Blood Of Hercules Quotes

A man was speaking, so I stopped listening.

He is Jason and Hercules and Perseus---a figure so strong and beautiful and heroic that the blood of the gods must flow through him, because how else could a being so fine exist in this world?

This book is dedicated to all the girls who like morally grey fictional men, and who screamed out loud the first time they read “who did this to you?” This ones for you.

Mental note—physical exertion makes me homicidal. Avoid anything above a brisk walk.

If one could order a crime as one does a dinner, what would you choose? . . . Let’s review the menu. Robbery? Frogery? No, I think not. Rather too vegetarian. It must be murder—red-blooded murder—with trimmings, of course.

Personally, I preferred to be mentally weak - it made life more interesting. 'Will I kill myself today dramatically or barely survive?' Every day was a new mystery.

She screamed in my face—I screamed back. Oh, look, we’re harmonizing. Mozart would have loved this.

During the day, the feminine urge to lead a fictional revolt plagued me.

The devil has a pretty face, and humanity is going to hell for worshipping it.

I wailed despondently, but my eyes were bone dry because emo girls didn’t cry (I’d cried yesterday).

It wasn’t about women being as tough as men; it was about the fact that they shouldn’t have to be.

What's the next step after panicking? I need to do that.

I would have been offended, but I was too busy trying to find my will to live, like the aforementioned pathetic, weak bitch,

Aut viam inveniam aut faciam—I shall either find a way or make one.

It was just—no one had proved birds weren’t spying on us.

There has been no great wisdom without an element of madness.

Who. The. Fuck. Did. THIS. TO. YOU?

Kid, I’m not a babysitter. I’m a full-time nanny, without any of the benefits of getting to kill people. My life is tragic.

My face still throbbed from the library incident, where I may or may not have had a violent mental breakdown and assaulted two men (I had no regrets; someone had to do it).

Maybe, I’d had a lengthy debate with the librarian over whether penises looked like misshapen snails (she was team sea cucumbers).

Will do—Captain.” I bowed and face-planted onto the floor. “Like a beached whale,” I said with my cheeks pressed against the rocks. “Don’t worry, the tide will pull me back.

You saved Big Bertha, the humpback whale.” He dropped me.

Fluck the flucking world. Life’s a biatch like that. Yes, I was in my emo era.

Never touch me like that or I’ll bite you to death,

I made a whale sound.

I don’t want to be alone with him in a dark alley, or even a well-lit alley. Actually, I don’t want to be alone with him anywhere.

Said the lion to the lioness - "when you are amber dust - No more a raging fire like the heat of the sun (no liking but all lust) - Remember still the flowering of the amber blood and bone, the rippling of bright muscles like a sea, Remember the rose-prickles of bright paws Though we shall mate no more Till the fire of that sun and the moon - Cold bone are one" Said the skeleton lying upon the sands of time - "The great gold planet that is the mourning heat of the sun Is greater than all gold, more powerful Than the tawny body of a lion that fire consumes Like all that grows or leaps...so is the heart. More powerful than all dust. Once I was hercules Or Samson, strong as the pillars of the seas: But the flames of the heart Consumed me, and the mind Is but a foolish wind.

Well, you can't go about having blood feuds and stabbing each other like Crosicans or the Mafia," said the Colonel. "Say what you like, trial by jury is a sound system

Free the nipple and the lips (vaginal)?

Yep,” Nyx said. “Those are bedroom eyes. This is not a drill. It’s happening. Augustus is giving you bedroom eyes. Wow—this is escalating.

Genuine question—what in the fuckity fuck fucker is wrong with you?

He can’t know I spent the last meditation imagining Carl Gauss whispering sweet nothings to me while he proved the existence of algebra . . . right?

Pussy power, crush the patriarchy! Don’t stop now—murder them all. KILL EVERYONE IN THIS ROOM!

The girl in the mirror looked calm. Covered in cuts, with eerie mismatched eyes, she was intimidating. Powerful.

Well—you need to get dicked down.” I cried harder because it was official: my best friend was a perverted lunatic. It was all too much. I couldn’t keep living like this.

Hot take, you know what’s uncivilized? Forcing homeless children to starve because they have no ability to provide for themselves.

On the other side of the aisle, Patro’s expression was furious, and Achilles’s posture was rigid. His arm was stretched across Patro’s chest like he was physically restraining him from causing a scene.

I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood; Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-read heath, The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers "Death".

Yeah. I'm the secret love child of Hercule Poirot and Lisbeth Salander.

Carissima,” said the man in front throatily. “We’d love to cause a scene with you.” Hardness pulsed against my thigh.

Memento homo quia pulvis es et in pulverem reverteris!” Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

His lovers are going to need a lot more than jewels. Most likely a lobotomy, and a gun for safety. Who would voluntarily sleep next to that psycho at night?

Fides est periculosa ludum—trust is a dangerous game. She didn’t know who was hunting her until it was too late.

they had no biases about genders and usually dated (were slutty) with multiple people at once—

There are ancient beasts in the menagerie that will maul you if they feel threatened.” Thank God. Approach all the animals until one puts me out of my misery—got it.

Everything about Alexis was confusing. She was shy and timid, but also bloodthirsty and savage. She made idiotic comments, but according to Pine was a prodigy at theoretical math.

Baptism by fire.

Who cares if Sarah cheated on Bethany with Eric and that they did butt stuff?

So the animals were stupid but powerful. They sound like most Spartans.

My flesh was mine, and no person was seeing it unless I wanted them to.

If I stay in this library another second, I’m going to murder both those boys for touching her, then kidnap and handcuff her to my bed.

They’ve created a very stif ling, unhealthy environment.

Wow. That was a bold statement, especially since he was shorter than me.

Suddenly the description of sinful handsomeness, disturbed powers, and divine rage made perfect sense.

I wasn’t interested in playing with weak bitches; I had singular tastes.

A piano played in another room, and the haunting melody resonated like honey. Tears gathered in my eyes. It was so beautiful. The music vibrated through me and chased away the nightmares.

If you dare harm yourself,” he rasped softly, high cheekbones glinting like razor blades, “I’ll bring you back to life and torture you for all of eternity.

Cunt—absolute cunt, served.

The pianist is probably just one of those asexuals,” Nyx said. “Like spiders.” I pursed my lips and narrowed my eyes. “Do you mean—arachnids?” “Exactly,” she hissed.

Also, who was going to tell them my entire life was a hurdle? I hadn't stopped hurdling since I'd come out of the womb.

blush colored a corpse’s cheeks, mascara brightened dead eyes, and lipstick kept the screams inside.

Free the nipple, lips (vaginal), and sirens from sexual servitude.

Are you okay?” His voice was a throaty rasp. No. I’m cheating on Carl Gauss. I’m an unloyal whore.

I repositioned Fluffy Jr.’s head on my lap. He was not a thing; misshapen creatures deserved love too.

The infamous Chthonic four—the Houses of Hades, Aphrodite, Artemis, and Ares.

Dorean had caught Jake Dalmer getting a hand job under a desk, and she’d shot him in the penis. Point-blank. No hesitation. Thus my hero.

He has his own head so far up his ass he can’t see greatness when it’s staring at him.

How does flashing my nipples affect them? Classic men, making everything about themselves.

I don’t care about your stupid House honor—I grew up homeless, you prick.

He clapped with excitement, like we weren’t literal hostages being held in a cave against our will. I want whatever fancy Spartan antidepressants he’s on.

Avoid the rabid raccoon. Got it.

Apparently, I was distracted by smutty drawings of male genitalia. I’m going to hell.

Our future hinges on you getting the fuck up.” A man was speaking, so I stopped listening.

Don’t give me that look, bird. I know you’re a surveillance drone.

Oh thank Kronos, I thought you were Kharon.

She activated Chthonic powers she didn’t know she had, and from what I saw... I believe her blood is her power—she can cause others pain with it.

I want whatever fancy Spartan antidepressants he’s on.

Will I kill myself today dramatically or barely survive?

debated if I should strangle myself now or later.

Evolutionists were wrong; humans hadn’t evolved from primates—we’d devolved from them.

Holy Crap, it's him, "a student said. "It's Achilles. Everyone knew about Achilles. He was the only Spartan who wore a muzzle.

Yes, I’d had a moment back at Corfu where I’d decided to think positive thoughts and live better. Unfortunately, I was a quitter and had already given up.

Spartans don’t hurt women—or I hurt them. Understood? This is just a taste of what I can do.

If you ever dare hurt Alexis again, or any woman, ever,” I bellowed straight into their skulls, “I’ll destroy you from the inside out.

Lay a finger on her,” the voice said calmly, “and I’ll cut off both your hands, then I’ll shove them down your throat. Then, while you’re busy choking, I’ll skin you alive.

Maybe he’s not so bad. Maybe they were joking about killing the doctors and I was just being dramatic⁠— “You smell and look repulsive.” Patro pointed at a door on the far wall.

God had his favorites—I was not one of them.

He might look harmless,” Augustus warned. “But beware, he is a feral creature—touch him and you’ll reap the consequences.

That was the thing about living in dark times—life got progressively worse. Always.

Something about him drives me crazy. Whatever it was, I had a bad feeling it was going to spell my demise.

We’re never letting you go,” one said harshly. “You already belong to us. And we’ve decided that we’re going to take care of you—someone has to do it, because clearly you can’t do it yourself.

I’ll let you in on a secret,” I said, my voice flat and cold. “Alexis Hert matters more than you could ever imagine—and she’s mine to protect. Do you know what that means? You violated one of my own.

Alexis Hert is going to be ours. She’s going to be between us. Underneath us. On her knees. On a marriage altar with her thighs spread wide while we feast on her. We’re going to devour her. Our power is going to be unprecedented. The three of us will be the villains of this new age. The federation will fall.

She's not sensual. She doesn't want affairs. It's just cold-blooded experiment on her part and the fun of stirring people up and setting them against each other. She dabbled in that too. She's the sort of woman who's never had a row with anyone in her life--but rows always happen where she is! She makes them happen. She's kind of female Iago. She must have drama. But she doesn't want to be involved herself. She's always outside pulling strings--looking on--enjoying it!

Kharon told him what I was after that first week. That’s why he glared at me accusingly in class. That’s why he made perplexing comments about my power and dishonor. That’s why he said Chthonic lives mattered—I was the Chthonic life, not my mentors.

Swearing is a sign of a weak mind,” I whispered, then clapped a hand over my mouth, horrified that I’d spoken my thoughts aloud. I was losing it. Patro crossed his arms and mocked, “Swearing is a sign of a weak mind.” His smile was venomous. “Grow the fuck up. What’s your motherfucking power? Tell us, fucking now.

Now the room has the contours and atmosphere of all rooms in which people stay awake talking. The fluorescent light is grainy, staring. The clutter on the kitchen table—ketchup bottle, sagging butter dish, tin of Nestlé Quik, the rowdy crudded ashtray—the world is narrowed into these, a little universe that the eyes return to again and again. Now it begins, the sorting and testing of words. Remember that words are not symbols of other words. There are words which, when tinkered with, become honest representatives of the cresting blood, the fine living net of nerves. Define rain. Or even joy. It can be done.

As a matter of fact I don’t care two pins about accuracy. Who is accurate? Nobody nowadays. If a reporter writes that a beautiful girl of twenty-two dies by turning on the gas after looking out over the sea and kissing her favourite Labrador, Bob, goodbye, does anybody make a fuss because the girl was twenty-six, the room faced inland, and the dog was a Sealyham terrier called Bonnie? If a journalist can do that sort of thing I don’t see that it matters if I mix up police ranks and say a revolver when I mean an automatic and a dictograph when I mean a phonograph, and use a poison that just allows you to gasp one dying sentence and no more. What really matters is plenty of bodies! If the thing’s getting a little dull, some more blood cheers it up. Somebody is going to tell something – and then they’re killed first! That always goes down well. It comes in all my books – camouflaged different ways of course. And people like untraceable poisons, and idiotic police inspectors and girls tied up in cellars with sewer gas or water pouring in (such a troublesome way of killing anyone really) and a hero who can dispose of anything from three to seven villains singlehanded.

Please, let him be soft. I know you made him with gunmetal bones and wolf’s teeth. I know you made him to be a warrior a soldier a hero. But even gunmetal can warp and even wolf’s teeth can dull and I do not want to see him break the way old and worn and overused things do. I do not want to see him go up in flames the way all heroes end up martyrs. I know that you will tell me that the world needs him. The world needs his heart and his faith and his courage and his strength and his bones and his teeth and his blood and his voice and his– The world needs anything he will give them. Damn the world, and damn you too. Damn anyone that ever asked anything of him, damn anyone that ever took anything from him, damn anyone that ever prayed to his name. You know that he will give them everything until there is nothing left of him but the imprint of dust where his feet once trod. You know that he will bear the world like Atlas until his shoulders collapse and his knees buckle and he is crushed by all he used to carry. Dear God, you have already made an Atlas. You have already made an Achilles and an Icarus and a Hercules. You have already made a sacrificial lamb of your Son. You have already made so many heroes, and you can make another again. You can have your pick of heroes. So please, I beg you– he is all that I have, and you have so many heroes and the world has so many more. Let him be soft, and let him be mine.

The DUCE diverted funds intended for the Fiume adventure, and used them for His own election campaign. He was arrested for the illegal possession of arms, sent parcel bombs to the Archbishop of Milan and its mayor, and after election was, as is well-known, responsible for the assassination of Di Vagno and Matteoti. Since then He has been responsible for the murders of Don Mizzoni Amendola, the Rosselli brothers, and the journalist Piero Gobetti, quite apart from the hundreds who have been the victims of His squadistri in Ferrara, Ravenna and Trieste, and the thousands who have perished in foreign places whose conquest was useless and pointless. We Italians remain eternally grateful for this, and consider that so much violence has made us a superior race, just as the introduction of revolvers into Parliament and the complete destruction of constitutional democracy have raised our institutions to the greatest possible heights of civilisation. Since the illegal seizure of power, Italy has known an average of five acts of political violence per diem, the DUCE has decreed that 1922 is the new Annus Domini, and He was pretended to be a Catholic in order to dupe the Holy Father into supporting Him against the Communists, even though He really is one Himself. He has completely suborned the press by wrecking the premises of dissident newspapers and journals. In 1923 he invaded Corfu for no apparent reason, and was forced to withdraw by the League of Nations. In 1924 He gerrymandered the elections, and He has oppressed minorities in the Tyrol and the North-East. He sent our soldiers to take part in the rape of Somalia and Libya, drenching their hands in the blood of innocents, He has doubled the number of the bureaucracy in order to tame the bourgeoisie, He has abolished local government, interfered with the judiciary, and purportedly has divinely stopped the flow of lava on Mt Etna by a mere act of will. He has struck Napoleonic attitudes whilst permitting Himself to be used to advertise Perugina chocolates, He has shaved his head because He is ashamed to be seen to be going bald, He has been obliged to hire a tutor to teach Him table manners, He has introduced the Roman salute as a more hygienic alternative to the handshake, He pretends not to need spectacles, He has a repertoire of only two facial expression, He stands on a concealed podium whilst making speeches because He is so short, He pretends to have studied economics with Pareto, and He has assumed infallibility and encouraged the people to carry His image in marches, as though He were a saint. He is a saint, of course. He has (and who are we to disagree?) declared Himself greater than Aristotle, Kant, Aquinas, Dante, Michelangelo, Washington, Lincoln, and Bonaparte, and He has appointed ministers to serve Him who are all sycophants, renegades, racketeers, placemen, and shorter than He is. He is afraid of the Evil Eye and has abolished the second person singular as a form of address. He has caused Toscanini to be beaten up for refusing to play 'Giovinezza', and He has appointed academicians to prove that all great inventions were originally Italian and that Shakespeare was the pseudonym of an Italian poet. He has built a road through the site of the forum, demolishing fifteen ancient churches, and has ordered a statue of Hercules, eighty metres high, which will have His own visage, and which so far consists of a part of the face and one gigantic foot, and which cannot be completed because it has already used up one hundred tons of metal.