Electrical Funny Quotes

Electricity is actually made up of extremely tiny particles called electrons, that you cannot see with the naked eye unless you have been drinking.

The funny thing about mundies," Jace said, to nobody in particular, "is how obsessed with magic they are for a bunch of people who don't even know what the word means." I know what it means," Clary snapped. No, you don't, you just think you do. Magic is a dark elemental force, not just a lot of sparkly wands and crystal balls and talking goldfish." I never said it was a lot of talking goldfish, you-" Jace waved a hand, cutting her off. "Just because you call an electric eel a rubber duck doesn't make it a rubber duck, does it? And God help the poor bastard who decides they want to take a bath with the duckie.

We weren't Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I was ok with that, I thought. We had things they didn't, too. Like electricity, and refrigerators. And Mario Kart.

With a philosophy education, one can infuriate his peers, intimidate his date, think of obscure, unreliable ways to make money, and never regret a thing.

I claim neither liberalism nor conservatism - one tends to be airheaded while the other tends to be brickheaded.

There, at her console, he dialed 594: pleased acknowledgement of husband's superior wisdom in all matters

The only activity a cynic will find contagious is yawning, that is, with other people, at other people.

The Dimwit's Guide to the Female Mind might assist your efforts in understanding human females. But it must be pointed out that this subject can be a dangerous adventure and should be undertaken with extreme caution. After all, human males have been trying to understand their females for generations, and most of the time they come away from these encounters looking like someone stuck their tails into an electric socket.

I have a secret. A big, fat, hairy secret. And I’m not talking minor-league stuff, like I once let Joseph Applebaum feel me up behind the seventh-grade stairwell or I got a Brazilian wax after work last Friday or I’m hiding a neon blue vibrator called the Electric Slide in my night table. Which I’m not, by the way. In case you were wondering.

When Springsteen meets a future girlfriend on the boardwalk in Asbury Park, he delivers this electric introduction: “She was Italian, funny, a beatific tomboy, with just the hint of a lazy eye, and wore a pair of glasses that made me think of the wonders of the library.

I hear Mr. Palmer tell Hannah that it was an electrical fault. Five arsonists in one school and it ends up being something so technically boring.

We just lost our electricity. You want to tell me what’s so funny about that?” “It’s not exactly funny. It’s more of a good news/bad news situation.” “In that case, hit me with the good news first.” “They’re both sort of rolled up into one.” “Stop stalling.” “All right. Now don’t get mad, but . . .” Smothered laughter drifted toward him. “Cal . . . I’m naked.

So the reason I was struck again and again was because of my overwhelmingly positive energy. Funny, I'd always thought of myself as a pessimist.

Mom always said I was born to sit in the electric chair, but I'm proving her wrong. I'm going to die on my knees, begging for my life.

Great, Alexia thought, I have gone from soul sucker to electrical ground. The epithets just get sweeter and sweeter.

You thought I didn’t notice the way you two looked at each other? I may be old but I’m not blind. I remember that feeling. The spark, the electricity... ” I had to interject before I got the unabridged version of Anjali Does Mumbai.

His hand cups the back of my neck, and before I can think, he dips down and our mouths meet. For a split second I worry that he thinks he's kissing Courtney. But that instant the warmth of his soft lips spreads into mine, all thoughts dissolve. Pure feeling is all I have left. Little electric sparks sip through my bloodstream, making sure every nerve in my body is focused on his amazing mouth.

An idea hit me so fast I didn't pause to analyse it. I just acted. My body might be constrained, but my head and neck had just enough freedom to shift up-and kiss him. My lips met his, and I learned a few things. One was that it was possible to catch him totally by surprise. His body froze and locked up, shocked at the sudden turn of events. I also realized that he was just as good a kisser as I recalled. The last time we'd kissed had been when he was a Strigoi. There had been an eerie sexiness to that, but it didn't compare to the heat and energy of being alive. His lips were just like a remembered from out time at St. Vladimir's, both soft and hungry at the same time. Electricity spread through the rest of my body as he kissed me back. It was both comforting and exhilarating. And that was was the third thing I discovered. He was kissing me back. Maybe, just maybe, Dimitri wasn't as resolved as he claimed to be. Maybe under all that guilt and certainty that he couldn't love again, he still wanted me. I would have liked to have found out. But I didn't have the time. Instead, I punched him.

You even used to make up funny stories about those poor little lost creatures of yours. Remember Bob, the squirrel banker who forgot to pay his electric bill so he froze to death?

Chizpurfle infestations explain the puzzling failure of many relatively new Muggle electrical artifacts.

One thing I will say, they often take it better than a man. Pain, that is. Probably the residue of tolerance from when they were all bloody witches and got stoned or burned or drowned for it, eh lad? Never tell your mother I said that, by the way.

And here we go creating great men out of artisans who happened to have stumbled on a way to improve electrical apparatus or pedal through Sweden on a bicycle! And we solicit great men to write books promoting the cult of other great men! It's really very funny, and worth the price of admission! It will all end up with every village having his own great man - a lawyer, a novelist, and a polar explorer of immense stature! And the world will become wonderfully flat and simple and easy to master . . .

People think it’s harmless. They think it’s funny. That’s why they do it,” I say, trying to ignore the strange shiver where he touched my arm. Must be static electricity. “And sure. I guess it’s harmless until something bad happens. It’s harmless, and then there are security guards at your synagogue because someone called in a bomb threat. It’s harmless, and you’re terrified to get out of bed Saturday morning and go to services.

We probably won’t live long enough to run out of food, or electricity, or anything important.” “Oh, you’ll live,” Murphy said. “I have no doubt.” “Really?” Jerome asked, real curiosity in his voice. “What makes you think I’ll last?” “Because you’re a pussy!

Think about it: Why should we care whether what makes us happy is just an electrical impulse in our brain or something funny that we see some fool do on TV? Does it matter what makes you smile? Wouldn't you rather be happy for no reason than unhappy for good reasons?

From great power comes a great electricity bill.” -- Unknown

First, strangely, the owls had died. At the time it had seemed almost funny, the fat, fluffy white birds lying here and there, in yards and on streets; coming out no earlier than twilight as they had while alive the owls escaped notice.

It's funny how you take things like electricity for granted. You hit the button that turns everything on and it just comes on. You get used to that and it just works every single time. So what happens when it suddenly doesn't? things very well could get messy.

Thanks is part to our education system, we tend to think that we're smarter than the stupid guys in funny wigs who came before us. But that's because we are mistaking technology, progress, and access to information for intelligence. We think that because we know how to use iPhones (but not build them), browse the Internet (but not understand how it works), and use Google (but not really know anything), our educational system is working just great. By the same token, we think that those dumb aristocrats who used horses to get around and didn't have electricity were neanderthals.

Liam... You’re the best. You’re handsome, funny, patient with my fits, a fantastic cook. You taught me how to swim.” Ryan bit his lip, eyes focused on the shadowed face in front of him. “Like, if there was a zombie apocalypse, you’d save me and feed me.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t need some loser with a guitar that wouldn’t even work without electricity. I’d need a real man. The kind that runs into a burning building to save me.

And I like the light-up.” “The what?” “The light-up,” he’d say. “You know, that look people get when they finally realize you’re for real. It’s like electricity. It makes me tingle all over. Like a blanket full of static.” Ew. “Really? I’ve never heard that.” “Yeah, and I like it when people realize we’re out here.” I leaned in close once and asked him, “Do you want your mom to realize you’re out here? Do you want her to know?” “Nah. It took her too long to get over me.” All in all, he was a good kid.

New Rule: Republicans must stop pitting the American people against the government. Last week, we heard a speech from Republican leader Bobby Jindal--and he began it with the story that every immigrant tells about going to an American grocery store for the first time and being overwhelmed with the "endless variety on the shelves." And this was just a 7-Eleven--wait till he sees a Safeway. The thing is, that "endless variety"exists only because Americans pay taxes to a government, which maintains roads, irrigates fields, oversees the electrical grid, and everything else that enables the modern American supermarket to carry forty-seven varieties of frozen breakfast pastry.Of course, it's easy to tear government down--Ronald Reagan used to say the nine most terrifying words in the Englishlanguage were "I'm from the government and I'm here to help." But that was before "I'm Sarah Palin, now show me the launch codes."The stimulus package was attacked as typical "tax and spend"--like repairing bridges is left-wing stuff. "There the liberals go again, always wanting to get across the river." Folks, the people are the government--the first responders who put out fires--that's your government. The ranger who shoos pedophiles out of the park restroom, the postman who delivers your porn.How stupid is it when people say, "That's all we need: the federal government telling Detroit how to make cars or Wells Fargo how to run a bank. You want them to look like the post office?"You mean the place that takes a note that's in my hand in L.A. on Monday and gives it to my sister in New Jersey on Wednesday, for 44 cents? Let me be the first to say, I would be thrilled if America's health-care system was anywhere near as functional as the post office.Truth is, recent years have made me much more wary of government stepping aside and letting unregulated private enterprise run things it plainly is too greedy to trust with. Like Wall Street. Like rebuilding Iraq.Like the way Republicans always frame the health-care debate by saying, "Health-care decisions should be made by doctors and patients, not government bureaucrats," leaving out the fact that health-care decisions aren't made by doctors, patients, or bureaucrats; they're made by insurance companies. Which are a lot like hospital gowns--chances are your gas isn't covered.

A pen is more personal and that gives me some control over it—a feeling of power as the words flow with the electric thrill that runs down my arm, through my fingers and onto the clean white page. It is a sensuous act, writing by hand. The feel of the paper, as my hand glides over it, its touch, and its texture. The flow of ink, the gliding motion of the pen, the letters themselves as they appear as if by magic in my individual script. No two people have the same handwriting. Your character, your personality is revealed the minute you put pen to paper. I'm

K, boys, it’s shirts against skins. Lose ‘em,” Lucy said, pointing to the guys and ignoring Thad. “I beg your pardon?” Thad said, aghast. “Why do we have to be skins?” Josh complained. Lucy looked at Erin and they both shrugged and grabbed the hems of their shirts, preparing to haul them over their heads. “Whoa!” Sable said, covering his eyes immediately. “Wait,” Josh, Angelo, and Thad said at the same time. “Hell, yeah,” Blaze chimed in. The girls stopped right before they fully exposed their chest. “What? You guys act like none of you have ever seen a pair of boobs in a bra before. Josh saw mine a few hours ago and I know, for a fact, that three of you have seen hers outside the bra.” Lucy looked pointedly at Thad, Blaze, and Angelo. Erin’s head snapped in Josh’s direction. “JOSH!” she screeched, accidentally letting loose a snap of electricity.

You heard me. Let someone else send you to your blaze of glory. You're a speck, man. You're nothing. You're not worth the bullet or the mark on my soul for taking you out." You trying to piss me off again, Patrick?" He removed Campbell Rawson from his shoulder and held him aloft. I tilted my wrist so the cylinder fell into my palm, shrugged. "You're a joke, Gerry. I'm just calling it like I see it." That so?" Absolutely." I met his hard eyes with my own. "And you'll be replaced, just like everything else, in maybe a week, tops. Some other dumb, sick shit will come along and kill some people and he'll be all over the papers, and all over Hard Copy and you'll be yesterday's news. Your fifteen minutes are up, Gerry. And they've passed without impact." They'll remember this," Gerry said. "Believe me." Gerry clamped back on the trigger. When he met my finger, he looked at me and then clamped down so hard that my finger broke. I depressed the trigger on the one-shot and nothing happened. Gerry shrieked louder, and the razor came out of my flesh, then swung back immediately, and I clenched my eyes shut and depressed the trigger frantically three times. And Gerry's hand exploded. And so did mine. The razor hit the ice by my knee as I dropped the one shot and fire roared up the electrical tape and gasoline on Gerry's arm and caught the wisps of Danielle's hair. Gerry threw his head back and opened his mouth wide and bellowed in ecstasy. I grabbed the razor, could barely feel it because the nerves in my hand seemed to have stopped working. I slashed into the electric tape at the end of the shotgun barrel, and Danielle dropped away toward the ice and rolled her head into the frozen sand. My broken finger came back out of the shotgun and Gerry swung the barrels toward my head. The twin shotgun bores arced through the darkness like eyes without mercy or soul, and I raised my head to meet them, and Gerry's wail filled my ears as the fire licked at his neck. Good-bye, I thought. Everyone. It's been nice. Oscar's first two shots entered the back of Gerry's head and exited through the center of his forehead and a third punched into his back. The shotgun jerked upward in Gerry's flaming arm and then the shots came from the front, several at once, and Gerry spun like a marionette and pitched toward the ground. The shotgun boomed twice and punched holes through the ice in front of him as he fell. He landed on his knees and, for a moment, I wasn't sure if he was dead or not. His rusty hair was afire and his head lolled to the left as one eye disappeared in flames but the other shimmered at me through waves of heat, and an amused derision shone in the pupil. Patrick, the eye said through the gathering smoke, you still know nothing. Oscar rose up on the other side of Gerry's corpse, Campbell Rawson clutched tight to his massive chest as it rose and fell with great heaving breaths. The sight of it-something so soft and gentle in the arms of something so thick and mountaineous-made me laugh. Oscar came out of the darkness toward me, stepped around Gerry's burning body, and I felt the waves of heat rise toward me as the circle of gasoline around Gerry caught fire. Burn, I thought. Burn. God help me, but burn. Just after Oscar stepped over the outer edge of the circle, it erupted in yellow flame, and I found myself laughing harder as he looked at it, not remotely impressed. I felt cool lips smack against my ear, and by the time I looked her way, Danielle was already past me, rushing to take her child from Oscar. His huge shadow loomed over me as he approached, and I looked up at him and he held the look for a long moment. How you doing, Patrick?" he said and smiled broadly. And, behind him, Gerry burned on the ice. And everything was so goddamned funny for some reason, even though I knew it wasn't. I knew it wasn't. I did. But I was still laughing when they put me in the ambulance.

Don't listen to him," Thalia interjects. "Our court is more civilized than whatever happens on land." "Tell that to the guy stuck to the ship with electric tape." Kurt points a finger at Marty. "I don't know who you are. I assume you're part of the peace treaty, but I will not have you besmirch the king on our own land." "Whoa, easy. I kid. I joke. I make funnies.

Tell me the story," said Fenchurch firmly. "You arrived at the station." "I was about twenty minutes early. I'd got the time of the train wrong." "Get on with it." Fenchurch laughed. "So I bought a newspaper, to do the crossword, and went to the buffet to get a cup of coffee." "You do the crossword?" "Yes." "Which one?" "The Guardian usually." "I think it tries to be too cute. I prefer The Times. Did you solve it?" "What?" "The crossword in the Guardian." "I haven't had a chance to look at it yet," said Arthur, "I'm still trying to buy the coffee." "All right then. Buy the coffee." "I'm buying it. I am also," said Arthur, "buying some biscuits." "What sort?" "Rich Tea." "Good Choice." "I like them. Laden with all these new possessions, I go and sit at a table. And don't ask me what the table was like because this was some time ago and I can't remember. It was probably round." "All right." "So let me give you the layout. Me sitting at the table. On my left, the newspaper. On my right, the cup of coffee. In the middle of the table, the packet of biscuits." "I see it perfectly." "What you don't see," said Arthur, "because I haven't mentioned him yet, is the guy sitting at the table already. He is sitting there opposite me." "What's he look like?" "Perfectly ordinary. Briefcase. Business suit. He didn't look," said Arthur, "as if he was about to do anything weird." "Ah. I know the type. What did he do?" "He did this. He leaned across the table, picked up the packet of biscuits, tore it open, took one out, and..." "What?" "Ate it." "What?" "He ate it." Fenchurch looked at him in astonishment. "What on earth did you do?" "Well, in the circumstances I did what any red-blooded Englishman would do. I was compelled," said Arthur, "to ignore it." "What? Why?" "Well, it's not the sort of thing you're trained for is it? I searched my soul, and discovered that there was nothing anywhere in my upbringing, experience or even primal instincts to tell me how to react to someone who has quite simply, calmly, sitting right there in front of me, stolen one of my biscuits." "Well, you could..." Fenchurch thought about it. "I must say I'm not sure what I would have done either. So what happened?" "I stared furiously at the crossword," said Arthur. "Couldn't do a single clue, took a sip of coffee, it was too hot to drink, so there was nothing for it. I braced myself. I took a biscuit, trying very hard not to notice," he added, "that the packet was already mysteriously open..." "But you're fighting back, taking a tough line." "After my fashion, yes. I ate a biscuit. I ate it very deliberately and visibly, so that he would have no doubt as to what it was I was doing. When I eat a biscuit," Arthur said, "it stays eaten." "So what did he do?" "Took another one. Honestly," insisted Arthur, "this is exactly what happened. He took another biscuit, he ate it. Clear as daylight. Certain as we are sitting on the ground." Fenchurch stirred uncomfortably. "And the problem was," said Arthur, "that having not said anything the first time, it was somehow even more difficult to broach the subject a second time around. What do you say? "Excuse me...I couldn't help noticing, er..." Doesn't work. No, I ignored it with, if anything, even more vigor than previously." "My man..." "Stared at the crossword, again, still couldn't budge a bit of it, so showing some of the spirit that Henry V did on St. Crispin's Day..." "What?" "I went into the breach again. I took," said Arthur, "another biscuit. And for an instant our eyes met." "Like this?" "Yes, well, no, not quite like that. But they met. Just for an instant. And we both looked away. But I am here to tell you," said Arthur, "that there was a little electricity in the air. There was a little tension building up over the table. At about this time." "I can imagine.

Curran smiled. “What’s so funny?” “Your panties have a bow,” he said. I looked down. I was wearing a short tank top—not mine—and my blue panties with a narrow white strip of lace at the top and a tiny white bow. Would it have killed me to check what I was wearing before I pulled the blanket down? “What’s wrong with bows?” “Nothing.” He was grinning now. “I expected barbed wire. Or one of those steel chains.” Wiseass. “I’m secure enough in myself to wear panties with bows on them. Besides, they are comfy and soft.” “I bet.” He almost purred. I gulped. Okay, I needed to either crawl back into bed and cover myself with the blanket or get the hell to the bathroom and back. Since I didn’t fancy peeing on myself, the bathroom was my only option. “I don’t suppose you’d mind giving me a bit of privacy for my trip?” “Not a chance,” he said. I tried to get off the bed. Everything was under control until my weight actually hit my legs and then the room decided to crawl sideways. Curran caught me. His arm hugged my back, his touch sending an electric shiver along my skin. Oh no. “Need some help, ass kicker?” “I’m fine, thanks.” I pushed away from him. He held on to me for a second, letting me know that he could restrain me against my will with laughable ease, and let go. I clenched my teeth. Enjoy it while it lasts. I’ll be back on my feet soon. I walked away from him, successfully maintaining vertical position, and zeroed in on the nearest door. “That’s the closet.

She was convinced the country was about to succumb to revolutionary socialism. Her own circumstances encouraged this belief: just on the edge of the really rich country set, she shared their views and opinions but lacked the financial and architechtural insulation from real or imagined political troubles. She found crushed larger cans and cigarette packets in her front garden and interpreted these as menacing signals from the Perthshire proletariat. Every flicker and dim of electric light was a portent of class war.

What did I do now?” He reluctantly pulled the car the curb. I needed to get out of this car – like now. I couldn’t breathe. I unbuckled and flung open the door. “Thanks for the ride. Bye.” I slammed the door shut and began down the sidewalk. Behind me, I heard the engine turn off and his door open and shut. I quickened my stride as James jogged up to me. I slowed down knowing I couldn’t escape his long legs anyway. Plus, I didn’t want to get home all sweaty and have to explain myself. “What happened?” James asked, matching my pace. “Leave me alone!” I snapped back. I felt his hand grab my elbow, halting me easily. “Stop,” he ordered. Damn it, he’s strong! “What are you pissed about now?” He towered over me. I was trapped in front of him, if he tugged a bit, I’d be in his embrace. “It’s so funny huh? I’m that bad? I’m a clown, I’m so funny!” I jerked my arm, trying to break free of his grip. “Let me go!” “No!” He squeezed tighter, pulling me closer. “Leave me alone!” I spit the words like venom, pulling my arm with all my might. “What’s your problem?” James demanded loudly. His hand tightened on my arm with each attempt to pull away. My energy was dwindling and I was mentally exhausted. I stopped jerking my arm back, deciding it was pointless because he was too strong; there was no way I could pull my arm back without first kneeing him in the balls. We were alone, standing in the dark of night in a neighborhood that didn’t see much traffic. “Fireball?” he murmured softly. “What?” I replied quietly, defeated. Hesitantly, he asked, “Did I say something to make you sad?” I wasn’t going to mention the boyfriend thing; there was no way. “Yes,” I whimpered. That’s just great, way to sound strong there, now he’ll have no reason not to pity you! “I’m sorry,” came his quiet reply. Well maybe ‘I’m sorry’ just isn’t good enough. The damage is already done! “Whatever.” “What can I do to make it all better?” “There’s nothing you could–” I began but was interrupted by him pulling me against his body. His arms encircled my waist, holding me tight. My arms instinctively bent upwards, hands firmly planted against his solid chest. Any resentment I had swiftly melted away as something brand new took its place: pleasure. Jesus! “What do you think you’re doing?” I asked him softly; his face was only a few inches from mine. “What do you think you’re doing?” James asked back, looking down at my hands on his chest. I slowly slid my arms up around his neck. I can’t believe I just did that! “That’s better.” Our bodies were plastered against one another; I felt a new kind of nervousness touch every single inch of my body, it prickled electrically. “James,” I murmured softly. “Fireball,” he whispered back. “What do you think you’re doing?” I repeated; my brain felt frozen. My heart had stopped beating a mile a minute instead issuing slow, heavy beats. James uncurled one of his arms from my waist and trailed it along my back to the base of my neck, holding it firmly yet delicately. Blood rushed to the very spot he was holding, heat filled my eyes as I stared at him. “What are you doing?” My bewilderment was audible in the hush. I wasn’t sure I had the capacity to speak anymore. That function had fled along with the bitch. Her replacement was a delicate flower that yearned to be touched and taken care of. I felt his hand shift on my neck, ever so slightly, causing my head to tilt up to him. Slowly, inch by inch, his face descended on mine, stopping just a breath away from my trembling lips. I wanted it. Badly. My lips parted a fraction, letting a thread of air escape. “Can I?” His breath was warm on my lips. Fuck it! “Yeah,” I whispered back. He closed the distance until his lush lips covered mine. My first kiss…damn! His lips moved softly over mine. I felt his grip on my neck squeeze as his lips pressed deeper into

Take the famous slogan on the atheist bus in London … “There’s probably no God. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life.” … The word that offends against realism here is “enjoy.” I’m sorry—enjoy your life? Enjoy your life? I’m not making some kind of neo-puritan objection to enjoyment. Enjoyment is lovely. Enjoyment is great. The more enjoyment the better. But enjoyment is one emotion … Only sometimes, when you’re being lucky, will you stand in a relationship to what’s happening to you where you’ll gaze at it with warm, approving satisfaction. The rest of the time, you’ll be busy feeling hope, boredom, curiosity, anxiety, irritation, fear, joy, bewilderment, hate, tenderness, despair, relief, exhaustion … This really is a bizarre category error. But not necessarily an innocent one … The implication of the bus slogan is that enjoyment would be your natural state if you weren’t being “worried” by us believer … Take away the malignant threat of God-talk, and you would revert to continuous pleasure, under cloudless skies. What’s so wrong with this, apart from it being total bollocks? … Suppose, as the atheist bus goes by, that you are the fifty-something woman with the Tesco bags, trudging home to find out whether your dementing lover has smeared the walls of the flat with her own shit again. Yesterday when she did it, you hit her, and she mewled till her face was a mess of tears and mucus which you also had to clean up. The only thing that would ease the weight on your heart would be to tell the funniest, sharpest-tongued person you know about it: but that person no longer inhabits the creature who will meet you when you unlock the door. Respite care would help, but nothing will restore your sweetheart, your true love, your darling, your joy. Or suppose you’re that boy in the wheelchair, the one with the spasming corkscrew limbs and the funny-looking head. You’ve never been able to talk, but one of your hands has been enough under your control to tap out messages. Now the electrical storm in your nervous system is spreading there too, and your fingers tap more errors than readable words. Soon your narrow channel to the world will close altogether, and you’ll be left all alone in the hulk of your body. Research into the genetics of your disease may abolish it altogether in later generations, but it won’t rescue you. Or suppose you’re that skanky-looking woman in the doorway, the one with the rat’s nest of dreadlocks. Two days ago you skedaddled from rehab. The first couple of hits were great: your tolerance had gone right down, over two weeks of abstinence and square meals, and the rush of bliss was the way it used to be when you began. But now you’re back in the grind, and the news is trickling through you that you’ve fucked up big time. Always before you’ve had this story you tell yourself about getting clean, but now you see it isn’t true, now you know you haven’t the strength. Social services will be keeping your little boy. And in about half an hour you’ll be giving someone a blowjob for a fiver behind the bus station. Better drugs policy might help, but it won’t ease the need, and the shame over the need, and the need to wipe away the shame. So when the atheist bus comes by, and tells you that there’s probably no God so you should stop worrying and enjoy your life, the slogan is not just bitterly inappropriate in mood. What it means, if it’s true, is that anyone who isn’t enjoying themselves is entirely on their own. The three of you are, for instance; you’re all three locked in your unshareable situations, banged up for good in cells no other human being can enter. What the atheist bus says is: there’s no help coming … But let’s be clear about the emotional logic of the bus’s message. It amounts to a denial of hope or consolation, on any but the most chirpy, squeaky, bubble-gummy reading of the human situation. St Augustine called this kind of thing “cruel optimism” fifteen hundred years ago, and it’s still cruel.

Yet in 2012, he returned. Plenty of the speechwriters were livid. The club was the embodiment of everything we had promised to change. Was it really necessary to flatter these people, just because they were powerful and rich? In a word, yes. In fact, thanks to the Supreme Court, the rich were more powerful than ever. In 2010, the court’s five conservative justices gutted America’s campaign finance laws in the decision known as Citizens United. With no more limits to the number of attack ads they could purchase, campaigns had become another hobby for the ultrawealthy. Tired of breeding racehorses or bidding on rare wines at auction? Buy a candidate instead! I should make it clear that no one explicitly laid out a strategy regarding the dinner. I never asked point-blank if we hoped to charm billionaires into spending their billions on something other than Mitt Romney’s campaign. That said, I knew it couldn’t hurt. Hoping to mollify the one-percenters in the audience, I kept the script embarrassingly tame. I’ve got about forty-five more minutes on the State of the Union that I’d like to deliver tonight. I am eager to work with members of Congress to be entertaining tonight. But if Congress is unwilling to cooperate, I will be funny without them. Even for a politician, this was weak. But it apparently struck the right tone. POTUS barely edited the speech. A few days later, as a reward for a job well done, Favs invited me to tag along to a speechwriting-team meeting with the president. I had not set foot in the Oval Office since my performance of the Golden Girls theme song. On that occasion, President Obama remained behind his desk. For larger gatherings like this one, however, he crossed the room to a brown leather armchair, and the rest of us filled the two beige sofas on either side. Between the sofas was a coffee table. On the coffee table sat a bowl, which under George W. Bush had contained candy but under Obama was full of apples instead. Hence the ultimate Oval Office power move: grab an apple at the end of a meeting, polish it on your suit, and take a casual chomp on your way out the door. I would have sooner stuck my finger in an electrical socket. Desperate not to call attention to myself, I took the seat farthest away and kept my eyes glued to my laptop. I allowed myself just one indulgence: a quick peek at the Emancipation Proclamation. That’s right, buddy. Look who’s still here. It was only at the very end of the meeting, as we rose from the surprisingly comfy couches, that Favs brought up the Alfalfa dinner. The right-wing radio host Laura Ingraham had been in the audience, and she was struck by the president’s poise. “She was talking about it this morning,” Favs told POTUS. “She said, ‘I don’t know if Mitt Romney can beat him.

In better times, we're celebrate Christmas Eve by attending the nativity play at the Catholic church down the road, watching Joseph and Mary and Baby Jesus try to escape from Herod's soldiers and their wooden swords and AK-47s (it wasn't the most accurate version, but it was funny.)

Hey,” he said. She turned around and, as quickly, turned back. There had been tears on her face. He frowned. What was this? Trouble in paradise? “Hey,” he said, walking up behind her, squeezing her upper arm with his left hand. “What’s going on?” he asked her. “Nothing,” she said with a sniff. He turned her around to face him. He looked down at her pretty face and for the hundredth time thought, that damn Preacher. I bet he doesn’t know what he has here. “This isn’t nothing,” he said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “I can’t talk about it,” she said. “Sure you can. Seems like maybe you’d better. You’re all upset.” “I’ll work it out.” “Preacher do something to hurt you?” She immediately started to cry and leaned forward, her head falling on his chest. He put his good arm around her and said, “Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay.” “It’s not okay,” she cried. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.” “Maybe if you talk to me, I can help. I’m so good with free advice, you’ll be impressed.” “It’s just that...I care about him. But he just doesn’t find me...” Mike lifted her chin. “What, Paige?” “He doesn’t find me attractive.” “Bull.” “Desirable.” “Paige, that’s nonsense. The way he looks at you, he eats you with his eyes. He’s wacko for you.” “He won’t touch me,” she said, a large tear spilling over. That almost knocked Mike down. “No way.” She nodded pathetically. “Oh, man,” Mike said. He’d thought, everyone thought, they were doing it all night long. The way they looked at each other, like they couldn’t wait for everyone to leave so they could be alone, get it on. Those sweet little kisses on the cheek, the forehead. The way they touched—careful, so no one would see the sparks fly, but the sparks were flying all over this bar! The sexual tension was electric. “Oh, man,” he said again. He put his arm around her. “Paige, he wants you. Wants you so bad it’s showing all over him.” “Then why?” “I don’t know, honey. Preacher’s strange. He’s never been good with women, you know? When we served together, we all managed to find us a woman somewhere. I killed two marriages that way. But not Preacher. It was very rare for him to—” He stopped himself. He was trying to remember—were there women at all? He wasn’t sure; he knew Preacher never had a steady girl. He thought he remembered a woman here, there. It’s not as though he was focused on Preacher’s love life; he was too busy taking care of his own. He probably lacks sexual confidence, Mike thought. It would be hard for him to put the moves on anyone he felt he had to win over. “I bet he’s scared,” Mike heard himself say. “How can he be? I’ve practically thrown myself at him! He knows he isn’t going to face rejection!” She dropped her gaze, lowered her voice to a whisper. “He has to know how much I—” “Oh, brother,” Mike said. “I bet he’s not worried about rejection. Aw, Paige, Preacher’s so shy, sometimes it’s just plain ridiculous. But I promise you, Paige, I’ve known the man a long time—” “He said he’d trust you with his life. That he has...” “Yeah, we have that, it’s true. It’s funny with men—you can trust each other with your lives and never talk about anything personal, you know? Sometimes Preacher seems a little naive in the ways of the world.

Meredith Etherington-Smith Meredith Etherington-Smith became an editor of Paris Vogue in London and GQ magazine in the United States during the 1970s. During the 1980s, she served as deputy and features editor of Harpers & Queen magazine and has since become a leading art critic. Currently, she is editor in chief of Christie’s magazine. She is also a noted artist biographer; her book on Salvador Dali, The Persistence of Memory, was an international bestseller and was translated into a dozen languages. Her drawing room that morning was much like any comfortable, slightly formal drawing room to be found in country houses throughout England: the paintings, hung on pale yellow walls, were better; the furniture, chintz-covered; the flowers, natural garden bouquets. It was charming. And so was she, as she swooped in from a room beyond. I had never seen pictures of her without any makeup, with just-washed hair and dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. She looked more vital, more beautiful, than any photograph had ever managed to convey. She was, in a word, staggering; here was the most famous woman in the world up close, relaxed, funny, and warm. The tragic Diana, the royal Diana, the wronged Diana: a clever, interesting person who wasn’t afraid to say she didn’t know how an auction sale worked, and would it be possible to work with me on it? “Of course, ma’am,” I said. “It’s your sale, and if you would like, then we’ll work on it together to make the most money we can for your charities.” “So what do we do next?” she asked me. “First, I think you had better choose the clothes for sale.” The next time I saw her drawing room, Paul Burrell, her butler, had wheeled in rack after rack of jeweled, sequined, embroidered, and lacy dresses, almost all of which I recognized from photographs of the Princess at some state event or gala evening. The visible relics of a royal life that had ended. The Princess, in another pair of immaculately pressed jeans and a stripy shirt, looked so different from these formal meringues that it was almost laughable. I think at that point the germ of an idea entered my mind: that sometime, when I had gotten to know her better and she trusted me, I would like to see photographs of the “new” Princess Diana--a modern woman unencumbered by the protocol of royal dress. Eventually, this idea led to putting together the suite of pictures of this sea-change princess with Mario Testino. I didn’t want her to wear jewels; I wanted virtually no makeup and completely natural hair. “But Meredith, I always have people do my hair and makeup,” she explained. “Yes ma’am, but I think it is time for a change--I want Mario to capture your speed, and electricity, the real you and not the Princess.” She laughed and agreed, but she did turn up at the historic shoot laden with her turquoise leather jewel boxes. We never opened them. Hair and makeup took ten minutes, and she came out of the dressing room looking breathtaking. The pictures are famous now; they caused a sensation at the time. My favorite memory of Princess Diana is when I brought the work prints round to Kensington Palace for her to look at. She was so keen to see them that she raced down the stairs and grabbed them. She went silent for a moment or two as she looked at these vivid, radiant images. Then she turned to me and said, “But these are really me. I’ve been set free and these show it. Don’t you think,” she asked me, “that I look a bit like Marilyn Monroe in some of them?” And laughed.

It has been suggested that the most exciting phrase to hear in science is not “Eureka” but rather “That’s funny.

Until this night, this awful night, he’d had a little joke about himself. He didn’t know who he was, or where he’d come from, but he knew what he liked. And what he liked was all around him-the flower stands on the corners, the big steel and glass buildings filled with milky evening light, the trees, of course, the grass beneath his feet. And the telephones-it didn’t matter. He liked to figure them out, master them, then crush them into tiny hard multicolored balls which he could then juggle or toss through plate glass windows when nobody was about. He liked piano music, the motion pictures, and the poems he found in books. He also liked the automobiles that burnt oil from the earth like lamps. And the great jet planes that flew on the same scientific principles, above the clouds. He always stopped and listened to the people laughing and talking up there when one of the people laughing and talking up there when one of the planes flew overhead. Driving was an extraordinary pleasure. In a silver Mercedes-Benz, he had sped on smooth empty roads from Rome to Florence to Venice in one night. He also liked television-the entire electric process of it, with tiny bits of lights. How soothing it was to have the company of the television, the intimacy with so many artfully painted faces speaking to you in friendship from the glowing screen. The rock and roll, he liked that too. He liked the music. He liked the Vampire Lestat singing “Requiem for the Marquise”. He didn’t pay attention to the words much. It was the melancholy and the dark undertone of drums and cymbals. Made him want to dance. He liked the giant yellow machines that dug into the earth late at night in the big cities with men in uniforms, crawling all over them; he liked the double-decker buses of London, and the people-the clever mortals everywhere-he liked, too, of course. He liked walking in Damascus during the evening, and seeing in sudden flashes of disconnected memory the city of the ancients. Romans, Greeks, Persians, Egyptians in these streets. He liked the libraries where he could find photographs of ancient monuments in big smooth good-smelling books. He took his own photographs of the new cities around him and sometimes he could put images on those pictures which came from his thoughts. For example, in his photograph of Rome there were Roman people in tunics and sandals superimposed upon the modern versions in their thick ungraceful clothes. Oh, yes, much to like around him always-the violin music of Bartók, little girls in snow white dresses coming out of the church at midnight having sung at the Christmas mass. He liked the blood of his victims too, of course. That went without saying. It was no part of his little joke. Death was not funny to him. He stalked his prey in silence; he didn’t want to know his victims. All a mortal had to do was speak to him and he was turned away. Not proper, as he saw it, to talk to these sweet, soft-eyed things and then gobble their blood, break their bones and lick the marrow, squeeze their limbs to dripping pulp. And that was the way he feasted now, so violently. He felt no great need for blood anymore; but he wanted it. And the desire overpowered him in all its ravening purity, quite apart from the thirst. He could have feasted upon three or four mortals a night.

Kylie moved in close to Perry. "Don't screw it up, now," she whispered. Perry, anger oozing from his pores, continued to stare at Todd. Kylie could feel the electricity start to buzz and hum around the shape-shifter. "Don't do it," Kylie repeated in a whisper. Perry looked back at Burnett, then at Kylie, and then back at Miranda. "I'll see you tomorrow night," he said, but his tone was so tight, Kylie knew what it cost him to keep his composure. Then he turned around, transformed himself into his favorite bird, and flew up, making tight circles around them. Della leaned over to Kylie. "He's going to crap on Todd's car, just watch!" Kylie did watch and hoped Della was wrong. Okay, it would have been really funny, because as big of a bird as Perry was, that would have been a lot of crap, but Kylie didn't think it would impress Miranda. And that, she realized, was what this had been all about. Still, Kylie didn't relax until Perry changed directions and flew back toward the woods.

Bet you never thought I’d save your skin.” “What?” “Just makin’ small talk. Got to distract myself from the pain, y’know? Life has a funny way of workin’ out, don’t it? Take your friend, for example. The sword-lady.” “Tanith?” “First time we met, we were tryin’ to kill each other, remember that? But every time subsequent to that there’s been a kind of a frisson between us.” “A what?” “Frisson. It’s French for … To be honest I don’t really know what it’s French for, but I know what it means in American. A sort of electrical undercurrent of emotion.” “I know what frisson means, but I really don’t think Tanith would share your view.” “You’re a kid. You don’t know the ways of menfolk and womenkind. All those threats she fires my way? That there is the mark of flirtation.” “Oh, dear God,” Valkyrie said, the colour draining from her face. “You fancy Tanith.” “I don’t fancy her, I—” “You have a crush on Tanith. That is disgusting.” “What? Why would it be disgustin’?” “Because you’re a hired killer.” “That don’t make it disgustin’, just makes it … unusual. Does she talk about me? “Somebody shoot me.” “What does she say? I’m a formidable foe, right? Does she say anythin’ in a kind of a more … wistful voice?” “I don’t want to talk about this.” “Does she ever say, ‘If only he were good …’?” “Stop your talking. Stop it right now. Stop it. She has a boyfriend.” His face fell. “Someone I know?” he asked morosely. “He may have punched you a few times, yes.” “She’s not … She’s not datin’ the skeleton, is she? How would that be even possible, let alone … nice? He’s got no skin, or lips, or … or nothin’. And he talks. Good God, he talks and he never shuts up.” “It’s not Skulduggery.” “Well then, who else could it …? It’s not the ugly fella, is it? It couldn’t be the ugly fella.” “Don’t call him ugly.” “It is him! But he’s all scars! I mean, I know I ain’t got no eyes, but once you get past that, you got my face. And my face is all right. Better’n his. His is a mess, like he was dropped head first into a blender as a kid. Seriously? She’s with him?” “Seriously, and you’re not going to break them up. Not because you won’t try, but because you won’t be able to. Look, are you ready yet? Can we move now?” “I’m ready,” he snapped. “But this conversation stays between us, understand? My romancin’ ain’t gonna work if she knows it’s comin’.” “Believe me, I never want to speak to anyone about this ever again.

Have we got any lamps? I've grown so accustomed to having electricity in the flat that I completely forgot.' 'All taken care of, my lady,' I said. 'Lamps, oil, candles, matches... all in that tea chest over there.' 'What would I do without you?' I thought for a moment. 'Starve to death, my lady. In the dark.

Today, It is Halloween and you and your friends decide to go to a nearby haunted house. You are kind of scared once you are inside. The room is too dark and you seek a light source. You notice a light switch and try to turn it on, but the power is out. You are horrified, but do not have any choice- except to follow the long hallway to the three doors in the block. Behind one door is a cauldron, heating with flesh-melting oil. Behind another door is an electric chair which you must sit in. Behind the last door is a pool full of piranhas. You must go to one of the rooms to the danger. Which one would you choose to go through?

In Science don't confound Normal static electricity To ecstatic eccentricity. Here is what I found: Electric charges As they rise up your hair In contrast with a discharge, Rarity leaves you up in the air!

I know you are, and I know you don’t even have to do what you’ve been doing. So thank you, but could you just humor me, and help me pick out a color? Please?” “Sure,” he said softly, and didn’t bother standing as he crawled over to the mattress. His brow drew together as he studied the different colors, and picked them up individually, before picking up two at a time and setting one aside. I laughed softly and raised my hands in surrender when he glared at me. “This one.” He dropped the electric blue polish in my lap and sat back but stayed close to the mattress. “You’re trying to turn me into a girl,” he grumbled and ran his hands through his shaggy hair. “Um, not? You just have to put up with me because you signed up for the job of taking care of me. Lucky you.” He grunted and watched as I started with my toes first, and then made my way to my fingernails. “You having fun watching me?” “I wouldn’t say fun is the right word, but it’s something to do. And your concentration face is cute.” Rolling my eyes, I let the cute slide, even though I would have normally punched Mason’s or Kash’s arm if they had called anything I did cute. Not now, though. I’d take the cute title and wear it proudly if it meant being near them. Funny

Would you care to share with the rest of the class what is so funny?” Madison gulped. Ms. Healy was staring hard at Madison’s PalmPilot, which was absolutely forbidden in class, along with cell phones, CD players, and any other distracting electrical equipment. Madison instantly started vamping. “Well, Ms. Healy, I was just musing on how ridiculous a scarlet would be today, and who would have to wear one--senators, actors, teachers, even a few of our presidents. In fact, there would probably be more people wearing the scarlet letter than not wearing it.” Ms. Healy’s cold blue eyes looked huge through her extra-magnified glasses. “This is funny?” Madison swallowed hard. “I guess it’s really more ironic, wouldn’t you say?” Ms. Healy, who knew Madison as a straight-A, straight-shooter kind of student, softened a little. “‘Ironic’ is indeed the perfect word for it,” she said with a brisk nod. “Now put the personal digital assistance away and pay attention, Ms. McKay.” As Ms. Healy walked back to the front of the room, Henry Cooney, Madison’s partner in chem lab, mouthed the words, “Nice save.” Madison wiped some imaginary sweat off her forehead with her hand and tried to focus once again on the lecture. She forced herself to keep her eyes glued to Ms. Healy and soon found herself wondering what had turned the teacher into such an old grump. She was clearly smart and sometimes very funny, in a droll sort of way. Take away those awful glasses, let her hair out of that tight metal barrette at her neck, and Ms. Healy could almost be considered attractive. Maybe she’d had some brush with failed love that had made her go sour. Or worse yet--what if she had never had any brush with love at all, and this dried-up old prune was what Ms. Healy had become?

Even though I feel them for him, I had to hold back, to know for sure. I just had to hold back. That’s we he drifted off… Why did he fall asleep on me? Was it because I’m boring or is he just exposed? My head thumping still, I know was not thinking clearly, so I staggered back down the long hallway back into the dwindling party. I see one of the double-hung windows. Without anyone observing I reach my hand forward and place it on the big old sill, there is an electric candle with a night light bulb sitting in the middle. I crack the window to let out the smoke and smells out, and to get some much-needed air. A fine stream of rain-sh snow is gusting in on my face, it’s cold but feels so-so good, even though it’s winter. Enjoying the freezing air and the sensation of a hundred of little sparkly flacks. I squeezed my eyes closed tightly and promised myself that I’ll never forget the moment I just had with him. Funny I wanted to forget about all the sound, the tacky lights, and smalls of my friends and their mindless hilarity that they're tittering about. For some reason… I wanted to forget about all the heated hookups and the many bodies that were around me. What surpasses me the most about this, is that this is what I lived for and sacrificed so much to gain… to have the gathering and wanting of others that are popular, it's everything I ever wanted. Yet it seemed at that moment, I was better off before not having it. Before I became this girl… the girl that I’m not… not truly on the inside. When I open my eyes, I get the shock of my life. My little sis is standing in the doorway, staring at me. With that look holding me. She must have snuck out and followed me to this party with some of her older girlfriends, she has been messing with the wrong crew lately. I knew what happened to her tonight just by looking at her face, I knew. And if I find that boy, I’ll rip his sagging balls off! Then again, I was not much older than her when I went to my first party. I was horrified, she was doing what I did, back when I felt like I was dying inside. I was dead long before I wound up dead. I just wonder if she feels the same…? I wonder if I am the cause. How would let her in… and how did she get so popular already?

The Sorensons seemed to produce a different kind of chaos from the kind he was used to; a product of having money, no doubt, but there was also an electricity running among the people at the table, facial expressions that meant one thing to a specific person and nothing at all to everyone else, things that made Wendy crack up that didn’t seem necessarily funny,

I spent the day stripping the purple out of my hair and redyeing it—Manic Panic Electric Tiger Lily. The jar promised it would glow under a black light, but somehow I didn’t think the grange hall was going to turn the lights off and get funky.

If I had the Taser, Truck Nuts would be Electric Nuts

Being a christian in South Africa always keeps your faith in check. One minute you waiting for rapture or Jesus to come back. The next minute you are waiting for electricity to come back. Believe you me the wait on both feels the same.

Suppose that… you were sitting down at a table. The napkins are in front of you. Which napkin would you take? The one on your left or the one on your right? 'The left' is correct. But, in a larger sense of society, that is wrong. Perhaps I could even substitute society with the universe. The correct answer is that “it is determined by the one who takes his or her own napkin first. Yes? If the first one takes the napkin to their right, then there’s no choice but for the others to also take the napkin on their right. The same goes for the left. Everyone else will take the napkin to their left, because they have no other option. This is society… who are the ones who determine the price of land first? There must have been someone determined the value of money, first. The size of the rails on a train track? The magnitude of electricity? Laws and regulation? Who was the first one to determine those things? Did we all do it, because this is a republic? Or was it arbitrary? No! The one who took the napkin first determined all of these things! The rules of this world are determined by the same principle as “right or left?”! In a society like this table, a state of equilibrium, once one makes the first move, everyone must follow! In every era… this world has been operating by this napkin principle.

Title: Professional Bridesmaid for Hire—w4w—26 (NYC) Post: When all of my friends started getting engaged, I decided to make new friends. So I did—but then they got engaged also, and for what felt like the hundredth time, I was asked to be a bridesmaid. This year alone, I’ve been a bridesmaid 4 times. That’s 4 different chiffon dresses, 4 different bachelorette parties filled with tequila shots and guys in thong underwear twerking way too close to my face, 4 different prewedding pep talks to the bride about how this is the happiest day of her life, and how marriage, probably, is just like riding a bike: a little shaky at first, but then she’ll get the hang of it. Right, she’ll ask as she wipes the mascara-stained tears from her perfectly airbrushed face. Right, I’ll say, though I don’t really know. I only know what I’ve seen and that’s a beautiful-looking bride walking down, down, down the aisle, one two, three, four times so far this year. So let me be there for you this time if: — You don’t have any other girlfriends except your third cousin, twice removed, who is often found sticking her tongue down an empty bottle of red wine. — Your fiancé has an extra groomsman and you’re looking to even things out so your pictures don’t look funny and there’s not one single guy walking down the aisle by himself. — You need someone to take control and make sure bridesmaid #4 buys her dress on time and doesn’t show up 3 hours late the day of the wedding or paint her nails lime green. Bridesmaid skills I’m exceptionally good at: — Holding up the 18 layers of your dress so that you can pee with ease on your wedding day. — Catching the bouquet and then following that moment up with my best Miss America–like “OMG, I can’t believe this” speech. — Doing the electric and the cha-cha slide. — Responding in a timely manner to prewedding email chains created by other bridesmaids and the maid of honor.

Over the coun-ter, she might let you mount-her, but in the morning, there’ll be no more whoring, as its off to the doc-ter for warts of your cock-ter

Comrades, we are going to try to cheer you up, and our sense of humor will help us in this endeavor, although the phrase gallows humor has never seemed so logical and appropriate. The external circumstances are exactly in our favor. We need only to take a look at the barbed wire fences, so high and full of electricity. Just like your expectations. And then there are the watchtowers that monitor our every move. The guards have machine guns. But machine guns won’t intimidate us, comrades. They just have barrels of guns, whereas we are going to have barrels of laughs. You may be surprised at how upbeat and cheerful we are. Well, comrades, there are goods reasons for this. It’s been a long time since we were in Berlin. But every time we appeared there, we felt very uneasy. We were afraid we’d get sent to the concentration camps. Now that fear is gone. We’re already here.

The entryway in which we stood was lit on a major scale that made my pockets hurt just thinking of the electric bill this place must have every month. Funny how growing up can change your opinion of being afraid of the dark and afraid of the bills.

Mikhail’s body went rigid. He turned his head slowly in the direction of her pleading gaze. Monique huddled beside her husband, her horrified eyes on Mikhail and the men crowding beside him. Mikhail forced down the wildness of his nature and his resentment of the humans that Raven would turn to for comfort rather than him. For one long moment his black gaze rested on the male who had dared to put his hands around Raven’s throat and tried to end her life. Power pulsed in the room. Tension stretched into terror. You are not helping, Gregori pointed out. And I must say, this is strange to be the one cautioning you against violence. Very funny. But the exchange eased some of the ferocious need to retaliate in him. Mikhail took a deep breath and addressed the couple. “I am sorry we met under such terrible circumstances. I had no choice but to destroy Andre. No prison in the world would have held him,” Mikhail managed quietly. “Aidan, please release the gentleman from those restraints.” Aidan reached casually around Monique and tugged at the chains. A lazy ripple of muscle, and the links parted. Without looking at Alexander, Aidan used his thumb to separate the cuffs, freeing the mortal. Immediately he stepped away from him, abhorring such close proximity with the man. Alexander had wrapped his hands around a Carpathian woman’s throat and threatened to kill her. Every instinct in each of the males urged him to break the mortal’s neck and be done with it. They took their lead from Mikhail, but the tension was almost electric.

The bomb went off in Laboratory Three in the Electrical Engineering Department at K University. Your bomb, detonated by your own hand. Funny—I think I’ve finally had my fill of revenge now. And with luck, I’ve at last started you out on the road to your own recovery.