Gator Quotes

Later, gator." "In an hour, sunflower.

Woo!" Emmett suddenly boomed in his deep bass. "Go Gators!" Jacob and Charlie jumped. The rest of us froze. Charlie recovered, then looked at Emmett over his shoulder. "Florida winning?" "Just scored the first touchdown," Emmett confirmed. He shot a look in my direction, wagging his eyebrows like a villain in vaudville. "'Bout time somebody scored around here.

There is no explaining this simple truth about life: you will forget much of it. The painful things you were certain you’d never be able to let go? Now you’re not entirely sure when they happened, while the thrilling parts, the heart-stopping joys, splintered and scattered and became something else. Memories are then replaced by different joys and larger sorrows, and unbelievably, those things get knocked aside as well, until one morning you’re picking cherries with your three grown daughters and your husband goes by on the Gator and you are positive that this is all you’ve ever wanted in the world.

Why do I have to do this?" Gator demanded. Cuz you're such a pretty boy. Our photographer isn't going to fall for one of us as the tied up model," Nico pointed out. Dumbest plan you've ever come up with," Gator rumbled. "Offering myself all trussed up like a Christmas turkey to a serial killer who likes to torture people isn't too smart.

Would you leave me alone, you walking pair of boots! Let go of my easel, you refugee from a luggage factory. If you need some wood for a toothpick, there’s a bunch of it on the porch. (Sunshine) Beth. What are you doing?...She says she was forcing you inside before it got dark and something decided to eat you. (Talon) Tell Swamp Breath I was headed this way. Why was she…Oh jeez, am I really have a conversation with a gator? (Sunshine)

Look forward to the wonderment of growing up, raising a family and driving by the gas station where the popular kids now work.

I don't suppose you cook?" Tucker inquired hopefully. "Did you think because she can start fires she'd be great with a grill? Gator asked.

You always say the best leaders figure out how to turn a bad situation to their advantage. When life gives you gators, make Gatorade

Always walk away from a fight. Then ambush.

Come on, bebe. Let’s play gator.

It’s easier to kill a man than a gator, but it takes the same kind of wait. You got to watch for the weakness, and take your shot to the back of the head.

That be the jealousy talking," Gator said, in no way perturbed. "I can't help the way the women love me. I was born with the gift." The men hooted and made rude noises. "You were born with a gift of bullshitting." Sam pointed out, "but that's about it." He looked at Dahlia. "Pardon me, ma'am, but its the truth." "I rather thought it was," she agreed.

Ah, dude," Paul said. "What if they beam around like in Star Trek?" Sofia snorted. "I'll be sure to ask Dark Gator if I see him." Paul burst out laughing; Tick held hid laugh in pressing his mouth closed. What?" Sofia asked. What did you call him?" Paul asked. Dark Gator." Man, oh, man, you are too good to be true Miss Italy, too good to be true." Still chuckling, he walked towards all the people. "I think I see a restaurant up there. Let's check it out. Sofia looked at Tick, her eyebrows raised. It's Darth Vader," he whispered. "And he's from Star Wars, not Star Trek.

Youever insult Bride again, I swear I'll rip your throat out and feed you to the gators in the swamp. You understand me?" - Vane

You familiar with prison rules, Ali-gator?" Stupid nicknames. They were the equivalent of verbal fungus. You couldn't ever get rid of them.

Hey, my brother," Eli said, sounding friendly and casual. "Let's chat about this first, before I hafta kill you and then figure out where to bury the body. Though I'm thinking out in a bayou, somewhere close to gators, you dig?

There are gators, thousands of them. " said Rashawn. " Then we better get out of here before we end up as a feast for gators." said Nicole. " What are going to do with him?" looking at the dead driver. " Let's get out of here and let him be the feast

Don't make fun of people who are different. Unless they have more money and influence. Then you must

Oh, I like her. You deserve her, buddy. I'm looking forward to watching how this plays out. You in a relationship? That's like one of those shows about guys who wrestle with wild gators. I don't know how it's going to turn out, but it will be bloody, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to laugh.

Some asshole scraped the 'I' out of INVESTIGATOR with their keys six months ago. I simply can’t be bothered to fix that one. For all the work I get, I may as well be an 'invest gator

in these situations, you followed the rules first. You toed the line. You made sure to cross every t and dot every i. And when that didn’t work, it was time to bring out the goddamned gators.

My dad mumbled something unintelligible. "Woo!" Emmett suddenly boomed in his deep bass. "Go Gators!" Jacob and Charlie jumped. The rest of us froze. Charlie recovered, then looked at Emmett over his shoulder. "Florida winning?" "Just scored the first touchdown," Emmett confirmed. He shot a look in my direction, wagging his eyebrows like a villain in vaudeville. "'Bout time somebody scored around here.

Suddenly gator was framed in the doorway, grinning at them, his black unruly hair tumbling into his face and his piercing blue eyes bright with laughter. "Oh, I see you are most friendly with each other. And Lily was so worried." He turned his head. "Ian Tucker, come look at this. Our man has found himself a little kitty cat." "Shut up, Gator, or I'm going to shoot you." Nicholas put the gun away and looked down at dahlia. She had the covers pulled up to her chin. Here eyes were enormous and getting bigger by the moment as more Ghost Walkers crowded into the doorway to gape at the sight of Nicholas, the loner, in bed with Dahlia. "And you said he didn't know what to do with a woman," Tucker Addison accused the tallest of the group, Ian McGillicuddy. "I stand corrected." Ian gave Nicholas a small salute. Dahlia made a small distressed squeak. Nicholas picked up the gun. "I'm going to start shooting if the lot of you don't get out and close the door." "What a poor sport," Gator groused. "And this is my house.

What?” Richardson snarled. “No smart retort, Mr. Gautier? Cat swallow your tongue?” Nick gave her a charming grin he didn’t really feel. “No, ma’am. A gator named Sense Formerly Known as Common.” Sneering at him, she tottered her way to her desk so that she could insult someone else and ruin their day. Caleb let out an annoyed breath. -Great,- he projected to Nick. -Now I have to get detention, too. I really hate you, Gautier.- Nick batted his eyelashes at Caleb. -But I wubs you, Caliboo.- That succeeded in wringing a groan out of Caleb. “What was that, Mr. Malphas?” Richardson asked. “Severe intestinal woe caused by an external hemorrhoid that seems to be growing on my right-hand side.” He cast a meaningful glower toward Nick. The class erupted into laughter as Richardson shot to her feet. “Enough!” She slammed her hands on her desk. “For that, Mr. Malphas, you can join Mr. Gautier in after-school detention.” Caleb let out an irritated sigh. --More quality time with my hemorrhoid. Just what I wanted for Christmas. Yippee ki-yay.--

What are we going to do with the body?" She had visions of dragging it into the swamp, whispering, "Here, gator, gator," and she made a little sound of distress at the thought.

It was bad enough for white people, but when one of your own color could be so different it put you on a wonder. It was like seeing your sister turn into a ’gator. A familiar strangeness. You keep seeing your sister in the ’gator and the ’gator in your sister, and you’d rather not.

The painful things you were certain you’d never be able to let go? Now you’re not entirely sure when they happened, while the thrilling parts, the heart-stopping joys, splintered and scattered and became something else. Memories are then replaced by different joys and larger sorrows, and unbelievably, those things get knocked aside as well, until one morning you’re picking cherries with your three grown daughters and your husband goes by on the Gator and you are positive that this is all you’ve ever wanted in the world.

Hang on to your dreams with everything you got. Because the best life is when your dreams come true. The second-best is when they don't but you never stop chasing them.

Sex is like math. add the bed, subtract the clothes, divide your legs, and hope you don't multiply." Yannie-gator46

hair; had taught her birdsongs, star names, how to steer the boat through saw grass. “Ma’ll be back,” he said. “I dunno. She’s wearin’ her gator shoes.” “A ma don’t leave her kids. It ain’t in ’em.

Yes, there was music after all. The sound of the swamp rose up to him. The sound of frogs and crickets, of birds and 'gators, of life in every puddle and pond and knothole and leaf." I Travel By Night

Your name is Jake and you’re real” [...] “Your name is Mia and you’re mine

You could step on a gator and the next thing you know is ouch.

Love is a blue balloon that wants to be orange. Go Gators!

Cynicism is overrated, and far too easy. In small doses, cynicism--like irony--provides an essential tempering quality. But to wallow in it, and to dismiss things like hope and faith, is cowardly and unoriginal.

I get naming your sports team gators, but ducks? Ducks are toothless, and they fight like pillows—all feathers and no punch—so what’s the point of them as your mascot, trying to make your opponent go to sleep on you?

The American alligator has a much broader snout than the crocodile, and is less vicious and active. The two reptiles are about equal in size and can grow up to twelve feet in length, but the croc weighs about a third less than the ’gator.

I'm getting a diamond-hard boner just thinking about it.

Assuming we know everything robs the world of wonder.

Oh, I like her. You deserve her, buddy. I'm looking forward to watching how this plays out. You in a relationship? That's like one of those shows abut guys who wrestle with wild gators. I don't know how it's going to turn out, but it will be bloody, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to laugh.

Marcel was from Louisiana, so for four years Emily had been southern by association. She insisted on Lynchburg Lemonades. She scheduled interviews around the Gators. She championed gentility. Anyone at a dinner party who thought they could tell a joke making fun of the region encountered a faceful of Emily, quick and ferocious as a convert, as a woman who loved a man. Emily now had no claim to the South. The region and its interests would proceed without her.

Ricky Lee’s father had once told him that if a man was in his right mind, you brought him what he paid for, be it piss or poison. Ricky Lee didn’t know if that was good advice or bad, but he knew that if you tended bar for a living, it went a fair piece toward saving you from being chomped into gator-bait by your own conscience.

I like the ocean,” [...] “It feels like forever and I can breathe. When I’m near the ocean, I’m free of the swamp in a way no other place allows.

Jeremiah had said Dead End was like New York, but with fewer naked cowboys. I'd responded that New York was like Dead End, but with fewer gator wranglers.

Gator laughed. “My mate thinks me the most perfect specimen of manhood.

The duke’s house was a three-story affair with gilded pillars and marble facing, and it was as ugly as a gator in a pink satin ball gown.

Gator was too small to fight the soldier off alone and lost his balance. The soldier stabbed him in the stomach and Gator fell to the ground.

You pull on dat ’gator’s tail, he gonna clean your kneecaps, him.

You can't walk the last hundred yards, too marshy-mushy. Not that you'd want to. Gator country. Snap, Snap.

Ricky Lee didn’t know if that was good advice or bad, but he knew that if you tended bar for a living, it went a fair piece toward saving you from being chomped into gator-bait by your own conscience.

He was hard as hell too, because he couldn’t stop picturing Tommy calmly rolling that gator, like it was nothing. His shirtless chest as he dragged the thing outside and shot it wasn’t a bad image either. It

Makes me wonder if God's even up there at all. And if he is, why ain't he doing a better job of things down here. Unless maybe he's doing the best he can. And if that's the case, he ain't doing no better than the rest of us.

Want me to roll you?” Tom asked. “Not funny.” But Prophet was rock hard. Tom stalking over to him and crowding him wasn’t helping. “You still have that duct tape?” “Yeah. Why?” “Come on, bebe. Let’s play gator.” Prophet hated the way his body responded yes—eagerly—to that question. “Think you wanna. ’M’I wrong?” Tom’s drawl was thick as hell, went right down Prophet’s spine, as the man’s hand snaked around Prophet’s waist and pushed his own hard cock against Prophet’s cargo pant-clad one. “Yes.

Gators are just something you have to accept where I come from. Most don't go anywhere near the houses, even though there are lots of delicious children and dogs there. Every once in a while, though, an alligator has a lightbulb moment and decides to take a stroll and see the world a bit.

Kya knew her mother would return with meat wrapped in greasy brown paper or with a chicken, head dangling down. But she never wore the gator heels, never took a case. Ma always looked back where the foot lane met the road, one arm held high, white palm waving, as she turned onto the track,

—so much more opportunity now." Her voice trails off. "Hurrah for women's lib, eh?" "The lib?" Impatiently she leans forward and tugs the serape straight. "Oh, that's doomed." The apocalyptic word jars my attention. "What do you mean, doomed?" She glances at me as if I weren't hanging straight either and says vaguely, "Oh …" "Come on, why doomed? Didn't they get that equal rights bill?" Long hesitation. When she speaks again her voice is different. "Women have no rights, Don, except what men allow us. Men are more aggressive and powerful, and they run the world. When the next real crisis upsets them, our so-called rights will vanish like—like that smoke. We'll be back where we always were: property. And whatever has gone wrong will be blamed on our freedom, like the fall of Rome was. You'll see." Now all this is delivered in a gray tone of total conviction. The last time I heard that tone, the speaker was explaining why he had to keep his file drawers full of dead pigeons. "Oh, come on. You and your friends are the backbone of the system; if you quit, the country would come to a screeching halt before lunch." No answering smile. "That's fantasy." Her voice is still quiet. "Women don't work that way. We're a—a toothless world." She looks around as if she wanted to stop talking. "What women do is survive. We live by ones and twos in the chinks of your world-machine." "Sounds like a guerrilla operation." I'm not really joking, here in the 'gator den. In fact, I'm wondering if I spent too much thought on mahogany logs. "Guerrillas have something to hope for." Suddenly she switches on a jolly smile. "Think of us as opossums, Don. Did you know there are opossums living all over? Even in New York City." I smile back with my neck prickling. I thought I was the paranoid one. "Men and women aren't different species, Ruth. Women do everything men do." "Do they?" Our eyes meet, but she seems to be seeing ghosts between us in the rain. She mutters something that could be "My Lai" and looks away. "All the endless wars …" Her voice is a whisper. "All the huge authoritarian organizations for doing unreal things. Men live to struggle against each other; we're just part of the battlefield. It'll never change unless you change the whole world. I dream sometimes of—of going away—" She checks and abruptly changes voice. "Forgive me, Don, it's so stupid saying all this." "Men hate wars too, Ruth," I say as gently as I can. "I know." She shrugs and climbs to her feet. "But that's your problem, isn't it?" End of communication. Mrs. Ruth Parsons isn't even living in the same world with me.

Memories are then replaced by different joys and larger sorrows, and unbelievably, those things get knocked aside as well, until one morning you’re picking cherries with your three grown daughters and your husband goes by on the Gator and you are positive that this is all you’ve ever wanted in the world.

Gator, go wake that woman of yours. I need some answers. We need her to run the computers for us.” “Tonight, Boss?” Gator complained. “I had other ideas.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “We all did. Hop to it.” “What about Sam?” Tucker asked. “His woman is the one who got us into this.” “I’m wounded.” Sam clutched his abdomen dramatically and staggered with quick, long strides so that he made it to the doorway in three quick steps. Jonas coughed, sounding suspiciously like he’d muttered “bullshit” under his breath. Kyle threw a peanut at him and Jeff surfed across the table in his bare socks to try to catch him before he bolted. “He’s in love, boys, let him go. He’ll probably just get laughed at,” Tucker said. “Do you really think Azami’s brothers are going to allow her to hook up with Sam? She’s fine and he’s . . . well . . . klutzy.” “That hurt,” Sam said, turning back. “Did you get a good look at those boys? I thought Japanese men were supposed to be on the short side, but Daiki was tall and all muscle. His brother moves like a fucking fighter,” Tucker added. “They might just decide to give you a good beating for having the audacity to even think you could date their sister, let alone marry her.” “Fat help you are,” Sam accused. “I could use a little confidence here.” Kyle snorted. “You don’t have a chance, buddy.” “Goin’ to meet your maker,” Gator added solemnly. Jeff crossed himself as he hung five toes off the edge of the table. “Sorry, old son, you don’t have a prayer. You’re about to meet up with a couple of hungry sharks.” “Have you ever actually used a sword before?” Kadan asked, all innocent. Jonas drew his knife and began to sharpen it. “Funny thing about blade men, they always like to go for the throat.” He grinned up at Sam. “Just a little tip. Keep your chin down.” “You’re all a big help,” Sam said and stepped out into the hall. This was the biggest moment of his life. If they turned him down, he was lost.

Gator lifted the needle and dabbed at the decorated flesh, frowning. The cases on the Mimosa generally had terrible skin, but they were docile enough to make a good filing system, considering you could usually find them where you left them – they didn’t move around much on their own, and unlike other kinds of hardcopy, they seldom got stolen.

In South Texas I saw three interesting things. The first was a tiny girl, maybe ten years old, driving in a 1965 Cadillac. She wasn't going very fast, because I passed her, but still she was cruising right along, with her head tilted back and her mouth open and her little hands gripping the wheel. Then I saw an old man walking up the median strip pulling a wooden cross behind him. It was mounted on something like a golf cart with two spoked wheels. I slowed down to read the hand-lettered sign on his chest. JACKSONVILLE FLA OR BUST I had never been to Jacksonville but I knew it was the home of the Gator Bowl and I had heard it was a boom town, taking in an entire county or some such thing. It seemed an odd destination for a religious pilgrim. Penance maybe for some terrible sin, or some bargain he had worked out with God, or maybe just a crazed hiker. I waved and called out to him, wishing him luck, but he was intent on his marching and had no time for idle greetings. His step was brisk and I was convinced he wouldn't bust. The third interesting thing was a convoy of stake-bed trucks all piled high with loose watermelons and cantaloupes. I was amazed. I couldn't believe that the bottom ones weren't crushed under all that weight, exploding and spraying hazardous melon juice onto the highway. One of nature's tricks with curved surfaces. Topology! I had never made it that far in mathematics and engineering studies, and I knew now that I never would, just as I knew that I would never be a navy pilot or a Treasury agent. I made a B in Statics but I was failing in Dynamics when I withdrew from the field. The course I liked best was one called Strength of Materials. Everybody else hated it because of all the tables we had to memorize but I loved it, the sheared beam. I had once tried to explain to Dupree how things fell apart from being pulled and compressed and twisted and bent and sheared but he wouldn't listen. Whenever that kind of thing came up, he would always say - boast, the way those people do - that he had no head for figures and couldn't do things with his hands, slyly suggesting the presence of finer qualities.

I swear before God... and four more white people! This is the last time!

If I were there, I’d turn the fire department hose on the entire street, which was probably why it was a good thing that I didn’t work with the general public.

Every story worth telling orbits around a core of grief. Because what are stories if not memories made into myths?

But here "sense" was just another made-up rule that reality didn't have to follow.

A hint of red there and a dose of heat to sear the skin—mmm, barbecue. Not funny, you sick bastard. As Wes rebuked his inner gator, he slapped himself, only to hear a voice he never thought to hear again after last night. “You’re slapping the wrong part of your body. Why don’t you stand up and I’ll help you get the right spot?” Melanie. What is she doing here?

I make a grumbling sound. “I may or may not have told her that if she didn’t stop hitting on my man, I’d drown her in the lake and leave her body for the gators.” For the first time in sixty-two minutes, Hunter’s gait stutters. He grabs the handrail to steady himself, but the laughter shaking his body doesn’t subside. “Fuck. You’re a psychopath, Davis. I knew it.

Gertie hit the brakes and tried to stop, but she tripped over a lip in the sidewalk and went sprawling right into the burro, then hit the pavement, her tutu skirt flipped up over her back, exposing her camouflage underwear. Tiny swung his head around to see what all the racket was and launched off the car door, setting off down the sidewalk toward the burro-Gertie wreck at high speed.

But sometimes, and don't you forget this, boy, you can get fooled, there's more gators lying around than you figured on. You can get yourself trapped, like in one of them box canyons. Most of the time you've got to turn around, fight your way out. But sometimes, boy, you get lucky. You find a crack just big enough to slip through, you're out the other side. That's where I am, boy, I'm out the other side.

The Gator doesn’t take requests. You can’t reason yourself into falling in love, despising ice cream, or enjoying parsnips (which are clearly odious). It’s possible to override gut reactions, but it’s not easy. When disgust researcher Paul Rozin asked adults to eat a piece of chocolate shaped like dog doo, 40 percent couldn’t do it. (Toddlers, however, had no Gator conflict and happily ate poo-shaped food.)

The lead actors in the drama: owner George Steinbrenner, who fought and fired his manager, Billy Martin, after Billy told the press that Reggie Jackson and George deserved each other—“one’s a born liar, the other’s convicted.

Something dropped from above the door onto the nurse, something lunged at her from the floor, and amidst the screaming—lots of it comparing the twins to satanic imps escaped from hell—Melanie laughed. “There’s my good boys. Come see Mama.

Jasper would have been completely hidden if it weren't for Highway 17, the crumbling two-lane road that traced the coastline, splitting cypress swamps and tidal creeks edging right up to the 350,000-acre ACE Basin, where three rivers converged to form the largest, wildest estuarine preserve on the East Coast. Jasper bordered the northeast side of the basin where dolphins, gators, minks, otters, and every manner of waterfowl and shore bird prospered from the daily six-foot inflow and outflow of saltwater, freshwater, and brackish water that rose and fell on cue like the sun itself.

There is no explaining this simple truth about life: you will forget much of it. The painful things you were certain you'd never be able to let go? Now you're not entirely sure when they happened, while the thrilling parts, the heart-stopping joys, splintered and scattered and became something else. Memories are then replaced by different joys and larger sorrows, and unbelievably, those things get knocked aside as well, until one morning you're picking cherries with your three grown daughters and your husband goes by on the Gator and you are positive that this is all you've ever wanted in the world.

I should, seeing as how I’m hungry, annoyed, and your antics are reminding me why being a vegetarian is overrated.” “Your kind don’t eat humans.” Despite her claim, the nurse pulled at the iron grip Wes had on her wrist. “My kind eats whatever the fuck it wants, and we know how to not leave a trace behind. So, human”—amazing

Superstition, as indigenous to Louisiana as gators and Tabasco, holds that the spirits of the dead avenge any disruption of their bodies, which makes one wonder at the rancor released on the 1957 day when fifty-five white families re-interred their beloved in Hope Mausoleum after the Rt. Rev. Girault M. Jones, Bishop of Louisiana, deconsecrated the Girod Street Cemetery, condemning every last African American bone to anonymity in a mass grave in Providence Memorial Park. From that pogrom grew the Superdome. Thirteen acres of structural steel framing stretch up to 273 feet from the unholy ground, a towering testament to the American propensity to cheer black men into the end zones and desert them entirely six points later.

He said many people believe in God only because of the selfish reward of eternal life …” Another blew his nose. “So in order for our faith to be pure, we have to stop believing in God.” “What!” “Only temporarily—just long enough to imagine eternal darkness …” “… Then, once we could handle that, we were free to return and believe selflessly.” “… My belief’s never been stronger.

My hands were shaking and I thought it was from the cold so I dug through my bag to find my mittens. A spectacular orange light reflected off the windows of the building in front of me that made the glass look like beaten sheets of copper. A man in coveralls was raking leaves while another man bagged them up and put them on the back of a John Deere Gator nearby. I wanted to go and open up every bag and dump them out because didn’t they know the leaves were the nice part? I stood there, taking in the sharp air and waiting until the feeling passed so I could walk by them without speaking. Another man sat on a park bench on the other side of the open lawn and watched me watch them. Maybe he had special privileges. Then he stood and I remember thinking how tall he was.

Stop strokin’ that gun, Kyle,” Gator said. “You’re makin’ me nervous. I’m thinkin’ you’re about to make love to the damn thing.” “She is purty,” Kyle said, giving the gun one last caress, his eye watching the truck ahead. “Slow down a little, and let them get ahead of us, Gator.” “What if they put up a roadblock?” Jonas asked. Ryland opened one eye. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Can the chatter and let me sleep. We’ve got swimming to do and I’m getting too old for this shit.” “Do they have sharks off this coast?” Jonas asked. Sam snickered. “You and those sharks, Jonas.” “I have nightmares, man,” Jonas protested. “I’ll feed you to a damn shark if you don’t let me sleep,” Ryland drawled. Kadan and Nico exchanged amused glances. Ryland opened both eyes. “I heard that. I’m not that old.

You can’t be in here.” Ian stated it as a fact. Sam sank back onto the bed. He was definitely growing stronger, but standing could be troublesome on shaky legs. The pain of his wound had definitely receded. “Why not?” he asked a little belligerently. “She can’t; it’s impossible. I was standing guard at her door.” Ian’s gaze met Azami’s. “To protect you of course.” “Of course, because there are so many enemies creeping around your halls,” Azami said, her voice soft and pleasant, a musical quality lending innocence and sweetness. Ian’s frown deepened as if he was puzzled. She certainly couldn’t have meant that the way it came out, anyone listening would be certain of it. “Just what are you two doing in here anyway?” he asked, suspicion lending his tone a dark melodrama. He even wiggled his eyebrows like a villain. Sam kept a straight face with difficulty. Ian was a large man with red hair and freckles. He didn’t look in the least bit mean or threatening, even when he tried. “Azami was just telling me how when she left her room to inquire after my health, there was a giant man with carroty hair snoring in the hallway beside her door.” “There was no way to get past me,” Ian insisted. Sam grinned at him. “Are you saying you did fall asleep on the job, then?” “Hell no.” Ian scowled at him. “I was wide awake and she didn’t slap past me.” “You say,” Sam pointed out, his tone mocking as he folded his arms across his chest and leaned back casually, pleased he could tease his friend. “Still, she’s here and that proves you were looking the other way or sleeping, just like that time in Indonesia when we parachuted in and you fell asleep on the way down. I believe that time you got tangled in a very large tree right in the center of the enemies’ camp.” Azami’s lashes fluttered, drawing Sam’s attention. He almost reached out to her, wanting to hold her hand, but she’d mentioned a couple of times she didn’t show affection in public. “You fell asleep while parachuting?” she asked, clearly uncertain whether or not they were joking. Ian shook his head. “I did not. A gust of heavy wind came along and pushed me right into that tree. Gator told everyone I was snoring when he shoved me out of the plane. The entire episode is all vicious fabrication. On the other hand, Sam here, actually did fall asleep while he was driving as we were escaping a very angry drug lord in Brazil.” Azami raised her eyebrow as she turned to Sam for an explanation. Her eyes laughed at him and again he had a wild urge to pull her to him and hold her tight. Primitive urges had never been a part of his makeup until she’d come along; now he figured he was becoming a caveman. Her gaze slid to his face as if she knew what he was thinking—which was probably the case. He flashed a grin at her.

I do trust you though. I think if someone tried to take me, you’d at least fight them for me a little…” I watched his face for a moment before narrowing my eyes. “Wouldn’t you?” That had his other eye popping open, his cheeks still slightly pink, but everything else about him completely alert. “You know I would.” Why that pleased me so much, I wasn’t going to overanalyze. “If someone tried to take you, I know aikido, some jiu-jitsu, and kickboxing,” I offered him up. “But my dentist says I have really strong teeth, so I’d be better off trying to bite someone’s finger or ear off instead.” Aaron’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead almost comically. “Like a little Chihuahua,” he suggested, the spoon going into his mouth with a sly grin. I winked at him, immediately regretting it. I didn’t want it to come across like I was flirting. “I was thinking more of a piranha. I’ve only had one filling in my entire life,” I told him, wishing each word coming out of my mouth wasn’t coming out of it. If he thought I was being awkward or a flirt, he didn’t make it known. “Or a raptor.” “A lion.” “A tiger.” “Did you know a jaguar has twice the strength in its bite than a tiger does?” Aaron frowned as he took another bite of his oatmeal. “No shit?” “No. Two thousand pounds per square inch. They’re the only big cat that kills their prey by biting its head, through bone and everything. A tiger bites the neck of whatever animal they’re eating to cut their air and blood flow off. Crazy, huh?” He looked impressed. “I had no idea.” I nodded. “Not a lot of people do.” “Is there anything that bites harder than they do?” “Crocodiles. The really big ones. I’m pretty sure they have about 4000 or 5000 psi bites.” For the fifty-second time, I shrugged. “I like watching the Animal Channel and Discovery,” I said, making it sound like an apology. Aaron gave me that soft smile that made me feel like my insides were on fire. Then he winked. “I don’t know much about crocodiles, but I know all about alligators,” he offered. “Did you know there are only two species left in the world?” “There are?” “American alligator and the Asian alligator. More than a fifth of all of them live in Florida.” “We have some gators in Texas. There’s a state park by Houston where you can go and you can usually see a bunch. I went camping there one time.” One corner of his mouth tilted up as he chewed. “Look at you, Rebel Without a Cause.” With anyone else, I’d probably think they were picking on me, but I could see the affection on Aaron’s face. I could feel the kindness that just came off him in waves, so I winked back at him. “I live life on the edge. I should start teaching a class on how to be bad.” “Right? Quitting your job, coming to Florida even though you were worried….” He trailed off with a grin and a look out of the corner of his eye. “I pretty much have my masters and license to practice. I’ll teach people everything I know.

Debriefing was a lot of bullshit. Sam wanted to leap out of his seat and go find his woman. He’d never actually had a woman to come home to, and now that he did, he had to sit like a kindergartener, wiggling around his chair, anxious to see her—inspect her—and make certain she didn’t have so much as a scratch on her. Fucking Whitney, attacking the compound when there were just a few men and women to defend it. She wasn’t hurt . . . “Sam, you with us?” Ryland asked. He wasn’t the only one with a wife. Ryland had to be just as anxious. His son had been a target. He scowled at Ryland. “He’s got ants in his pants.” Tucker snickered. He’s got somethin’ in his pants,” Gator mocked, shoving at Sam’s boot with his foot. “And I don’ think it’s ants.” “Go to hell,” Sam said good-naturedly. “Like all of you aren’t just as antsy.” Ryland sighed. “Our women fought off Whitney’s men while we were in the field. It’s getting a little old.” He looked at Sam. “Get out of here.” And I want a full briefing from her later. Sam’s nod was barely perceptible. He leapt out of the chair and rushed from the room, an arrow shot out of a bow. Laughter followed him, but he didn’t give a damn. Nothing mattered but to get to her. Azami. His.

When inanimate things ceased to commune with me like natural men, other dreams came to live with me. Animals took on lives and characteristics which nobody knew anything about except myself. Little things that people did or said grew into fantastic stories. There was a man who turned into an alligator for my amusement. All he did was live in a one-room house by himself down near Lake Belle. I did the rest myself. He came into the village one evening near dusk and stopped at the store. Somebody teased him about living out there by himself, and said that if he did not hurry up and get married, he was liable to go wild. I saw him tending his little garden all day, and otherwise just being a natural man. But I made an image of him for after dark that was different. In my imagination, his work-a-day hands and feet became the reptilian claws of an alligator. A tough, knotty hide crept over him, and his mouth became a huge snout with prong-toothed, powerful jaws. In the dark of the night, when the alligators began their nightly mysteries behind the cloaking curtain of cypress trees that all but hid Lake Belle, I could see him crawling from his door, turning his ugly head from left to right to see who was looking, then gliding down into the dark waters to become a ’gator among ’gators. He would mingle his bellow with other bull ’gator bellows and be strong and terrible. He was the king of ’gators and the others minded him. When I heard the thunder of bull ’gator voices from the lake on dark nights, I used to whisper to myself, “That’s Mr. Pendir! Just listen at him!

… The most important contribution you can make now is taking pride in your treasured home state. Because nobody else is. Study and cherish her history, even if you have to do it on your own time. I did. Don’t know what they’re teaching today, but when I was a kid, American history was the exact same every year: Christopher Columbus, Plymouth Rock, Pilgrims, Thomas Paine, John Hancock, Sons of Liberty, tea party. I’m thinking, ‘Okay, we have to start somewhere— we’ll get to Florida soon enough.’…Boston Massacre, Crispus Attucks, Paul Revere, the North Church, ‘Redcoats are coming,’ one if by land, two if by sea, three makes a crowd, and I’m sitting in a tiny desk, rolling my eyes at the ceiling. Hello! Did we order the wrong books? Were these supposed to go to Massachusetts?…Then things showed hope, moving south now: Washington crosses the Delaware, down through original colonies, Carolinas, Georgia. Finally! Here we go! Florida’s next! Wait. What’s this? No more pages in the book. School’s out? Then I had to wait all summer, and the first day back the next grade: Christopher Columbus, Plymouth Rock…Know who the first modern Floridians were? Seminoles! Only unconquered group in the country! These are your peeps, the rugged stock you come from. Not genetically descended, but bound by geographical experience like a subtropical Ellis Island. Because who’s really from Florida? Not the flamingos, or even the Seminoles for that matter. They arrived when the government began rounding up tribes, but the Seminoles said, ‘Naw, we prefer waterfront,’ and the white man chased them but got freaked out in the Everglades and let ’em have slot machines…I see you glancing over at the cupcakes and ice cream, so I’ll limit my remaining remarks to distilled wisdom: “Respect your parents. And respect them even more after you find out they were wrong about a bunch of stuff. Their love and hard work got you to the point where you could realize this. “Don’t make fun of people who are different. Unless they have more money and influence. Then you must. “If someone isn’t kind to animals, ignore anything they have to say. “Your best teachers are sacrificing their comfort to ensure yours; show gratitude. Your worst are jealous of your future; rub it in. “Don’t talk to strangers, don’t play with matches, don’t eat the yellow snow, don’t pull your uncle’s finger. “Skip down the street when you’re happy. It’s one of those carefree little things we lose as we get older. If you skip as an adult, people talk, but I don’t mind. “Don’t follow the leader. “Don’t try to be different—that will make you different. “Don’t try to be popular. If you’re already popular, you’ve peaked too soon. “Always walk away from a fight. Then ambush. “Read everything. Doubt everything. Appreciate everything. “When you’re feeling down, make a silly noise. “Go fly a kite—seriously. “Always say ‘thank you,’ don’t forget to floss, put the lime in the coconut. “Each new year of school, look for the kid nobody’s talking to— and talk to him. “Look forward to the wonderment of growing up, raising a family and driving by the gas station where the popular kids now work. “Cherish freedom of religion: Protect it from religion. “Remember that a smile is your umbrella. It’s also your sixteen-in-one reversible ratchet set. “ ‘I am rubber, you are glue’ carries no weight in a knife fight. “Hang on to your dreams with everything you’ve got. Because the best life is when your dreams come true. The second-best is when they don’t but you never stop chasing them. So never let the authority jade your youthful enthusiasm. Stay excited about dinosaurs, keep looking up at the stars, become an archaeologist, classical pianist, police officer or veterinarian. And, above all else, question everything I’ve just said. Now get out there, class of 2020, and take back our state!

In trying times, such as the ones we currently find ourselves mired in the middle of, one wants a distraction from one’s troubles, and I find it most helpful to plan and engage in a pleasant outing or two with close and like-minded friends. Or you could go gator huntin’.

What are we looking at here, General? A chemical agent?” asked Backlund. “Of sorts. Based on this imagery, we believe it’s a compound that hasn’t yet been utilized in combat. In tests, it greatly accelerates the mental capacity and physical strength of reptiles. While it’s not the scientific nomenclature for the liquid, it’s been referred to as ‘GatorAid’ in some circles.

Q: What do alligators drink after they work out? A: Gator-ade.

He was aware of Chunk moving parallel to him off to his left, but he felt another presence accompanying him, too. Ghosts of his fallen teammates—his Tier One brothers lost in the original Operation Crusader—were advancing with him. On his right were Thiel, Pablo, Helo, and Gabe. On his left, Rousche, Gator, and Spaz. They were all here. And so were their wives, and their children. Everyone had come to help him, the entire Tier One extended family he’d lost. Normally, he chased his ghosts away, but not this time. Not today. He let his teammates and their families advance on the truck with him. This was their mission, too. Hell, they were the mission.

What changed your mind?” “I never changed my mind.” Stitch grunted as he threw the bag as far as he could into the black water. Zak sighed, rushed toward him, and pulled him away from the shore. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the water getting rough in the moonlight as reptiles crept closer in the darkness, ready for some fresh meat. “Will you come back home with me?” he uttered, cold sweat sliding down his back. Stitch took a deep breath and held onto Zak’s hand. “If you’ll have me,” he whispered. “This was such a shit day, wasn’t it?” Zak squeezed his hand tightly with a shuddery sigh. A man who had trembled with pleasure in his bed turned into gator feed, and Zak was choosing to betray him. The death could still be discovered, they could still be charged with murder, but he was determined to keep himself in one piece. “I just want to kiss you so badly.” Stitch bowed down to him and gave the kiss Zak so deeply craved. His soft, warm lips were somehow making all the black thoughts flee into the depths of Zak’s mind. “I can’t please everyone.” His voice was so weak it was getting lost in the sounds of splashing water and buzzing insects. Zak pushed himself against Stitch and gasped as adrenaline shot into his brain. Stitch’s scent was sharper than ever, spiked with all the stress and fear of the passing day. “I love you.” “I know, I love you too.” Stitch kissed Zak’s lips once more and stroked the side of his head. “Let’s go home.

Good gracious,” Mom muttered, covering her mouth as she gasped. “Is there anything that woman won’t do for attention?” “Granny, I meant the gator,” Orion added with a giggle. “Well, good.” She lifted her chin. “You just keep your innocent eyes off of that tramp up there…bless her heart.

That’s what led George to Yogi’s museum in New Jersey in 1999 to apologize in person. It’s the same feeling that led Yogi, a man who had vowed never to return to Yankee Stadium so long as George owned the team, to accept George’s apology. Together they made plans for a grand return, a Yogi Berra Day that July. Before the game, Don Larsen, the Yankees pitcher who threw the first perfect game in Yankees history, during the 1956 World Series with Yogi behind the plate, tossed the ceremonial first pitch to Yogi. A few hours later David Cone finished another perfect game, the third in the team’s history. As if we needed another sign that all was right in the world.

Everybody knows you can dispose of a body in the swamp and it will never be found until somebody cuts open a gator one day and sees bones.

One more thing, though.” His breaths are shallow. “Tell Virginia that I love her. Always have. Always will.” He smiles. “And tell her to stop feeding those gators, already.” “Now, you know I can’t do that,” I reply. “I’d be at risk of her wrath, and I’m not inclined to have her tell me off for this love of yours.” That’s when Grandpa laughs for the very last time.

Yogi was absolutely brilliant. As a hitter, he had a combination of power and contact that simply doesn’t exist anymore. Some people ridiculed him for swinging at too many pitches out of the zone. But consider this: He never struck out more than 38 times in a season. He struck out just 414 times in his career and hit 358 home runs.

I’m the straw that stirs the drink….Munson thinks he can be the straw that stirs the drink, but he can only stir it bad.” —REGGIE JACKSON, SPORT MAGAZINE, JUNE

After the ’76 World Series, Reds manager Sparky Anderson was asked about Thurman and his catcher Johnny Bench, who went on to the Hall of Fame. With Thurman next to him at the news conference, Sparky said: “Don’t never embarrass nobody by comparing them to Johnny Bench.

You have to tell him something. Tell him anything, or he won’t let you complete the game.” “Okay,” I told him. By not immediately bringing in a reliever, Billy seemed to be feeling me out. When he arrived moments later, he didn’t say “Good job” like he usually did. Instead, he asked: “Well, what do you think?” “You really wanna know what I think?” I said. “Yeah, I really wanna know.” “I think you oughtta get your ass off my mound so I can finish my damn game.” Billy looked at me for a moment. Then he said, “Okay, you got it.” And he went back

Good teams, even great teams, fall short all the time. So the infighting everybody else saw as dysfunction was actually hugely important. We had to confront our issues. It might’ve been easier to ignore them. It sure would’ve been less embarrassing. We would’ve had less explaining to do to reporters. But if we just let them fester, we would’ve never realized our potential.

Joiner’s article “On Buckeyes, Gators, Super Bowl Sunday, and the Miracle on Ice” makes a strong case that it’s not the winning that counts but the taking part—the shared experience. It is true that he found fewer suicides in Columbus, Ohio, and Gainesville, Florida, in the years when the local college football teams did well. But Joiner argues that this is because fans of winning teams “pull together” more: they wear the team shirt more often, watch games together in bars, talk about the team, and so on, much as happens in a European country while the national team is playing in a World Cup. The “pulling together” saves people from suicide, not the winning. Proof of this is that Joiner found fewer suicides in the US on Super Bowl Sundays than on other Sundays at that time of year, even though few of the Americans who watch the Super Bowl are passionate supporters of either team. What they get from the day’s parties is a sense of belonging. That is the lifesaver. In Europe today, there may be nothing that brings a society together like a World Cup with your team in it. For once, almost everyone in the country is watching the same TV programs and talking about them at work the next day, just as Europeans used to do thirty years ago before they got cable TV. Part of the point of watching a World Cup is that almost everyone else is watching, too. Isolated people—the types at most risk of suicide—are suddenly welcomed into the national conversation. They

No. Those memories would not serve him here. Only the fury. That metallic, constant anger that knew neither emotion nor restraint. Emotionless, like the gators he’d grown up hunting, the black tide inside himself would rise to the occasion and like a puppeteer, he would take total control of the wicked things his hands would do.

It said a lot about the choices you made in life when jogging actually lowered your heart rate. By