke all billion point two of ’em, hey? Clean that part of the world up already. And let’s not forget about women generally, nothing but a trail of Kleenexes and Tampaxes everywhere they go. And your fairies with their doctor’s-office lubricants, and your Mediterraneans with their whiskers and their garlic, and your French with their garter belts and raunchy cheeses, and your blue-collar ball-scratchers with their hot rods and beer belches, and your Jews with their circumcised putzes and gefilte fish like pickled turds, and your Wasps with their Cigarette boats and runny-assed polo horses and go-to-hell cigars? Hey, funny thing, Fred, the only people that don’t belong in your jail are upper-middle-class northern European men. And you’re on my case for wanting

Something sharp slashed at Cass’s left arm and she cried out. Snapping her head around, she searched for her assailant, but the crowded alleyway blurred into a sea of arms and hands all reaching out toward her. She gasped, beginning to panic, struggling against the current of faceless flesh. “What? What is it?” Falco pulled her from the tangle of sweaty bodies and pressed her up against the side of a small bakery shop. Cass looked down at the sleeve of her teal chemise. Someone or something had sliced right through the silky fabric. Falco separated the torn material to examine Cass’s skin beneath. He lifted her arm to show her the swollen pink line just below her elbow. “Look, no blood,” he said. “You probably just got your sleeve caught on a sword hilt or belt buckle.” Or a knife. Cass searched the crowd again, but no one was paying her any attention. Falco’s hand felt hot on her flesh, almost burning. She pulled her arm away, turning to look back at the entrance to the alleyway. It seemed impossibly far away. Unreachable. Falco traced his finger along one of the delicate fishbone braids that framed her face. “It was just an accident,” he said. Cass felt the blood return to her face. She glanced down at her torn sleeve. The scratch on her arm was already starting to fade. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I’m being silly. It just scared me, that’s all.” “It’s all right,” Falco said. His voice was surprisingly gentle. Cass had been certain he would mock her for being a child, a spoiled little aristocrat afraid of her own shadow.

Get a FREE sample by clicking below… Or get the read the entire book here… About the Author Penn Brooks is a former cathy with 12 years of parochial experience under his belt.

Oh, he’s going somewhere with this,” Fish muttered, shaking his head. “It’s probably nowhere good, but he’s going somewhere.

I say, “This Nazi Disneyland stuff, it’s too cheap and easy. It’s like something the Kissi would dream up.” That’s hitting below the belt. Calling a Hellion a Kissi is like calling Chuck Norris Joseph Stalin. Buer looks like he wants to stuff the blueprints down my throat with a road flare. Obyzuth and Semyazah look at me like they caught me eating cookies before dinner. Marchosias raises her eyebrows, which is about an inch from her challenging me to a duel at dawn.

Boone stood in front of Doc, half naked. Soft black hair ran down his chest, disappearing below his belt. He had arms that made a woman feel light as a scarf, a stomach flat enough to iron on, and an attitude set to smolder.

Her skin glowed in dawn's soft light sneaking in through curtains, and she stretched her arms up toward the ceiling in a move that elongated everything above her waist and below his belt.

You gotta feed the geese to keep the blood flowing. Alright? Keep the rhythm below the belt.

Religious Morality Is Mostly Below the Belt

When Humor Falls Flat “Humor is not a "one-size fits all" guarantee. What is hilarious to one person may be offensive to another. By being emotionally intelligent and self-aware, you can discern how, when, why, or where to be funny . . . or not. You might be walking on thin ice and risk making a damaging first impression if you use humor that is: • At the expense of others. • Thoughtless sarcasm. • Belittling or condescending. • Hitting below the belt. • Creepy or profane. • Raunchy humor with sexual innuendo. • Politically incorrect. • Mean-spirited.

I’m trying to modify my NYPD piggishness. I have not hit on one single—or married—female in the ATTF. I was actually getting a reputation as a man who was either devoted to duty, or was devoted to some off-scene girlfriend, or was gay, or who had a low libido, or who perhaps had been hit below the belt by one of those bullets. In any case, a whole new world was opening up to me now. Women in the office talked to me about their boyfriends and husbands, asked me if I liked their new hairstyles, and generally treated me in a gender-neutral manner. The girls haven’t yet asked me to go shopping with them or shared recipes with me, but maybe I’ll be invited to a baby shower. The old John Corey is dead, buried under a ton of politically correct memos from Washington. John Corey, NYPD Homicide, is history. Special Contract Agent John Corey, ATTF, has emerged. I feel clean, baptized in Potomac holy water, reborn and accepted into the ranks of the pure angelic hosts with whom I work.

And the award for Best Teen Action Star goes to…” She opened and read the card. “…Jett Carson!” Jett jumped to his feet, elated! “YEAAAAAAAHHH!!!!” Up above, Jonas was startled by Jett’s scream – and he started to lose his balance! He had to think fast. He grabbed a cable from his spy utility belt and fired it at the ceiling above. THUNK! The arrow tip sunk solidly into the wooden roof. And fortunately, the sound was muffled by the cheering on the TV and Jett’s own cheering. Jonas pulled hard on the cable, using it to keep from falling. He swayed back and forth, but he eventually righted himself. Phew! Below, Jett danced around the room. “Yes! In your face!” He grabbed his phone and tweeted: “Love to all my fans who voted for me! #MaximumAwesomeness.” Jonas prayed that Jett wouldn’t look up and see him. He still clung tight to the cable, and he looked down to Jett and the floor below. Then he got an idea. Glancing forward to the waiting Rascal at the end of the beam, he motioned for Rascal to come. Rascal walked up to Jonas, and Jonas carefully picked him up. Jonas looked down again at Jett who was singing softly to himself and doing a little dance as he headed into the kitchen. Now was Jonas’s chance. He secured the cable unit to his spy belt, and he got ready to let himself down. But then – POP! – a Champagne cork flew by his head! Below, Jett came back into the room carrying a bottle of Champagne. But Jonas was startled by the cork, and he clumsily slipped off of the beam! He almost dropped Rascal as he swung and slammed against the wall! Jett looked up in shock to see Jonas and Rascal swinging back and forth! “Whoa!” He dropped his Champagne bottle. SMASH! Jonas struggled to get the cable to let out, but he just succeeded in

Ninnyhammer A person who couldn’t find their own hind-end with two hands and a search warrant. Nitwit

Husband A guy who has “leveled-up” from being a boyfriend but then lost all his free will.

Redneck A lower-class white person from a rural background. Usually owning a shotgun, a rifle, and a 4 wheel drive.

Pud A lazy, useless, or very weak person who also happens to be afraid of nearly everything.

She stood for a time, still and meditative, with her face held up to the arch of sky, seeking a shooting star in that illimitable field above her. The stars glittered and winked as if they were live, sentient beings, the angels themselves, watching the doings of earth, not in the serene manner of celestial beings but excited and interested in what they saw below. Their colours flashed in red and ice-blue and dazzling green and amber. There was Auriga with its bright Capella, a star Susan always recognised since her father long pointed out its bright flame. "That's the one I knows well. It's always been in the sky. I've watched it when I've been going to milking and coming home on winter nights, and it's been a kind of companion to me." The Great Bear swung over the house top, guarding Windystone from harm. Orion was hidden, but if she walked along by the yew trees, she could see his fiery stars and steel-green Riga, and the belt like a jewel. But she stayed where she was, alone, quiet, giving herself up to the movement of the rolling heavens, and she was caught up in that heavenly motion and whirled like a dark atom with the swinging earth.

From a martial perspective, this point is generally difficult to hit, but situations when you move to the back of your opponent open the possibility of knee strikes aimed in the coccyx bone. These types of strikes are extremely effective in dropping an opponent. Hard knee strikes to this region not only shock the energy core of the body, but also shocks the entire nervous system with the connection of the coccyx bone to the spine. Besides immediately dropping an opponent, as they can no longer continue the fight from the energetic blast up their spinal column, it can cause the bowels and the bladder to empty. As stated numerous times, it is unwise to allow your opponent to gain position on your back. There are just too many devastating strikes that can be landed with little recourse. Your martial arts training needs to account for this. So, if you are training a lot of spinning type moves, or moves that put you into a position that would compromise you position by presenting your back, then you should seriously reconsider those techniques or methods. CV-4 A properly thrown strike into this Vital Point will cause your opponent to fold forward into a Yin body posture, which will allow easy access to several follow-up points. An easy way to remember this vital point is to think of striking an opponent just below the belt line, but not their genitals. Boxers some time refer to this area as the “bread basket.” It is located about three inches below the navel on the centerline of the body. CV-4 is the alarm point for the Small Intestine Meridian and an intersection point of the Spleen, Kidney, and Liver Meridians. Strikes to this point should be at a downward 45-degree angle, if possible, and can break the pubic bone causing great pain in the opponent. Downward aimed punches and hard driving straight kicks to this region can be effective in a combative situation. Striking this point can be conducted very deceptively, as the majority of opponents will not be expecting a strike aimed to a low region of the body. It is instinctive for a male to protect the genitals from attack, usually by twisting the hips to the side or narrowing the legs. CV-4 can still be accessible even if they twist their hips to avoid a genital strike. Once struck with adequate force, the body folds forward and exposes numerous points on the neck and back for additional attacks. A strike to this Vital Point attacks the energy center of the body and has a massive draining effect on an opponent. Defensively, protecting your centerline can not be expressed strongly enough.

know that building’s been empty for a year,” Daisy said uneasily, “but how—?” “Sh! Watch! Now!” The looming building seemed to blur or fuzz for a moment. Then it was as if the lake’s bright ripples had invaded the old glass a hundred yards away. Wavelets chased themselves up and down the gleaming walls, became higher, higher … and then suddenly the glass cracked all over to tiny fragments and fell away, to be followed quickly by fragmented concrete and plastic and plastic piping, until all that was left was the nude steel framework, vibrating so rapidly as to be almost invisible against the gleaming lake. Daisy covered her ears, but there was no explosion, only a long-drawn-out low crash as the fragments hit twenty floors below and dust whooshed out sideways. “Spectacular!” Fay summed up. “Knew you’d enjoy it. That little trick was first conceived by the great Tesla during his last fruity years. Research discovered it in his biog—we just made the dream come true. A tiny resonance device you could carry in your belt-bag attunes itself to the natural harmonic of a structure and then increases amplitude by tiny pushes exactly in time. Just like soldiers marching in step can break down a bridge, only this is as if it were being done by one marching ant.” He

was way below the belt.

Try these journal prompts as you work to integrate your type 8 shadows: See yourself through your ex’s eyes. This can be a difficult exercise, but if anyone’s up for it, Challenger, it’s you. Write a letter to yourself from your ex’s point of view. Take a moment to remember all you did wrong and write it down—even if (especially if!) you think the failure of the relationship was their fault, not yours. What negative traits of yours do you need to own and master to be better in your next relationship? Write a letter to the person who hurt you the most in your past. Tell them everything they did that made you feel unworthy of love or less-than. Don’t be afraid to hit below the belt! Get it all out! When you’re done, put the letter away somewhere safe. Come back and re-read it two weeks later and consider whether you can see any of the negative qualities of this person in yourself. How have you hurt others? Is it similar to the way you’ve been hurt? Think about the people you love most. If you had the power, what would you like to change about them in order to improve your relationship with them? (This might also have to do with the way you resolve conflicts.) How does this action reflect on you? Based on this exercise, is there anything you might consider improving in yourself to help? TYPE 8 SELF-CARE PRESCRIPTION Type 8s tend to struggle with inaction when it comes to self-care. Since you’re always seeking progress and pushing yourself, it’s challenging for you to sit in a quiet place alone and rest. But the world is a complicated place, and you are prone to feeling angry about the things you can’t control or change. You want so much to do something to heal the pain of the world, to fix the broken systems. But you can’t fight for others until you’ve first fought for yourself by releasing the need for control and choosing stillness. Being still probably feels unnatural to you, even scary, but that’s where your real inner work begins! Learn your limits. As an energetic 8, you frequently push yourself to your limits, even if you’re unaware you’re doing so. Pay closer attention to your own feelings, and force yourself to rest and recover whenever necessary, instead of pushing through. You’ll be much better off for it! Practice mindful breathing for anger management. When you feel the need to let loose with an angry tirade, take it as a cue to practice your calming breaths. Find an outdoor exercise activity you love. When you’re feeling especially furious or antsy, hop on your bike and go for a ride or do a few laps around the neighborhood. These activities are healthy outlets for that restless energy of yours. Let others take the lead sometimes. With your commanding presence and direct approach, you make a natural leader. But sometimes, you need to step back and allow someone else to step up to bat. Take a break and learn not to carry all responsibilities on your own shoulders; this will benefit both you and your relationships with others.

I always wanted to be on the radio ... until I realized there were no cameras.

Erica pulled the fish-gutting knife from her utility belt. It glinted in the first rays of the sun. Dane’s face furrowed in concern. It occurred to him that, in his haste to pursue Erica, he had made a terrible mistake. Erica lifted the blade over her head and slashed through the fishing line. It snapped and recoiled, whipping back toward the penthouse balcony with such force that it took out the two bodyguards. Meanwhile, Dane Brammage suddenly found himself hanging on to nothing but air. His momentum kept him sailing toward us—but he didn’t quite make it onto the ledge and plummeted into the shark tank below. He cannonballed so hard that a plume of water thirty feet high exploded out—along with one very startled young mako shark—drenching Erica, Paul Lee, and me. Down in the tank, the water churned, though whether this was the sharks attacking Dane or Dane attacking the sharks, I couldn’t tell.

All couples fight, but healthy couples fight fair. Unhealthy couples fight dirty, with below-the-belt jabs, sucker punches, angry accusations, and bitter grudges. Healthy couples fight for resolution. Unhealthy couples fight for personal victory. Dr.

I don’t think we can finish this without going up and facing her.” “I never thought I’d long for Piper and Zoe, but shouldn’t we come back with them?” I shook my head. “Cass, I’m sure you’re a hellcat in a fight, but when you say ‘finish this,’ don’t you think it would be better if there were more, you know, deadly, knife-throwing rebels involved?” “No. We’ve brought enough on them—we can’t put them at risk like that. Too much of the resistance depends on them. Anyway, with the Confessor, it’s a mind game; I don’t think she could fight any more than the two of us. When I said ‘finish this,’ I didn’t mean it had to come to blood. I just meant”—I paused, struggling to explain it to him—“I meant that this started with us. And the whole time, it’s been her I’ve felt, tracking me. More even than Zach. We can’t keep running away from her. All of this”—I gestured at the machine-encased chamber below us—“she’s the core of it. We can’t finish it without facing her.” I slipped my knife back into its sheath at my belt.

So when you and I begin feeling pressure and tension and splintering and conflict at home, when little trifling things start bunching together to become this one big thing—when the nitpicking turns into bickering; the bickering into outbursts; the outbursts into rude, below-the-belt unkindness and bitterness; the bitterness into slow, seething pullbacks of silence and isolation—is it just your husband being terrible? Acting awful? Is it just you being overly sensitive, slow to relinquish a foothold of cherished, hard-fought ground? Is it just your child pulling away into isolation or overt rebellion? Is it just all of you going to your own rooms—disconnected, disjointed, fragmented?

What is it with men and their trucks anyway?” Her green eyes twinkled. Her teasing boosted his spirits, and he told himself it was just the pleasure of friendship. “We get attached. Perfectly normal.” “It’s a chunk of steel. Well, steel and rust, in your case.” “Hey . . . below the belt.” Abigail shrugged. “Call it like I see it.” Her full smile was dazzling. There was no other word for it. Wade couldn’t look away if he wanted to. And he didn’t.

landing strip.” Mike

Romance primes her body for the bedroom. But for men, it may have the opposite effect. (Dylan & Sara/Stocksy) Turns out, there may be a scientific reason why movies based on Nicholas Sparks novels are called “chick flicks.” Watching romantic movies revs women’s sex drives — but it also dampens men’s desire to hit the sheets, according to a new study in the journal Archives of Sexual Behavior. In the world of sex research, there’s a theory about sexual desire called the “incentive motivation model.” That’s a technical way of saying arousal starts with a rewarding stimuli (for example, seeing your partner naked), which automatically leads to a boost in below-the-belt blood flow. Once you realize your body is responding, your mind joins the arousal process, which only heightens your physical response, compelling you to seek sex. As simple as that sounds, the first step — the sexual stimuli that kicks off the whole arousal process — can vary dramatically between men and women. Take porn, for example. “In a lot of research, when women watch porn movies, their body reacts — they’re genitally aroused — but they don’t feel anything,” lead study author Marieke Dewitte, an assistant professor of clinical psychological science at Maastricht University, told Yahoo Health. However, “we know that if you let women watch porn that is more female-oriented, embedded in a story, they respond with more sexual arousal.

Nate Harper had been hot for Casey Sullivan for years, but when he answered her, he wasn’t speaking from below the belt. He was speaking from the brain.

We must remember that regardless of our differences in rank we are all equal as human beings. You can always tell how caring and compassionate others are in their actions towards those "below" them. Of course you are going to treat your black belt professor kindly, but how do you treat the white belt taking their first class? In spite of the division in belt rank there must be no division as people.

standing as wave-battered islands in between. As it turns out though, the Earth knows more than one way to hold up a mountain belt. In the Basin and Range—and perhaps in other areas of the West—it is heat, not crustal thickness, that makes the region stand high. The hottest part of the Basin and Range lies below Battle Mountain, a town of 2,800 people and not many fewer billboards straddling Interstate 80 and the Humboldt River in north-central Nevada. The town lies on top of the Battle Mountain High, a 100-mile-wide bull’s-eye where heat seeps

In an ideal world, he’d simply scrape the surface of his bottomless courage, carelessly slip off his horse, scratch his massive balls, and then stroll over to the Lair in his own good time. But this wasn’t an ideal world, Rawley’s courage reservoir was barely a puddle, and at that particular moment he had precious little below the belt worth scratching!

Dodging left, he sucked his breath in at the distance to the next rooftop. If he missed that, it was going to hurt. Who wants to live forever? Ignoring his favorite motto whenever a dose of extreme stupidity was called for, he pulled his javelin off his belt and extended it so that he could use it to pole-vault over. He held his breath as he soared over the street so far below. Thankfully

Whoa. Offsides. High-sticking. Hitting below the belt. And other such sports metaphors I could think of that express my feelings that he was so not playing fair. He’s dumping you. Focus. Eye on the prize. Prize? Not sure there’s any prize to be had here, so let’s go with the “focus” suggestion.