Clown In A Cornfield Quotes

I . . .” I’m not your sweetheart, motherfucker.

Quinn looked to the horizon as the cornstalks swayed with the breeze. The corn itself could have been waving hello, or it could have been breathing.

The bones of a nice house were there—the front porch and its deck swing were charming—but what was on those bones . . . damn.

Sometimes déjà vu wasn’t déjà vu. Sometimes it was just the same shit happening again and again until it drove you insane.

Janet shrugged, as if she had no idea why any of her dumbass friends did the dumbass things they did.

It was all pretend horror. Safe horror. There was something to that. Therapeutic screams.

You tell people they’re right, tell ’em what they want to hear, you listen—really listen, not pretend listen—but then the whole time you’re doing that listening, you’re pushing the boundaries forward. Reshaping morality. Drawing a new line in the sand while nobody else is watching, then wiping away the old one. And the whole time you know . . . You know where it’s all leading.

It was an echoing susurrus, reverberating toward them down the elevator shaft. It was an ominous sound. There was a fullness to it that triggered a cascade of pinpricks down the base of Quinn’s neck. The car rose and the fuzzy, amorphous sound resolved into a familiar bassline. And then voices. And then . . . wolves howling? “That’s Thriller,” Quinn said.

My bullshit sense is tingling. Where did you find this, Pete?” “My uncle.” “By any chance an uncle who thinks the president is a lizard person?

Yeah, well, I’ve decided a change will do me good,” Quinn said, not realizing that was the attitude she wanted to take until she’d said it.

Blind anger was just wasted energy.

Standing in the middle of the street, Quinn looked to the horizon, as if she could go on tiptoes and see the Comcast building back home.

FRENDO LIVES.

Hands on the cool ground, beginning to retch, that was when Quinn noticed what was fluttering down around her— Hay? She picked up her hand, stared at her palm in the moonlight, her lifeline cut by a sliver of golden hay.

Enter and Be Blessed. Leave and Be Blessed. His mom had a QVC problem.

Never discount the gullibility of people on the internet, though. Janky production values and all, there were people who believed. Or at least wanted to believe, needed that outrage in their lives like a handrail.

That’s why we didn’t have a choice. If a farmer has fungus or beetles or any other scourge, it spreads if you don’t take steps to eliminate it. Cut and cull. Root out the problem. Burn the whole harvest if you have to, lose the crop to save the land. Then let the field lie fallow for a couple seasons.

Stop actin’ like you’re children. You fight and fuck and drink. You are not children. You grew up too fast.” He paused. “Maybe that’s the cause.

Philly ate its rot, was constantly demolishing the old to make way for the new. Looking at these houses, Quinn was struck with the feeling that Kettle Springs had left its best days behind. The town had given up.

Quinn had met girls like Janet before. Amateur lawyers.

There, painted on the side of the factory, was a clown.

On his laptop screen was a clown. The figure stood stock-still with its feet on the welcome rug.

And the voice she used to remind herself was not her own but Ruston Vance’s. He was her redneck Obi-Wan Kenobi.

That one’s not even a teenager—he’s thirty and stays young by drinking blood!

Please get me a doctor that’s not me.

The fact that history bent toward progress, no matter how hard the assholes tried pushing back.

Hide now. You’re out in the open. Forget your shirt. Fuck your socks. Hide.

Glen – you wouldn’t think it because he was neurotic and excitable even before he’d been kidnapped and forced to be a battlefield surgeon for killer clowns – actually enjoyed haunted houses.