Bout To Blow Quotes

Darius held Stark back from launching himself at Neferet, and Duantia spoke quickly into the rising tension. 'Neferet, I think we can all agree that there are many unanswered questions about the tragedy that occured on our island today. Stark, we also understand the passion and rage you feel at the loss of your Priestess. it is a hard blow for a Warrior to-' Duantia's wisdom was cut off by the sound of Aretha Franklin belting out the chorus from "Respect," which was coming from the little Coach purse Aphrodite had slung over her shoulder. Oopsie, um, sorry 'bout that.' Aphrodite frantically unzipped her purse and dug for her iPhone.

The Quitter When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child, And Death looks you bang in the eye, And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle To cock your revolver and . . . die. But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can," And self-dissolution is barred. In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow... It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard. "You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame. You're young and you're brave and you're bright. "You've had a raw deal!" I know — but don't squeal, Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight. It's the plugging away that will win you the day, So don't be a piker, old pard! Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit: It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard. It's easy to cry that you're beaten — and die; It's easy to crawfish and crawl; But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight — Why, that's the best game of them all! And though you come out of each gruelling bout, All broken and beaten and scarred, Just have one more try — it's dead easy to die, It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.

Jo, they have a baby grand piano, but no one in the family plays. They have shelves of books they've never read, and the tension between the couples was so thick it nearly choked us." "Let me tell you something 'bout those rich Uptown folk," said Cokie. "They got everything that money can buy, their bank accounts are fat, but they ain't happy. They ain't ever gone be happy. You know why? They soul broke. And money can't fix that, no sir. My friend Bix was poor. Lord, he had to blow that trumpet ten hours a day just to put a little taste in the pot. Died poor, too. You saw him, Jo, with that plate on his chest. But that man wasn't soul broke.

Used to be a hobo right smart. back in the thirties. They wasnt no work I dont care what you could do. I was ridin through the mountains one night, state of Colorado. Dead of winter it was and bitter cold. I had just a smidgin of tobacco, bout enough for one or two smokes. I was in one of them old slatsided cars and I'd been up and down in it like a dog tryin to find some place where the wind wouldnt blow. Directly I scrunched up in a corner and rolled me a smoke and lit it and thowed the match down. Well, they was some sort of stuff in the floor about like tinder and it caught fire. I jumped up and stomped on it and it aint done nothin but burn faster. Wasnt two minutes the whole car was afire. I run to the door and got it open and we was goin up this grade through the mountains in the snow with the moon on it and it was just blue looking and dead quiet out there and them big old black pine trees going by. I jumped for it and lit in a snowbank and what I'm goin to tell you you'll think peculiar but it's the god's truth. That was in nineteen and thirty one and if I live to be a hunnerd year old I dont think I'll ever see anything as pretty as that train on fire goin up that mountain and around the bend and them flames lightin up the snow and the trees and the night.

 It’s weird being alone in the museum. It’s dark and eerily quiet: Only the after-hours lights are on—just enough to illuminate the hallways and stop you from tripping over your own feet—and the background music that normally plays all the time is shut off. I quickly organize the flashlights and check their batteries, and when I don’t hear Porter walking around, I stare at the phone sitting at the information desk. How many chances come along like this? I pick up the receiver, press the little red button next to the word ALL, and speak into the phone in a low voice. “Paging Porter Roth to the information desk,” I say formally, my voice crackling through the entire lobby and echoing down the corridors. Then I press the button again and add, “While you’re at it, check your shoes to make sure they’re a match, you bastard. By the way, I still haven’t quite forgiven you for humiliating me. It’s going to take a lot more than a kiss and a cookie to make me forget both that and the time you provoked me in the Hotbox.” I’m only teasing, which I hope he knows. I feel a little drunk on all my megaphone power, so I page one more thing: “PS—You look totally hot in those tight-fitting security guard pants tonight, and I plan to get very handsy with you at the movies, so we better sit in the back row.” I hang up the phone and cover my mouth, silently laughing at myself. Two seconds later, Porter’s footfalls pound down Jay’s corridor—Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! He sounds like a T. rex running from Godzilla. He races into the lobby and slides in front of the information desk, grabbing onto the edge to stop himself, wild curls flying everywhere. His grin is enormous. “Whadidya say ’bout where you want to be puttin’ your hands on me?” he asks breathlessly. “I think you have me confused with someone else,” I tease. His head sags against the desk. I push his hair away from one of his eyes. He looks up at me and asks, “You really still haven’t forgiven me?” “Maybe if you put your hands onme, I might.” “Don’t go getting my hopes up like that.” “Oh, your hopes should be up. Way up.” “Dear God, woman,” he murmurs. “And here I was, thinking you were a classy dame.” “Pfft. You don’t know me at all.” “I aim to find out. What are we still doing here? Let’s blow this place and get to the theater, fast.

The Quitter When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child, And Death looks you bang in the eye, And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle To cock your revolver and . . . die. But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can," And self-dissolution is barred. In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow . . . It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard. "You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame. You're young and you're brave and you're bright. "You've had a raw deal!" I know -- but don't squeal, Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight. It's the plugging away that will win you the day, So don't be a piker, old pard! Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit: It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard. It's easy to cry that you're beaten -- and die; It's easy to crawfish and crawl; But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight -- Why, that's the best game of them all! And though you come out of each gruelling bout, All broken and beaten and scarred, Just have one more try -- it's dead easy to die, It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.

Young & Dumb She bit my hand so hard that it drew blood, I think that was the moment I knew true love, She says she loves who I'd be if I grew up, But 'til then could I please keep my shoes on, Cause she says we've still got forever, We're young and dumb and we don't know better - and I don't get her - but I tell her - She'll come around, Well I know, We're up and down - But that won't, mess us around - No no, oh-oh, And this may be jumping in the deep end, But maybe we could watch some TV on the weekend, I'll come to yours maybe we could have some pizzas, Fight about some dumb shit and tell each other secrets, And while you were getting plates and the tea set, I saved time and thought of names for our three kids, But I'll forget them when we argue for no reason, Tease you endlessly but worry 'bout your feelings, Cause she says we've still got forever, We're young and dumb and we don't know better - and I don't get her - but I tell her - She'll come around, Well I know, We're up and down - But that won't, mess us around - No no, oh-oh, oh-oh, And you say that together we make true love, And in time you'll show me what you're made of And I'd be lying if this wasn't a test So get your shit right or I'll give you an f Am I foolish? Is this real? Smashing the tea set to bring you to heel, But who cares? Who knows? Clean this mess up and let's give it a go 'Cause he says we've still got forever, We're young and dumb and we don't know better - and I don't get him - so I tell him He'll come around, Well I know, we're up and down - But that won't, mess us around - No no, oh-oh, Our final straw's still holding fast, Our house of sticks won't blow apart, We laid these bricks on broken hearts, And set a fire in the hearth; And if the wolves don't fear the sparks, Or if I fuck it up my God, I'd rather sit here in the dark, My love, my love Cause she says we've still got forever, We're young and dumb and we don't know better - And I don't get her - but I tell her - No he don't get me but he tells me No I don't get her No he don't get me No I don't get her but I tell her You'll come around, Well I know, We're up and down - But that won't, mess us around - No no, oh-oh,

Fuck you,” Cox shot back. “I miss pussy. Period. I don’t give a fuck what’s packin’ in the back, I just want some goddamn fuckin’ pussy. I’m ’bout ready to blow and fill Kami up with all the fuckin’ spank juice she wants.” “Fuckin’-A,” Ripper said, backing away, looking disgusted. “Keep your Sparky Marky and the Spunky Funk stories to your fuckin’ self.

his decisions in every second he spent fighting not to doze off in lecture, not to mention the long, sluggish walks between buildings as the weather grew steadily colder and the days greyer. Still, he’d thought sparring itself had always woken him up, so Rei was surprised when barely 20 minutes into the last training session with Christopher Lennon, the third year called a halt to their bout. “All right, stop.” Rei, having no way to pause in the massive punch he’d just thrown at the young man’s face, nearly choked as the blow ripped towards Lennon’s eyes. At the last possible moment, though, a dark hand snapped up, sliding fingers between Shido’s claws with impossible precision, taking hold and stopping the fist as absolutely as might a stone wall. The impact was jarring, and Rei actually grunted as the force transferred into the bones of his arm, making them throb. Standing up straight, he pulled the Device away carefully from Lennon’s hand, shaking his wrist out in an attempt to dissipate the lingering ache.

Anger provides the No. 1 difference between a fist-fight and a boxing bout. Anger is an unwelcome guest in any department of boxing. From the first time a chap draws on gloves as a beginner, he is taught to "keep his temper"-never to "lose his head." When a boxer gives way to anger, he becomes a "natural" fighter who tosses science into the bucket. When that occurs in the amateur or professional ring, the lost-head fighter leaves himself open and becomes an easy target for a sharpshooting opponent. Because an angry fighter usually is a helpless fighter in the ring, many prominent professionals-like Abe Attell and the late Kid McCoy- tried to taunt fiery opponents into losing their heads and "opening up." Anger rarely flares in a boxing match. Different, indeed, is the mental condition governing a fist-fight. In that brand of combat, anger invariably is the fuel propelling one or both contestants. And when an angry, berserk chap is whaling away in a fist-fight, he usually forgets all about rules-if he ever knew any. That brings us to difference No. 2: THE REFEREE ENFORCES THE RULES IN A BOXING MATCH; BUT THERE ARE NO OFFICIALS AT A FIST-FIGHT. Since a fist-fight has no supervision, it can develop into a roughhouse affair in which anything goes. There's no one to prevent low blows, butting, kicking, eye-gouging, biting and strangling. When angry fighters fall into a clinch, there's no one to separate them. Wrestling often ensues. A fellow may be thrown to earth, floor, or pavement. He can be hammered when down, or even be "given the boots"- kicked in the faceunless some humane bystander interferes. And you can't count on bystanders. A third difference is this: A FIST-FIGHT IS NOT PRECEDED BY MATCHMAKING. In boxing, matches are made according to weights and comparative abilities. For example, if you're an amateur or professional lightweight boxer, you'll probably be paired off against a chap of approximately your poundage-one who weighs between 126 and 135 pounds. And you'll generally be matched with a fellow whose ability is rated about on a par with your own, to insure an interesting bout and to prevent injury to either. If you boast only nine professional fights, there's little danger of your being tossed in with a top-flighter or a champion.

Ilost my left eye during blades training at assassin school. My twin brother did the deed using a clever feint and a quick crosswise cut that caught me by surprise. “Well, Carmen, that’ll leave a scar,” Corwin had said. Then he’d laughed that snorty, snotty laugh that had grated on my nerves a thousand times since childhood. My vision had been too blurry to aim a cutting blow at him, and I wasn’t certain if I even wanted to. He was the only family I had. And despite his laughter, he may not have known how deep the wound was. He often made a silly joke when he’d done something stupid. But when I stumbled and fell toward the floor, Corwin dropped his blade and caught me. “Aw, sorry, sis,” he said, holding me against his chest. Then the healers rushed in with their bandages and salves and led me to the healing room. Maestru Alesius—my master—soon followed them, bringing the bad news: “You will lose that eye, Carmen.” I was thirteen. I’d been ahead of my brother on the honor roll—the top of the class. I often wondered if a bout of jealousy inspired my blinding. The blades were sharp, but we students weren’t supposed to cut each other—the idea was to keep the mind sharp as well. And I’d love to know where he’d learned the move. I’d never seen it before, and I was better with the sword than him. Did he have a secret teacher? Everything was harder with only one eye—the sword fights, the dagger throws, learning to avoid traps; even the poisons and potions were more difficult to pour. A half-blind assassin was a joke. I was pretty certain my fellow students had chuckled and celebrated as my position on the honor roll slipped. I had the knowledge and the skill. But the patch over my eye meant I had a weakness, and the school trained assassins to exploit weaknesses. I’d have quit, perhaps to be a scullery maid or to work in the massive wheat fields of the Akkad Empire, if only to get away from the other apprentice assassins who had once been beneath me and who now scorned me. I especially wanted to flee from the kinder ones who looked at me with pity. But Maestru Alesius had insisted I stay. “Adversity will toughen your mental bones,” he’d promised. His support and my perseverance had kept me in school. Three years had passed since the incident. Three years of struggling to keep my spot. I was finally sixteen, in my final week of classes. Corwin would graduate at the top of the honor roll. He was the best with bladed weapons, the best at hiding in shadows, the best assassin the school had seen in many years. He may even be better than the legendary Banderius. All the kings, queens, and archons would seek to hire Corwin. Maybe even Emperor Rima himself. I’d be lucky to get hired at all.

Can one ever outgrow the effects of her name, she wonders. Maybe we should have chosen a different one. Maybe things would then be easy. It is after all the earliest label that probably affects the development of you in ways you cannot even imagine. How your name rolls on another’s tongue. How it affects you every time it is said right. How it influences your persona when the a in your name is replaced by the sound of ohm, transforming a lovely day in spring into a bout of bohemian rapture, anxiety and breathlessness all rolled into one. Every pronunciation, right and wrong, like little blows shaping up the form and destiny of you.

Outlaw Prairie Thunder [Verse] This old town's got nothing left, storefronts boarded tight, Once was a place of hope and pride, now lost to endless night. Biden's bowed out gracefully, Kamala's on parade, Trump's stirring up the winds of change, on a roaring train of rage. [Verse 2] Folks around these parts are weary, they’re standing in the sun, Fighting for the scraps they get, wondering if help will come. Saw old man Jenkins cry today, says he can't stand the weight, Bank just took his family farm, he's cursing his cruel fate. [Chorus] Oh, where’s the heart of this country, when our leaders just play the game? Trading blows on TV screens, while we live with loss and pain. Oh, America’s torn at the seams, can’t find trust or grace, In this outlaw prairie thunder, we’re all part of the race. [Verse 3] Mama's working double shifts, just to pay the rent, Daddy's out there driving trucks, all his money's spent. Kids are dreaming 'bout a life, where they ain't gotta fight, These backroads tell a story, of a million restless nights. [Bridge] Brother's in the army now, they sent him overseas, Fighting for a notion, that he barely believes. Sister’s waiting tables, barely getting by, As the politicians holler, and the flags of freedom fly. [Chorus] Oh, where’s the heart of this country, when our leaders just play the game? Trading blows on TV screens, while we live with loss and pain. Oh, America’s torn at the seams, can’t find trust or grace, In this outlaw prairie thunder, we’re all part of the race.

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. What was Michaels saying? Did he know what he was saying? He sounded almost drunk, his words muffled and slurred as those wonderful sentiments were spoken against his ass. Judge’s eyes rolled behind his closed lids as Michaels relaxed his hole in the best way. That tongue was long and thick but he needed more, he wanted more. For the first time in so very long his ass felt hollow and empty, needing so badly to be filled. A fierce shudder racked his body when Michaels buried in as deep as he could, Judge unconsciously pushed his ass back, seeking out at least one more inch. Michaels slapped his damp ass and squeezed it aggressively, rumbling while he ate the hell out of him. Judge was trying hard not to ride that gorgeous face, but it was difficult. A blunt thumb probed at his ass and pushed in right along with Michaels’ tongue and Judge knew he was about to blow. “Ugh. I’ma’ come. Fuck! I’m ‘bout to come!” Michaels pulled back and gripped Judge’s balls at the same time he clamped his fingers around his cock, fending off his orgasm. Judge shook again as his brain caught up and his orgasm receded back into hiding, waiting to be forced out again. Michaels

The unrelenting Panther smacked the whimpering wretch before thrusting an elongated dildo into her prey. The sudden shock sent the slave into a series of jolting spasms. He ejaculated onto his punisher’s 6-inch stilettos. Wham! Another blow landed on the victim’s fiery buttocks, sending him into bouts of torturous orgasms. Under such severe conditions his hardness remained undeterred. He yearned for an encore assault. Both beasts accommodated the slave with dynamic aplomb.

Jack loudly protested against such literal interpretation of his figurative language, and a very pretty bout with fisticuffs was the result,—the innocent kettle ultimately being battered to pieces in the fray. Such is men's justice; in all their quarrels there is always some poor luckless kettle which, sinless itself, gets the blows from each side