Frank Booth Quotes

At the local coffee-shop, hunched in one of the secretive, high-backed booths with hundreds of peoples' names gouged into the wood, we drank cup after cup of black coffee and talked frankly about sex.

Nobody could ever be like that bottomless well of a man—that walking confessional booth who could absorb whatever you told him without judgment or alarm. Nobody else could be that beautiful dark soul, who always seemed to straddle the worlds of life and death. Nobody but Frank was Frank

Who the hell is Warren Ellis again?” Hardison gaped at the man. “Only one of the greatest comics writers in the past twenty years. Might as well ask who Alan Moore is, or Frank Miller, or Mark Waid, or Brian Michael Bendis, or Marv Wolfman, or Geoff Johns.” Eliot gave Hardison a blank look as they wove their way through the hall. Parker took the lead, toting a printed sign with her. Eliot and Hardison trailed in her wake. They made a point of striding right past Patronus’s booth. They didn’t turn to see if he noticed them. “No one?” Hardison said. “Nothing? Not even Kurt Busiek? Neil Gaiman?” “I have a life. I do things, active things. I date women.” “Stan Lee?” Eliot gave Hardison that one with a wag of his head. “Who hasn’t heard of Stan Lee?” “All right,” Hardison said with satisfaction. “You had me worried there, man.

As he sat down, a man in the next booth cleared his throat violently. Then he said, 'Honesty is my God. Frankly, I wouldn't have lied to Hitler.' There was a kind of female moan of assent. Sophie peered over the back of the booth and saw a woman, her head resting over the back of the booth and saw a woman, her head resting on one hand as though it had come loose from her neck. 'How do you know what Otto feels? What is it you want him to do? You and he have been fighting for years, haven't you? Like smiling people in a swimming pool, kicking each other under water.

As the boys walked down the stone steps of headquarters, Frank said, “How about a milk-shake?” Joe grinned. “You read my mind. I can sure use one!” They drove several blocks to the Hot Rocket, a favorite eating spot of their high school crowd. A familiar yellow jalopy was parked outside. “Well, well! Look who’s in there!” Frank said. The chunky figure of Chet Morton, the jalopy’s owner, was seated in one of the booths. He was poring over a magazine and munching a hamburger. “Hi, fellows!” he mumbled.

Frank parked the car at a drugstore and the two boys hurried to a telephone booth inside. Leafing through the Bayport directory, they soon found the attorney’s residential listing.

On Sunday, after church, Aunt Gertrude said good-by to her nephews and went off with a ladies’ group to visit sick members of the congregation. The boys were alone in the house when the telephone rang. Frank answered and was delighted to hear his father’s voice. “Dad! What a swell surprise! Where are you?” “At Bayport Airport, son. Just landed from Paris this morning and then hopped a plane from New York. Think you and Joe could pick me up?” “You bet. We’ll be there in a jiffy!” Fifteen minutes later the tall, broad-shouldered investigator was embracing his two sons. “Boy, you look great, Dad!” Joe said. “How’d you make out on your case in Europe?” “Tell you about it later. Right now I could use some of Aunt Gertrude’s home cooking.” “You’re out of luck,” Frank said. “She won’t be home until three o’clock.” Mr. Hardy chuckled wryly. “In that case I’ll settle for ham and eggs at the nearest diner.” After stowing their father’s luggage in the trunk of the convertible, the boys took him to a roadside restaurant just outside Bayport. Soon the three were settled in a comfortable booth, enjoying their meal.

As John Booth Davies writes in The Myth of Addiction: “[P]eople take drugs because they want to

Suddenly both Hardys noticed that Chet’s attention had been diverted. He stared longingly ahead. “What’s so interesting?” Joe asked. “Don’t pass it,” pleaded Chet. “Pass what?” “That milk bar up there. They serve a terrific sundae, covered with whipped cream, cherries, and nuts. It’s called a Bigloo Igloo. Come on, fellows. It’s lunchtime.” “Okay.” Frank laughed. The yellow convertible turned in and stopped before the little white building. Soon the boys were seated together in a booth.

It felt like we were on fire. Everything got so hot, it was almost too much to stand. Kissing him, having his body close. I thought of how you feel when you're eating a meal and don't realize how hungry you are till you're three bites in. You start eating faster, savoring every bite. Now I couldn't stop, so I took another kiss, then another. I let his tongue slip into my mouth, and I shivered again. He smiled at my reaction and went in for more. The way his hands started to move over my body gave me the impression he had been there before. I could have stopped, I knew I should have stopped, but all the drama and emotional pain I'd experienced over the last few days made me recklessly ignore that thought. I tore his shirt off. He gasped, which made me giggle. I covered my mouth, and he grabbed my hand and put it around his neck. He scooped me up and I tightened my thighs around his waist. He sat me down on the bar and peeled off my blouse. Any last ounce of Southern lady I had left in me exited the building. I unhooked my bra and threw it across the room. Screw it. If I was going to go ahead and make a mistake, I might as well take the fast lane. We watched it slingshot and land on a booth. "Is the door locked?" he asked, gasping for air. "Think so," I said, taking big gulping breaths. I was drowning and was totally fine with it. "Good," he said. He pulled me to the end of the bar and pulled my shoes off. I hopped off and helped him along by unbuttoning my jeans and wiggling out of them as sexily as I could. He did the same. "Man, you look good enough to eat," he said. "So do you. Take a bite," I said. We were standing about four feet apart and our clothes were all over the floor. I stood there almost naked and drank in the sight of him. He took a few slow steps toward me, like a lion about to jump on his prey, and dug in.

Though the Finns’ taciturnity may work among themselves, problems arise when they travel or have to work with foreigners. The men, in particular, can be simply too frank, too direct, sometimes to the point of rudeness. They find it especially challenging to engage in the social lubricant of small talk, something even Norwegians can manage if they put their minds to it.