Chevelle Quotes

Kiera, will we need diapers? I’m grabbing diapers. We should bring diapers.” Over my shoulder I yelled out, “Kellan! I’m sure the hospital will have some.” He didn’t respond to me, and I was sure the trunk of the Chevelle was going to be loaded with enough diapers to cover the bottoms of half the children in Seattle.

Michael leaned in, his voice turning low and heavy. “And how about me?” I swallowed, still studying my drink. What song described him? What band? That was like trying to pick one food to eat for the rest of your life. “Disturbed,” I said, naming the band and still looking down at the glass. He said nothing. Only remained still before finally sitting back and tipping his drink up to his lips. Butterflies swarmed in my stomach, and I kept my breathing even. “Drowning Pool, Three Days Grace, Five Finger Death Punch,” I continued, “Thousand Foot Krutch, 10 Years, Nothing More, Breaking Benjamin, Papa Roach, Bush…” I paused, exhaling nice and slow despite the way my heart drummed. “Chevelle, Skillet, Garbage, Korn, Trivium, In This Moment…” I drifted off, peace settling over me as I looked up at him. “You’re in everything.

your right I get it it all make sense now, your the perfect person so right so wrong lets all live in your imaginary life.

Drowning Pool, Three Days Grace, Five Finger Death Punch,” I continued, “Thousand Foot Krutch, 10 Years, Nothing More, Breaking Benjamin, Papa Roach, Bush…” I paused, exhaling nice and slow despite the way my heart drummed. “Chevelle, Skillet, Garbage, Korn, Trivium, In This Moment…” I drifted off, peace settling over me as I looked up at him. “You’re in everything.

She stayed out there, staring into the snow until the chevelle's engine noise faded into the distance. He was gone, and she was alone up there, alone and apart from the city so peaceful under it's snowy blanket. The buildings spreading from the edge of her roof were full of people, full of lives. Inside them lovers huddled together against the cold. Inside them families laughed or fought or whatever it was families did together. And here she stood, invisible, trapped, alone. And for the first she can remember alone didn't feel very good. And that was the scariest thing of all.

From his corner office on the ground floor of the St. Cyril station house, Inspector Dick has a fine view of the parking lot. Six Dumpsters plated and hooped like iron maidens against bears. Beyond the Dumpsters a subalpine meadow, and then the snow¬ capped ghetto wall that keeps the Jews at bay. Dick is slouched against the back of his two-thirds-scale desk chair, arms crossed, chin sunk to his chest, star¬ing out the casement window. Not at the mountains or the meadow, grayish green in the late light, tufted with wisps of fog, or even at the armored Dumpsters. His gaze travels no farther than the parking lot—no farther than his 1961 Royal Enfield Crusader. Lands¬man recognizes the expression on Dick's face. It's the expression that goes with the feeling Landsman gets when he looks at his Chevelle Super Sport, or at the face of Bina Gelbfish. The face of a man who feels he was born into the wrong world. A mistake has been made; he is not where he belongs. Every so often he feels his heart catch, like a kite on a telephone wire, on something that seems to promise him a home in the world or a means of getting there. An American car manufactured in his far-off boyhood, say, or a motor¬cycle that once belonged to the future king of England, or the face of a woman worthier than himself of being loved.

It gets old for me, being more capable than the men I attempt to date.

Bullfighting is a horrible sport where a proud, strong animal is teased and tortured until a costumed asshole kills him and cuts off his ears and tail and is cheered by a bloodthirsty crowd. Every once and awhile, the bull gores the matador and kills him. Hats off to the bull.

Vattier, eh?” I thought I heard the stranger mutter under his breath, “Well, you can call me Bonnie Bell.” Chevelle waited unmoved for his response. He finally held his hand out in return. “Steed. Steed Summit.” They shot me a glare as my giggle slipped out. Steed

From outside: “You wanna fuck over my witch? Like playing your games? Then play catch!” Something whistled overhead; the house shook—they all ducked as plaster splattered down from the ceiling. “What the bloody hell was that?” Bowe yelled. “That was Regin,” Nix answered serenely. “She threw a car over us to land on the main Lykae lodge. Lucky thing the lodge is empty. Bowen, she thought the vehicle was yours. But it’s really . . . his.” She pointed delicately at Lachlain, who scowled before flashing a meaningful look at Emma. Bowe grated, “She’s throwing bloody cars?” “See? Not overstating.” Nix rose, smoothly slipped behind the curtains, then shouted out the window, “Bad form, Regin! Wrong car.” Immediately after, the house shook again. “Oh, much better!” Nix assured them. “That was Bowen’s!” Another violent shake of the manor. Nix peaked out from the curtains, wearing them like a nun’s habit. “Who drives a seventy-eight, Chevelle-looking—” “Nix!” Emma said.

I take her towards the back by our old barn and lift the sheet off of my black 1970 Chevelle SS. “Holy crap! Is it yours?” “Yeah, it just needs a little work.” I take out the small flashlight I’d put in my pocket and turn it on so she can see it better.

It's easy to slip into darkness when light seems elusive..." His Pleasures and Pain

Beauregard thought the night sky looked like a painting. Laughter filled the air only to be drowned out by a cacophony of revving engines as the moon slid from behind the clouds. The bass from the sound system in a nearby Chevelle was hitting him in his chest so hard, it felt like someone was performing CPR on him. There were about a dozen other late-model cars parked haphazardly in front of the old convenience store. In addition to the Chevelle, there was a Maverick, two Impalas, a few Camaros and five or six more examples of the heyday of American muscle. The air was cool and filled with the scent of gas and oil. The rich, acrid smell of exhaust fumes and burnt rubber. A choir of crickets and whippoorwills tried in vain to be heard. Beauregard closed his eyes and strained his ears. He could hear them but just barely. They were screaming for love. He thought a lot of people spent a large part of their life doing the same thing. The wind caught the sign hanging above his head from the arm of a pole that extended twenty feet into the air. It creaked as the breeze moved it back and forth. CARTER SPEEDE MART the sign proclaimed in big black letters set against a white background. The sign was beginning to yellow with age. The letters were worn and chipped. The cheap paint flaking away like dried skin. The second “E” had disappeared from the word “SPEEDEE.” Beauregard wondered what had happened to Carter. He wondered if he had disappeared too.

The bass from the sound system in a nearby Chevelle was hitting him in his chest so hard, it felt like someone was performing CPR on him. There were about a dozen other late-model cars parked haphazardly in front of the old convenience store. In addition to the Chevelle, there was a Maverick, two Impalas, a few Camaros and five or six more examples of the heyday of American muscle. The air was cool and filled with the scent of gas and oil.

To breathe used to be another way I'd take you in

That was like trying to pick one food to eat for the rest of your life. “Disturbed,” I said, naming the band and still looking down at the glass. He said nothing. Only remained still before finally sitting back and tipping his drink up to his lips. Butterflies swarmed in my stomach, and I kept my breathing even. “Drowning Pool, Three Days Grace, Five Finger Death Punch,” I continued. “Thousand Foot Krutch, 10 Years, Nothing More, Breaking Benjamin, Papa Roach, Bush . . .” I paused, exhaling nice and slow despite the way my heart drummed. “Chevelle, Skillet, Garbage, Korn, Trivium, In This Moment . . .” I drifted off, peace settling over me as I looked up at him. “You’re in everything.

I’m John Chevelle, Head Correctional Officer of Alabaster Penitentiary. And simply put, I fucking own this place.