Gangster Type Quotes

The basic creed of the gangster, and for that matter of any other type of criminal, is that whatever a man has is his only so long as he can keep it, and that the one who takes it away from him has not done anything wrong, but has merely demonstrated his smartness.

He doesn't look like a gangster, but then he's not the office worker type, either...some kind of entrepreneur maybe, or, - wait, I've got it! He looks like he writes manga! Either that or a chiropractor, I guess.

It would have pained the immaculate Monty, could he have known that his prospective employer was picturing him at the moment as furtive, shifty-eyed, rat-like person of the gangster, type, liable at the first opportunity to sneak into the sties of innocent pigs and plant pineapple bombs in their bran-mash.

It was the same type of men all over the world. They tried to grab on another's coal and steel and oil and gold; yet, the moment they were threatened by their wage slaves anywhere, they got together to fight against the common peril. Do it with the army, do it with gangsters, do it with the workers' own leaders, buying them or seducing them with titles, honors, and applause!

Mexico has fairly strict gun laws. It actually has a right to bear arms in the Mexican constitution. But to do this - there's only one shop which sells them legally in the whole of Mexico, run by the army. You go, and then you have to present seven types of identification, including a letter from your employer and a clean criminal record. And the cartels, the gangsters, they don't use that way of getting guns 'cause they can get them so much more easily buying them in the United States.

When I went to prison and came out, it was like another stripe being added to my shoulder—another notch of respect on my belt. On the streets, you cannot get a name until you do something. You have to prove who you are by doing something outrageous, like shooting someone from a rival gang. It allowed others to see what type of person you were, and established the fact that you were ready for anything. Back in the day, what we were looking for was for someone to have our backs. So every time I did something and was recognized for what I did, it gave me more nerves to continue. After the deed was all said and done, and we were hanging on the blocks, everyone is praising you and talking about what you did. You all should have been there. You should have seen how Taco rushed up on that fella and dealt with him. Those praises were like drugs that eventually poison the mind, and gave you more inspiration to do things to have more people talking about you. People recognizing you as one who isn’t scared, one who is ready to do whatever is needed. No one ever wants to go to prison. I never wanted to go to prison. I just wanted to be recognized as one willing and ready for a battle anytime. Troit Lynes, former death row inmate of Her Majesty Prison in the Bahamas

earnestly. Drab to Desirable? What am I? A chuffing living room? Sonja reaches from underneath the desk and hands me a starchy white gown. It looks like a hospital nightie, a fact that doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence. I’m not really an expert on beauty salons, having only been to one three times in my life, but I’m pretty sure there is supposed to be champagne. And why is there no soothing music playing in the background? Where’s the friendly lady who will chat to me about her children while doing my nails in pretty pearly pink? ‘I don’t know if I can afford all this,’ I whisper to Dionne, as Sonja types my details into an expensive-looking computer. ‘Oh, no worries. Bull knows someone. It’s on the house.’ ‘Oh.’ A gangster salon! ‘We are ready!’ Sonja says brightly, clapping her hands. ‘Natalie, if you could leave your belongings right here, I vill put them in the safe.’ I hand over my coat and handbag. ‘Now, if

Consider the difference between the two types of globemaps of planet Earth, the physical and the political. The first is a marvelous wiggly affair, blue, green, brown, yellow, and occasionally white. The second, especially on the North American continent, is angrily scratched across with straight lines, and the one earth (and we should not forget the one air) covered with patches of contrasting colors to identify the domains of differing bands of gangsters. Which of the two more closely resembles Earth as seen from outer space?

while she applied some type of cream the doctor had given him for the infection in his ass. “I’m

Life was a bitch of the cruelest type, but she could be sweet even when she wanted to. “Dis

Usually, the bitches he had around got off on seeing that type of shit. Something about the way she said she didn’t like it made her even more attractive to him.

Like Dior, Keisha was a hood chick, but she was the quiet type who played her position and didn’t give him any problems.

Like Lloyd, Kenyon was ruthless and had a reputation that let everyone know he wasn’t the type of nigga you fucked with. But that was where their similarities ended.

Is this man your mark?” Qisami forced her smile to stay on. She knew where this was going. For a moment, she was tempted to say yes, but she wasn’t the lying type. If an assassin couldn’t be honest to a gangster, what did that say about society? “No, but I need him.

Keisha just stared at him blankly, not fully believing what he was saying. Trigga hadn’t seemed like the type to do some shady shit like that.

Trigga was the type of man who didn’t know how to deal with his emotions; he had no idea how to even communicate his feelings because they were emotions that he wasn’t used to feeling. So instead, he fell back on his anger when he got frustrated with himself.

Europe, after the agony of the first World War, turned to the opposite type for leadership, to gangsters, who, though they are often good entrepreneurs, are without codes and without inhibitions.1 Such leaders in Europe have given us a preview of what the collapse of values and the reign of specialization will produce.

Even the fringier members of society—gangsters, drug cartel types, garden-variety serial killers—even they want to be liked in their own endearing ways.

Did it matter—she thought, looking at the map—which part of the corpse had been consumed by which type of maggot, by those who gorged themselves or by those who gave the food to other maggots? So long as living flesh was prey to be devoured, did it matter whose stomachs it had gone to fill? There was no way to tell which devastation had been accomplished by the humanitarians and which by undisguised gangsters. There was no way to tell which acts of plunder had been prompted by the charity-lust of the Lawsons and which by the gluttony of Cuffy Meigs—no way to tell which communities had been immolated to feed another community one week closer to starvation and which to provide yachts for the pull-peddlers. Did it matter? Both were alike in fact as they were alike in spirit, both were in need and need was regarded as sole title to property, both were acting in strictest accordance with the same code of morality. Both held the immolation of men as proper and both were achieving it. There wasn’t even any way to tell who were the cannibals and who the victims—the communities that accepted as their rightful due the confiscated clothing or fuel of a town to the east of them, found, next week, their granaries confiscated to feed a town to the west—men had achieved the ideal of the centuries, they were practicing it in unobstructed perfection, they were serving need as their highest ruler, need as first claim upon them, need as their standard of value, as the coin of their realm, as more sacred than right and life. Men had been pushed into a pit where, shouting that man is his brother’s keeper, each was devouring his neighbor and was being devoured by his neighbor’s brother, each was proclaiming the righteousness of the unearned and wondering who was stripping the skin off his back, each was devouring himself, while screaming in terror that some unknowable evil was destroying the earth.

The gangster who holds up the police set on to track him down for days on end, or who dies in single combat after having killed four or five policemen, or who commits suicide in order not to give away his accomplices—these types light the way for the people, form the blueprints for action and become heroes. Obviously, it's a waste of breath to say that such-and-such a hero is a thief, a scoundrel, or a reprobate. If the act for which he is prosecuted by the colonial authorities is an act exclusively directed against a colonialist person or colonialist property, the demarcation line is definite and manifest. The process of identification is automatic.

There’s a tendency in our society to romanticize the exploits of outlaws and gangsters, an insistence that they’re Robin Hood–type characters, that they have more in common with us than the people whom we hire to protect us and enforce our laws. I don’t buy that. I think that when you pick up a gun and use it to take things away from people, it doesn’t matter how clever or charming you are—you’re just a thief, plain and simple.

and then watched as he moved up the bank. He turned and looked back at me. “There’s a tendency in our society to romanticize the exploits of outlaws and gangsters, an insistence that they’re Robin Hood–type characters, that they have more in common with us than the people whom we hire to protect us and enforce our laws. I don’t buy that. I think that when you pick up a gun and use it to take things away from people, it doesn’t matter how clever or charming you are—you’re just a thief, plain and simple.

Mrs. Levy folded her foundation notes and turned off her board, saying, “Well, if you’re going to town, take me with you. I’m worried about Miss Trixie since Gonzalez reported that she bit that gangster’s hand. I must see her. Her old hostility toward Levy Pants is out in the open again.” “Do you still want to play around with that senile bag? Haven’t you tormented her enough already?” “Even a little good deed you don’t want me to do. Your type isn’t even in the psychology books. You should at least go to Lenny’s doctor for his sake. Once your case was in the psychiatric journals, they’d be inviting him to Vienna to speak. You’d make him a famous man just like that crippled girl or whoever it was put Freud on the map.