Ill Gotten Gains Quotes

I wasn’t usually a betting girl, but I would put all of my papà’s ill-gotten gains on the idea that this man fucked just like he drove. With complete control and confidence.

History is written by the victors, they say, and there was no one alive who would come forward to dispute Hoover’s fabricated story. Never mind that there was no indication whatsoever in Bureau files that Ma Barker had ever fired a gun, robbed a bank, or done anything more criminal than live off her sons’ ill-gotten gains.

When Wiley moved back to Safe Haven, flush with ill-gotten gains, he spared no expense building his dream house. And Wiley’s idea of a dream house was very close to Batman’s.

In the detective story, as in its mirror image, the Quest for the Grail, maps (the ritual of space) and timetables (the ritual of time) are desirable. Nature should reflect its human inhabitants, i.e., it should be the Great Good Place; for the more Eden-like it is, the greater the contradiction of murder. The country is preferable to the town, a well-to-do neighborhood (but not too well-to-do-or there will be a suspicion of ill-gotten gains) better than a slum. The corpse must shock not only because it is a corpse but also because, even for a corpse, it is shockingly out of place, as when a dog makes a mess on a drawing room carpet." (The guilty vicarage: Notes on the detective story, by an addict, Harper's Magazine, May 1948)

But how did it come to refer to e-mailed invitations to enlarge the male member and share the ill-gotten gains of deposed African despots?

This is about a very few very rich, very greedy individuals getting ever richer, at the expense of human misery and suffering throughout the world, and using these ill-gotten gains to increase their power over a corrupt government, and further erode the influence of ‘we the People’.

When a criminal justice system works properly, it’s not because rational actors know that Big Brother is watching them 24/7 and will swoop down and impose a cost that will cancel any ill-gotten gain. No democracy has the resources or the will to turn society into that kind of Skinner box.

It was speculated that a car manufacturing company like Ford, or a space or aircraft project like NASA’s Manned Orbiting Laboratory Project, or millionaires like the Rockefellers or Howard Hughes were secretly purchasing the land. One account even suggested the Mafia was buying land to launder ill-gotten gains or dump bodies in the swamps. However,

Canada is a preferred destination to launder ill-gotten gains with impunity. Numerous investigations that ultimately went nowhere have revealed weak legislation and an under-resourced enforcement regime that is manifestly not fit for purpose. Chances of getting caught are almost nil, civil and criminal asset forfeiture is weak, and penalties are negligible.

person’s own level of virtue is a tradeoff between the esteem that comes from cultivating a reputation as a cooperator and the ill-gotten gains of stealthy cheating. A social group is a marketplace of cooperators of differing degrees of generosity and trustworthiness, and people advertise themselves as being as generous and trustworthy as they can get away with, which may be a bit more generous and trustworthy than they are. The

When a criminal justice system works properly, it’s not because rational actors know that Big Brother is watching them 24/7 and will swoop down and impose a cost that will cancel any ill-gotten gain. No democracy has the resources or the will to turn society into that kind of Skinner box. Only a sample of criminal behavior can ever be detected and punished, and the sampling should be fair enough that citizens perceive the entire regime to be legitimate. A key legitimator is the perception that the system is set up in such a way that a person, and more importantly the person’s adversaries, face a constant chance of being punished if they break the law, so that they all may internalize inhibitions against predation, preemptive attack, and vigilante retribution.

Ellie goes back to the kitchen . . . and screams bloody murder. “Nooooooo!” Adrenaline spikes through me and I dart to the kitchen, ready to fight. Until I see the cause of her screaming. “Bosco, noooooo!” It’s the rodent-dog. He got into the kitchen, somehow managed to hoist himself up onto the counter, and is in the process of demolishing his fourth pie. Fucking Christ, it’s impressive how fast he ate them. That a mutt his size could even eat that many. His stomach bulges with his ill-gotten gains—like a snake that ingested a monkey. A big one. “Thieving little bastard!” I yell. Ellie scoops him off the counter and I point my finger in his face. “Bad dog.” The little twat just snarls back. Ellie tosses the mongrel on the steps that lead up to the apartment and slams the door. Then we both turn and assess the damage. Two apple and a cherry are completely devoured, he nibbled at the edge of a peach and apple crumb and left tiny paw-prints in two lemon meringues. “We’re going to have re-bake all seven,” Ellie says. I fold my arms across my chest. “Looks that way.” “It’ll take hours,” she says. “Yeah.” “But we have to. There isn’t any other choice.” Silence follows. Heavy, meaningful silence. I glance sideways at Ellie, and she’s already peeking over at me. “Or . . . is there?” she asks slyly. I look at what remains of the damaged pastries, considering all the options. “If we slice off the chewed bits . . .” “And smooth out the meringue . . .” “Put the licked ones in the oven to dry out . . .” “Are you two out of your motherfucking minds?” I swing around to find Marty standing in the alley doorway behind us. Eavesdropping and horrified. Ellie tries to cover for us. But she’s bad at it. “Marty! When did you get here? We weren’t gonna do anything wrong.” Covert ops are not in her future. “Not anything wrong?” he mimics, stomping into the room. “Like getting us shut down by the goddamn health department? Like feeding people dog-drool pies—have you no couth?” “It was just a thought,” Ellie swears—starting to laugh. “A momentary lapse in judgment,” I say, backing her up. “We’re just really tired and—” “And you’ve been in this kitchen too long.” He points to the door. “Out you go.” When we don’t move, he goes for the broom. “Go on—get!” Ellie grabs her knapsack and I guide her out the back door as Marty sweeps at us like we’re vermin

What now?" she asked, as if preparing for a new round of difficulties. Nick considered the question, feeling a tug in the center of his chest as he saw the resolution in her expression. She had endured the past few days with an equanimity that was extraordinary for a girl her age. No doubt any other woman would have been reduced to a sobbing heap by now. He wanted to remove the strained look from her eyes and for once see her carefree and relaxed. "Well, Mrs. Gentry," he said, moving to the space beside her, "for the next day or two, I propose that we have some fun." "Fun," she repeated, as if the word were unfamiliar. "Forgive me, but my capacity for enjoyment is rather diminished at present." Nick smiled and settled his hand on the outline of her thigh. "You're in the most exciting city in the world," he murmured, "in the company of a virile young husband and his ill-gotten gains." He kissed her ear, making her shiver. "Believe me, Lottie, there is a great deal of fun to be had.

One peep out of you, and I'll use you for a U-bend under my bathroom sink, holes or no holes, savvy?

Khodorkovsky had broken Putin’s golden rule: “Stay out of politics, and you can keep your ill-gotten gains.” Khodorkovsky had violated this maxim when he’d sent millions of dollars to the opposition parties for the upcoming parliamentary elections,

Why has the idea of Māori privilege been so durable? In the first hundred years of colonisation, the idea of Māori privilege aided and abetted the taking of Māori lands and resources. This loss was framed as a ‘privilege’, a necessary step towards amalgamation and the innumerable benefits it would bring to Māori. In the latter half of the twentieth century and the early decades of the twenty-first century, Māori privilege has again been put to use. Notions of privilege, first used to dispossess Māori, are now being redeployed to consolidate the ill-gotten gains of the previous centuries.

Suddenly, Charlene leaned toward me and put her thin hand under my chin. She turned my face to the French doors that looked out on our elegant patio, our green garden, our lofty, sunstruck trees: our family’s gorgeous little universe built on compromise, of course; ill-gotten gains, I suppose; bargains with the Devil, no doubt. But also luck, grace. Whatever it took to get us, to keep us, safely home.

On the other hand, “worldly sorrow”—literally, sorrow “according to the world”—is grounded in a worldview that refuses to acknowledge the presence and power of God. Worldly sorrow is self-centered and does not lead to a change of heart or behavior. It is the regret felt, for example, when ill-gotten gains are lost, when one is prevented from engaging in sinful pursuits, or when one’s immoral activity is brought to light.

Matthew Hopkins: Witchfinder General (1645 – 1647) by Stewart Stafford ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’ – Exodus, Nor allow legalised killing too cheaply, Twenty shillings of blood money per witch, A charlatan’s extortion for ‘cleansing.’ Witchcraft, the capital crime of the age, Lawyer Hopkins, parasitising laws, Self-appointed Witchfinder General, A reign of terror brought to God-fearing doors. Evildoing’s hunter was its embodiment; A Judas purse wed brutality’s handmaiden, With Stearne, stoked Essex witch hunt mania, Puritanical zeal’s sadistic cruelty. His victims were cast into dungeon pits; Bloodied and broken in outcast desperation; Disease helped some cheat the hangman; The only fortune anyone deemed fair. Extracting confessions through torture’s pain; Their skin pricked to find Satan’s mark, Victims, forced to run until collapse, Sleepless starvation hastened their bleak end. Then to the wicked ducking stool gauntlet, Lowered into muddy ditches or icy water, A survivor’s noose or drowned exoneration? None met the Witchfinder’s imperious eyes. “I, John Lowes, a minister of God, Was martyred so. Hopkins, thou pestilent knave! Bade me to run, held aloft by mocking hands, Funeral rites as I dug mine own grave.” Sensing his gaslit flames turn back on him, Hopkins went to ground with his ill-gotten gains, Slowly he faded, from infamous to obscure, Scars linger on 300 unmarked graves. Some say that Hopkins was executed as a witch, Or faced a tubercular end in his village, Where he is buried, no one knows or cares, Hexed in a barren field for karmic tillage. Rat-catcher to an imagined pestilence, Communities, not covens, he did churn, A toxic chalice for New World lips, Fanning Salem’s pernicious turn. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

rulers claim that they are applying the Law of Islam and assert at the same time that they are governing us by democracy God knows they are liars in both. Islamic law is ignored in our unhappy country and we are governed according to French secular law, which permits drunkenness, fornication, and perversion so long as it is by mutual consent. The state itself in fact benefits from gambling and the sale of alcohol, then spews out its ill-gotten gains in the form of salaries for the Muslims, who as a result are cursed with the curse of what is forbidden and God expunges His blessings from their life. The supposedly democratic state is based on the rigging of elections and the detention and torture of innocent people so that the ruling clique can remain on their thrones

daughters, our rulers claim that they are applying the Law of Islam and assert at the same time that they are governing us by democracy God knows they are liars in both. Islamic law is ignored in our unhappy country and we are governed according to French secular law, which permits drunkenness, fornication, and perversion so long as it is by mutual consent. The state itself in fact benefits from gambling and the sale of alcohol, then spews out its ill-gotten gains in the form of salaries for the Muslims, who as a result are cursed with the curse of what is forbidden and God expunges His blessings from their life. The supposedly democratic state is based on the rigging of elections and the detention and torture of innocent people so that the ruling clique can remain on their

capital through the compensation for damages or the return of ill-gotten gains; 4) Decrease in economic costs that comes from changes in a contract; and 5)

It should be clear that whites have absolutely no intention of ever returning their ill-gotten gains to their victims, or even admitting they have committed any crime at all. Indeed, these intrinsic, unalterable, programmed behaviors have brought them boundless riches and global eminence…but now threaten them with total ruin. Blacks

In the meantime, Donald Trump was treating the drip, drip, drip of our personal emails as his opposition research, not ill-gotten gains of a crime.

Such a person who damages someone to benefit another commits two crimes; first, deceives one, second, facilitates another with ill-gotten gains.

BRIGGS: We’re old friends, Jack and myself. We met at a street corner. I should tell you he’ll deny this account. His story will be different. I was standing at a street corner. A car drew up. It was him. He asked me the way to Bolsover Street. I told him Bolsover Street was in the middle of an intricate one-way system. It was a one-way system easy enough to get into. The only trouble was that, once in, you couldn’t get out. I told him his best bet, if he really wanted to get to Bolsover Street, was to take the first left, first right, second right, third on the left, keep his eye open for a hardware shop, go right round the square, keeping to the inside lane, take the second Mews on the right and then stop. He will find himself facing a very tall office block, with a crescent courtyard. He can take advantage of this office block. He can go round the crescent, come out the other way, follow the arrows, go past two sets of traffic lights and take the next left indicated by the first green filter he comes across. He’s got the Post Office Tower in his vision the whole time. All he’s got to do is to reverse into the underground car park, change gear, go straight on, and he’ll find himself in Bolsover Street with no trouble at all. I did warn him, though, that he’ll still be faced with the problem, having found Bolsover Street, of losing it. I told him I knew one or two people who’d been wandering up and down Bolsover Street for years. They’d wasted their bloody youth there. The people who live there, their faces are grey, they’re in a state of despair, but nobody pays any attention, you see. All people are worried about is their ill-gotten gains. I wrote to The Times about it. Life At A Dead End, I called it. Went for nothing. Anyway, I told him that probably the best thing he could do was to forget the whole idea of getting to Bolsover Street. I remember saying to him: This trip you’ve got in mind, drop it, it could prove fatal. But he said he had to deliver a parcel. Anyway, I took all this trouble with him because he had a nice open face. He looked like a man who would always do good to others himself. Normally I wouldn’t give a fuck. I should tell you he’ll deny this account. His story will be different.

So we seem okay as far as that goes, at least to the sort of people who really care about trying to get their children into Harvard. But I think that some of our snobbier friends suspect that Genie and I may also lead Wolfman-at-full-moontype double lives. Maybe at night we turn into junk-food-loving porkers, sneak off to a trailer park with our brood of kids and grandkids, and lounge in a Winnebago surrounded by brokendown cars up on blocks, watch wrestling on TV, buy liquor with ill-gotten food stamps, scarf corn chips and bean dip, gain weight and put on dreadful sweat pants, sprout mullet haircuts, then trudge the isles of Wal-Mart until dawn breathing the plastic smell and loving it while, with each step, the cheeks of our suddenly gigantic bottoms rise, quiver, fall, and rise again like massive sacks of Jell-O strapped to the hindquarters of water buffalo.

Tharion finished Sofie’s inbox, checked the junk folder, and then finally the trash. It was mostly empty. He clicked open her sent folder, and groaned at the tally. But he began reading again. Click after click after click. His phone chimed with an alert: thirty minutes until he needed to get into the water. He could reach the air lock in five minutes, if he walked fast. He could get through another few emails before then. Click, click, click. Tharion’s phone chimed again. Ten minutes. But he’d halted on an email dated three years ago. It was so simple, so nonsensical that it stood out. Subject: Re: Dusk’s Truth The subject line was weird. But the body of her email was even weirder. Working on gaining access. Will take time. That was it. Tharion scanned downward, toward the original message that Sofie had replied to. It had been sent two weeks before her reply. From: BansheeFan56 Subject: Dusk’s Truth Have you gotten inside yet? I want to know the full story. Tharion scratched his head, opened another window, and searched for Dusk’s Truth. Nothing. No record of a movie or book or TV show. He did a search on the email system for the sender’s name: BansheeFan56. Another half-deleted chain. This one originating from BansheeFan56. Subject: Project Thurr Could be useful to you. Read it. Sofie had replied: Just did. I think it’s a long shot. And the Six will kill me for it. He had a good feeling he knew who “the Six” referred to: the Asteri. But when Tharion searched online for Project Thurr, he found nothing. Only news reports on archaeological digs or art gallery exhibits featuring the ancient demigod. Interesting. There was one other email—in the drafts folder. BansheeFan56 had written: When you find him, lie low in the place I told you about—where the weary souls find relief from their suffering in Lunathion. It’s secure. A rendezvous spot? Tharion scanned what Sofie had started to reply, but never sent. Thank you. I’ll try to pass along the info to my She’d never finished it. There were any number of ways that sentence could have ended. But Sofie must have needed a place where no one would think to look for her and her brother. If Sofie Renast had indeed survived the Hind, she might well have come here, to this very city, with the promise of a safe place to hide. But this stuff about Project Thurr and Dusk’s Truth … He tucked those tidbits away for later. Tharion opened a search field within Declan’s program and typed in the sender’s address. He started as the result came in. Danika Fendyr.

Consider yourself released,” she said fiercely. “And save your money. I should vastly prefer honest ruination to such ill-gotten gains.

Ghost Wail Square by Stewart Stafford There's a place that canines shun, In The Witching Hour stark, Dogs wandering misty avenues, Flee from Pandora's Park. Nicknamed Ghost Wail Square, Once whispered as Harlot's Row, Twilight cobblestones flooded with blood, Extinguished collusion's glow. Blue bloodlust inflamed there, In scented carriages and filthy lanes, Carnivores at the butcher's block, As they scattered ill-gotten gains. At Devil's Hour, the horror peaks, Death rattle knocks on doors, As screams for mercy fill the air, No rescue missions for whores. A killer sheltered 'neath potent wings, A skittish stranger to the noose, Then sewn mouths shall speak, As festering skeletons slip loose. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

Courage is doing what is right and necessary, regardless of peril. Your parents were brave. Your grandmother was brave. Endangering yourself or others for the sake of wealth? Risking lives for a chance at ill-gotten gain? This is not courage. It is avarice.

Otho grunted. “Ill-gotten gains,” he grumbled. “Anyone who touches it will be stained with the blood of their victims!” “I’m not fussy,” Armand answered,

As strangers in their own land, Lee, Mike, and Jackie wanted their homeland back, and the pledges of the Tea Party offered them that. It offered them financial freedom from taxes, and emotional freedom from the strictures of liberal philosophy and its rules of feeling. Liberals were asking them to feel compassion for the downtrodden in the back of the line, the “slaves” of society. They didn’t want to; they felt downtrodden themselves and wanted only to look “up” to the elite. What was wrong with aspiring high? That was the bigger virtue, they thought. Liberals were asking them to direct their indignation at the ill-gotten gains of the overly rich, the “planters”; the right wanted to aim their indignation down at the poor slackers, some of whom were jumping the line.

If he chose to hire a lawyer to defend himself, whatever money he had would be confiscated as “ill-gotten gains.” Deprived of funds for defense, he’d be held until he pleaded guilty or a public defender went through the motions of a defense and a jury of white people convicted him. The evidence would be his lack of character and failure to participate in his own prosecution, with a few bits of physical evidence manufactured by the prosecuting cops. All the blanks would be filled in with lies.

keep a list of Gertrude’s ill-gotten gains. Given recent events, however, I decided my need was greater than his so I ripped off the wrapping paper, handed it to a footman who was standing around with his mouth open, and took it upstairs to my rooms to jot down some thoughts. I fell asleep with Mr Fogg lying next to me, feeling a great deal more ready to face the Old Bill in the morning. Chapter 9 I breakfasted in my rooms and then sought fresh air with Fogg. Tucking one of my Purdey shotguns under my arm and shoving a pocketful of cartridges in my jacket, we set off for a long tramp through the woods in deep snow hoping to bag a fat pheasant – well, I was hoping to; Fogg’s dislike of the dead would rather

Acknowledging and protecting nonhuman individuals places limits on human power, and will put an end to a host of ill-gotten gains – just as emancipation curtailed white power and put an end to the ill-gotten gains of Caucasian-Americans. Consequently, animal activists who push for change are often met with derision and indifference by those who wish to continue their accustomed diet, those who do not want to rethink their leather shoes, toiletries, or treasured forms of entertainment. Feminists and civil rights protesters who asked others to change for the sake of justice – to give up their ill-gotten gains – were and are met with similar insults and raucous rejections.

A considerable portion of the country’s wealth is invested in slaves.” “Ill-gotten wealth does no man any good.” “That’s true.” “It’s as true of nations as individuals,” Billy avowed. “All the ill-gotten gain wrenched by us from the Negro will eventually be taken from us, and we’ll be set back where we began.

Okay, so technically it was your second date, but you’d gotten together before that, and you’ve known him for a while. It’s not like he’s a total stranger. Do you love him?” “Yeah, I think I do. I mean, I guess. It feels like love, but maybe it’s just lust. But yeah, I think I’m in love with the guy.” “How do you know it’s love and not just infatuation? You were kind of blown away when he said he was interested. Maybe it’s more fascination and hero worshipping.” “Hero worshipping?  Seriously, work with me here. I mean, it feels real.” “Okay, so let’s figure this out. What kind of real is it? Like you want to have his babies real, or like if he lost a testicle, didn’t have a job, and couldn’t have sex anymore because he gained five hundred pounds and his asthma stopped him from having hot sex, you’d still be by his side real?” “What kind of question is that?” “You know what I’m saying, don’t be coy. If you just want babies, it’s still infatuation. If you’d sit by his side as he got his testicle removed and gained a bunch of weight and couldn’t find his dick to put it inside of you anymore, would you still want him?” “Sam!” “What? It’s a legitimate question. You don’t have questions like that to measure things?” “Not to that extreme.” “Seriously, there’s a method to my madness. Picture this, he can’t find his winky anymore, it’s hidden between his legs, he can’t reach, he’s out of breath when he tries, and the most you can do is blow him, like that’s it. He might diddle you time to time so you aren’t feeling too hopeless in the sex department, and he doesn’t want you straying. Would you still be there?” Becky sighed, going with the flow of the conversation. “Fine, yes, I’d still be with him. He’s more to me than some hard body to have sex with. I really like the guy. I like talking to him, laughing with him, and learning more about him.” “Nice. I think you may very well be in love, Becks. Now if you could find me a guy like that…” “The one that can’t find his wiener? Or someone to love?” “Hey, I’ll help him find his wiener if he’s awesome.