H L Hunt Quotes

Decide what you want, decide what you are willing to exchange for it. Establish your priorities and go to work.

I must admit though that I too, like Shelby, find the prospect of this Hunt intriguing.’ ‘Yeah, well, it’s all well and good for you wannabe ninjas,’ Otto said with a smile. ‘Some of us actually don’t find the idea of being chased through the wilderness by Raven and a bunch of G.L.O.V.E. goons particularly exciting.

He imagined a town called A. Around the communal fire they’re shaping arrowheads and carving tributes o the god of the hunt. One day some guys with spears come over the ridge, perform all kinds of meanness, take over, and the new guys rename the town B. Whereupon they hang around the communal fire sharpening arrowheads and carving tributes to the god of the hunt. Some climatic tragedy occurs — not carving the correct tributary figurines probably — and the people of B move farther south, where word is there’s good fishing, at least according to those who wander to B just before being cooked for dinner. Another tribe of unlucky souls stops for the night in the emptied village, looks around at the natural defenses provided by the landscape, and decides to stay awhile. It’s a while lot better than their last digs — what with the lack of roving tigers and such — plus it comes with all the original fixtures. they call the place C, after their elder, who has learned that pretending to talk to spirits is a fun gag that gets you stuff. Time passes. More invasions, more recaptures, D, E, F, and G. H stands as it is for a while. That ridge provides some protection from the spring floods, and if you keep a sentry up there you can see the enemy coming for miles. Who wouldn’t want to park themselves in that real estate? The citizens of H leave behind cool totems eventually toppled by the people of I, whose lack of aesthetic sense if made up for by military acumen. J, K, L, adventures in thatched roofing, some guys with funny religions from the eastern plains, long-haired freaks from colder climes, the town is burned to the ground and rebuilt by still more fugitives. This is the march of history. And conquest and false hope. M falls to plague, N to natural disaster — same climatic tragedy as before, apparently it’s cyclical. Mineral wealth makes it happen for the O people, and the P people are renowned for their basket weaving. No one ever — ever — mentions Q. The dictator names the city after himself; his name starts with the letter R. When the socialists come to power they spend a lot of time painting over his face, which is everywhere. They don’t last. Nobody lasts because there’s always somebody else. They all thought they owned it because they named it and that was their undoing. They should have kept the place nameless. They should have been glad for their good fortune, and left it at that. X, Y, Z.

Put on some tea. I’m coming over. And don’t even think about having another childish fit and leaving the apartment. You might have given Ronan Fitzpatrick the slip, but I will hunt you down and make your life very uncomfortable until I am satisfied that you’ve learned your lesson. You can’t run away from people who care about you and are invested in your success and happiness. It’s a dick move, Annie. Don’t be a dick.

t h e   p e r f e c t h u s b a n d (a jessie hunt psychological suspense—book 22) b l a k e   p i e r c e Blake Pierce Blake Pierce is the USA Today bestselling author of the RILEY PAGE mystery series, which includes seventeen books. Blake Pierce is also the author of the MACKENZIE WHITE mystery series, comprising fourteen books; of the AVERY BLACK mystery series, comprising six books; of the KERI LOCKE mystery series, comprising five books; of the MAKING OF RILEY PAIGE mystery series, comprising six books; of the KATE WISE mystery series, comprising seven books; of the CHLOE FINE psychological suspense mystery, comprising six books; of the JESSE HUNT psychological suspense thriller series, comprising twenty four books; of the AU PAIR psychological suspense thriller series, comprising three books; of the ZOE PRIME mystery series, comprising six books; of the ADELE SHARP mystery series, comprising fifteen books, of the EUROPEAN VOYAGE

News of the historic deal broke on the front pages of the Dallas papers that Sunday. The men of Texas Oil were left speechless. It was, by wide acclaim, the most astounding business deal the state had ever seen; as the enormity of the East Texas field became apparent in coming months, it would be hailed as the deal of the century. An obscure interloper, a closet bigamist, a man just nine years removed from life as a professional gambler, and from Arkansas of all places, had seized the heart of the greatest oil field in history, a field that in the next fifty years would produce four billion barrels of oil. H. L. Hunt had snatched East Texas from beneath the noses of the slumbering majors, and most incredible of all, he hadn’t used a cent of his own money.

Ridacchia, e un istante dopo è fuori dall'auto. Mi guardo intorno per cercare di capire dov'è finito il mio cuore, dato che mi è uscito dal culo. Dev'essere per forza questa l'unica spiegazione del motivo per cui mi sento così vuota ora che se n'è andato. Oppure lo stronzo se l'è portato via con sé. Faccio un sospiro. Di sicuro è andata così.

The facial stills that Mario lap-dissolves between are of Johnny Gentle, Famous Crooner, founding standard-bearer of the seminal new ‘Clean U.S. Party,’ the strange-seeming but politically prescient annular agnation of ultra-right jingoist hunt-deer-with-automatic-weapons types and far-left macrobiotic Save-the-Ozone, -Rain-Forests, -Whales, -Spotted-Owl-and-High-pH-Waterways ponytailed granola-crunchers, a surreal union of both Rush L.– and Hillary R.C.–disillusioned fringes that drew mainstream-media guffaws at their first Convention (held in sterile venue), the seemingly LaRoucheishly marginal party whose first platform’s plank had been Let’s Shoot Our Wastes Into Space, 150 C.U.S.P. a kind of post-Perot national joke for three years, until—white-gloved finger on the pulse of an increasingly asthmatic and sunscreen-slathered and pissed-off American electorate—the C.U.S.P. suddenly swept to quadrennial victory in an angry reactionary voter-spasm that made the U.W.S.A. and LaRouchers and Libertarians chew their hands in envy as the Dems and G.O.P.s stood on either side watching dumbly, like doubles partners who each think the other’s surely got it, the two established mainstream parties split open along tired philosophical lines in a dark time when all landfills got full and all grapes were raisins and sometimes in some places the falling rain clunked instead of splatted, and also, recall, a post-Soviet and -Jihad era when—somehow even worse—there was no real Foreign Menace of any real unified potency to hate and fear, and the U.S. sort of turned on itself and its own philosophical fatigue and hideous redolent wastes with a spasm of panicked rage that in retrospect seems possible only in a time of geopolitical supremacy and consequent silence, the loss of any external Menace to hate and fear.

You must determine the price that you will have to pay to achieve success, and then get busy paying that price.” - H.L. HUNT (TEXAS OIL TYCOON)

Mae Brussell spent eight years cross-filing the Warren Commission report on the assassination of John F. Kennedy. She cross-filed every single minute of Jack Ruby’s life that doubly fatal weekend, from Thursday (the day before Kennedy was killed) through Sunday (the day Ruby shot Oswald). She was able to account for his whereabouts totally, except for two hours in the afternoon on Saturday. Although she cannot prove it, she is convinced he was at the home of H.L. Hunt.

L. Wilson, editor of the Chicago Evening Journal; and General Henry Eugene Davies, who wrote a pamphlet, Ten Days on the Plains, describing the hunt. Among the others rounding out the group were Leonard W. and Lawrence R. Jerome; General Anson Stager of the Western Union Telegraph Company; Colonel M. V. Sheridan, the general's brother; General Charles Fitzhugh; and Colonel Daniel H. Rucker, acting quartermaster general and soon to be Phil Sheridan's father-in-law. Leonard W. Jerome, a financier, later became the grandfather of Winston Churchill when his second daughter, jenny, married Lord Randolph Churchill. The party arrived at Fort McPherson on September 22, 1871. The New York Herald's first dispatch reported: "General Sheridan and party arrived at the North Platte River this morning, and were conducted to Fort McPherson by General Emery [sic], commanding. General Sheridan reviewed the troops, consisting of four companies of the Fifth Cavalry. The party start[s] across the country tomorrow, guided by the renowned Buffalo Bill and under the escort of Major Brown, Company F, Fifth Cavalry. The party expect[s] to reach Fort Hays in ten days." After Sheridan's review of the troops, the general introduced Buffalo Bill to the guests and assigned them to their quarters in large, comfortable tents just outside the post, a site christened Camp Rucker. The remainder of the day was spent entertaining the visitors at "dinner and supper parties, and music and dancing; at a late hour they retired to rest in their tents." The officers of the post and their ladies spared no expense in their effort to entertain their guests, to demonstrate, perhaps, that the West was not all that wild. The finest linens, glassware, and china the post afforded were brought out to grace the tables, and the ballroom glittered that night with gold braid, silks, velvets, and jewels. Buffalo Bill dressed for the hunt as he had never done before. Despite having retired late, "at five o'clock next morning . . . I rose fresh and eager for the trip, and as it was a nobby and high-toned outfit which I was to accompany, I determined to put on a little style myself. So I dressed in a new suit of buckskin, trimmed along the seams with fringes of the same material; and I put on a crimson shirt handsomely ornamented on the bosom, while on my head I wore a broad sombrero. Then mounting a snowy white horse-a gallant stepper, I rode down from the fort to the camp, rifle in hand. I felt first-rate that morning, and looked well." In all probability, Louisa Cody was responsible for the ornamentation on his shirt, for she was an expert with a needle. General Davies agreed with Will's estimation of his appearance that morning. "The most striking feature of the whole was ... our friend Buffalo Bill.... He realized to perfection the bold hunter and gallant sportsman of the plains." Here again Cody appeared as the

not Santos Trafficante, Carlos Marcello, or Sam Giancana; not H. L. Hunt or Clint Murchison; not James Angleton, Bill Harvey, or David Morales; not Curtis LeMay, Charles Willoughby, or John McCloy; not even J. Edgar Hoover; and certainly not Lee Harvey Oswald—had the motive, the means, the opportunity, the demonstrated pattern of previous criminal, even murderous conduct and the overall demented resolve to see it through. Only one man met all of the criteria required for the murder of John F. Kennedy: Lyndon B. Johnson.

M-mi troveranno, mi... mi porteranno v-via da te ma h-ho dovuto farlo, loro... loro adesso m-mi troveranno!" pianse ancora con disperazione Taylor, aggrappandosi con le poche forze rimaste al corpo muscoloso del sicario, che a quelle parole scosse il capo, indurendo il suo sguardo. "No, tesoro mio, non ti troveranno, non ti succederà niente. Hey, ascoltami! Coprirò tutte le tue tracce, ti renderò invisibile. Penso io a te, ci sono io, guardami Taylor, sono qui, piccolo, ti difenderò da tutto" lo rassicurò Dunken, cercando il suo sguardo. L'uomo se lo tirò addosso, spostando i capelli bagnati dal volto distrutto del ragazzo. "Dimmi che hai capito, Taylor, dimmi che hai capito che andrà tutto bene, sei così forte, così prezioso, sei stato davvero bravo" continuò l'uomo, tenendo il viso del giovane stretto tra le mani. "P-preda o predatore, t-tesoro mio, n-non farti braccare" ripeté con un soffio di voce Taylor, ricambiando stancamente lo sguardo dell'assassino di fronte a sé. Il sicario annuì, sentendo Taylor rilassarsi fra le sue braccia. Si ritrovarono entrambi seduti a terra, nel punto esatto in cui poco meno di tre mesi prima Dunken aveva posizionato la tenda da campeggio per inscenare la morte del marito della vedova. Taylor guardò l'uomo dal basso, con la testa appoggiata al suo petto e la schiena sulle sue gambe, mentre Dunken lo stringeva a sé, accarezzandogli il labbro inferiore con un dito. Sentì le labbra del ragazzo sollevarsi appena sotto al tocco del suo polpastrello e l'osservò, non comprendendo il perché di quel sorriso.

Sentì le labbra del ragazzo sollevarsi appena sotto al tocco del suo polpastrello e l'osservò, non comprendendo il perché di quel sorriso. "Che hai da ridere, stronzetto?" domandò, lambendo nuovamente la sua bocca. "C-chiedimelo adesso, D-Dunken..." replicò Taylor, di fronte allo sguardo interrogativo del maggiore, che corrucciando le sopracciglia scure scosse leggermente il capo, non comprendendo. "C-cosa ho visto quella notte" spiegò il giovane, ricordando all'uomo quella domanda che appena pochi mesi prima, aveva dato inizio a tutto il resto "Cosa hai visto quella notte, mio piccolo Taylor?" chiese, assecondando il suo gioco. Il giovane tornò a sorridere contro il pollice dell'uomo, ancora fermo sulla sua bocca carnosa. "Ho trovato la salvezza, h-ho visto te, Dunken Wood" rispose in un soffio