Infamous 1 Quotes

But you know as well as I, patriotism is a word; and one that generally comes to mean either my country, right or wrong, which is infamous, or my country is always right, which is imbecile.

So you're the infamous Acheron. (Amanda) Lord and Master of the great barbarian horde that roams the night. (Acheron)

Lissa knelt down, compassion on her face. I wasn't surprised, since she'd always had a thing for animals. She'd lectured me for days after I'd instigated the infamous hamster-and-hermit-crab fight. I'd viewed the fight as a testing of worthy opponents. She'd seen it as animal cruelty.

Patriotism is a word; and one that generally comes to mean either my country, right or wrong, which is infamous, or my country is always right, which is imbecile.

My dear creature, I have done with all debate. But you know as well as I, patriotism is a word; and one that generally comes to mean either MY COUNTRY, RIGHT OR WRONG, which is infamous, or MY COUNTRY IS ALWAYS RIGHT, which is imbecile.

That infamous weirdo, the laughingstock of the three realms, the legendary Royal Highness the Crown Prince, he…he…he…he fucking ascended again!

Ian Gittings: The Los Angeles earthquake of October 1,1987 measured 5.9 on the Richter scale. It killed eight people, injured scores more, and left 2,200 people homeless and more than 10,000 buildings badly damaged. However, Nikki Sixx was by far the most infamous Los Angeleno to react to the quake by running out of his house butt-naked and waving a crack pipe.

What do ladies wear beneath their riding trousers?" "I would think an infamous rake would already know." "I was never infamous. In fact, I'm fairly standard as far as rakes go." "The ones who deny it are the worst.

According to Mr. E., all of this was my fault,” Ryan explained. With a little too much amusement if you ask me. “For making you fall in love with me and ruining everything.” “Why did that ruin everything?” Ryan was quiet for a moment, and I couldn’t believe it when his grin changed into that infamous cocky smirk. “You just said you love me!” he accused with excitement. Again, I gaped at him, temporarily speechless. Of course I denied it. I had to; it was my natural reaction to his ego. “I did not!” “Did too.” He grinned. “You said, ‘why did that ruin everything.’ Meaning you agree that it happened. You said it. Can’t take it back. You love me.” Learning to control my powers was child’s play compared to keeping a straight face right then, but I couldn’t give in to his smugness. He was just so sure of himself. “Do not.” “Do too.” “Do not.” “So do too.

Kaz was usually unshakeable during a job, but now he was on edge, and Jesper didn't know why. Part of him wanted to ask, though he knew that was the stupid part, the hopeful farmboy who picked the worst possible person to care about, who searched for signs in things that he knew deep down meant nothing — when Kaz chose him for a job, when Kaz played along with one of his jokes. He could have kicked himself. He'd finally seen the infamous Kaz Brekker without a stitch of clothing, and he'd been too worried about ending up on a pike to pay proper attention.

I curled into a ball underneath my thick comforter, and inhaled through my nose; Travis’ scent still lingered on my skin. The bed felt cold and foreign, a sharp contrast to the warmth of Travis’ mattress. I had spent thirty days in a cramped apartment with Eastern’s most infamous tramp, and after all the bickering and late-night houseguests, it was the only place I wanted to be.

Can he kill with stares? She knows some Grade-A humans can kill with stares, emptying their victims’ lungs just by wishing it. The infamous Death Stare, the Will of Slayer—people gave it many names.

Faustus, who embraced evil and shunned righteousness, became the foremost symbol of the misuse of free will, that sublime gift from God with its inherent opportunity to choose virtue and reject iniquity. “What shall a man gain if he has the whole world and lose his soul,” (Matt. 16: v. 26) - but for a notorious name, the ethereal shadow of a career, and a brief life of fleeting pleasure with no true peace? This was the blackest and most captivating tragedy of all, few could have remained indifferent to the growing intrigue of this individual who apparently shook hands with the devil and freely chose to descend to the molten, sulphuric chasm of Hell for all eternity for so little in exchange. It is a drama that continues to fascinate today as powerfully as when Faustus first disseminated his infamous card in the Heidelberg locale to the scandal of his generation. In fine, a life of good or evil, the hope of Heaven or the despair of Hell, Faustus stands as a reminder that the choice between these two absolutes also falls to us.

It was still early morning when Tess landed at O’Hare, bringing her the ultimate enjoyment of driving through Chicago’s infamous, rush-hour traffic.

You’re infamous. Apparently you have hair the colour of a desert sunset, and eyes that flash like a desert storm—nobody told me that your personality was like a desert cactus as well.

Every once in a while, someone will catch your eye. Someone you can't seem to get out of your head—a once-in-a-lifetime kind of girl. A girl who makes you feel like a complete pussy for even entertaining the idea of love at first sight, and sometimes it takes you off guard so much that you might even have to reach down and make sure your balls are still intact.

So, you're the infamous Acheron." A smile played across his devastatingly handsome face. "Lord and master of the great barbarian horde that roams the night.

An eye patch covered his damaged eye, only allowing glimpses of the edge of his scar, but the message illuminated by the fire didn't need both eyes to be conveyed. 'I have you now.' How true that was. Her life depended on the mercy of this man who was infamous for his lack of mercy.

You are Tal’kamar, though precious few know you as such. You destroyed Saran’geth for an ideal. You butchered the Arathi for revenge. You created the Plains of Decay for the love of a woman long dead.” He paused. “You saved Jala Terr knowing it would cost you a century alone. You hid Wereth from the Shadows because you believed a good man was worth more than a good name. You destroyed us—and then, when we hated you most, you saved us at the expense of everything you ever wanted.” There was sadness in those blue eyes as he said the last. Sadness, and bright pain. “You have lived for over four thousand years, and done so much evil and so much good. You are a legend here amongst the Lyth, despised and beloved, famous and infamous both. You are Tal’kamar,” he finished softly.

However, many a pirate has tried to make his name on the High Seas by searching for famous, long-lost treasures. These include the fabled wreck of the good ship Petunia, the infamous magic stash of the Enchantress of the Northlands, and, of course, the toothbrush collection of Blackjaw Hawkins.

Max can’t hear or speak, but he communicates okay. He wasn’t programmed for fear—whoever rolled the genetic dice left that out too. If Mama asked Max to deliver a package to the Devil, Max would go straight to Hell. Unlike others of my acquaintance who had made that particular trip, I had complete confidence that Max would come back. Max the Silent is one tough boy. In fact, he’s so infamous that one time over in night court when he was being arraigned for attempted murder, nobody even laughed when the judge told him that he had the right to remain silent. They all knew that Max never attempted to murder anyone.

Alexei’s wide shoulders and chest, coupled with the insanely powerful thighs his worn jeans struggled to contain, should have been Mike’s first clue he was looking at a goalie. And in the case of the Ice Cats, the metric ton of lube soaking into his clothes should probably have been a good hint, too. Alexei Belov was infamous for his pranks.

What was the point of revenge if not to repay such an infamous insult in full?

We’re forever part of Skaguay’s history now. You and me, Lil. We’re going down in legend. The infamous Garrett sisters.

What cruel and evil Saltychikha, what utterly repulsive and infamous serf-owner would have killed six peasants for their miserable little clippings of hay?

A few months ago this Decker with a sad life unwittingly befriended the infamous Last Friend serial killer,

Why does the FBI protect Aquino?” “Where is Marin County?” I asked. My geography was still atrocious. “Near the Presidio1,” Deputy Dave began. Aquino was stationed at the Presidio army base, and by 1987 had been under criminal investigation for sexually abusing children in the daycare. The Presidio Daycare scandal was infamous, and even the appeals judge refused to esponge Aquino’s criminal child abuse record2. “Aquino’s on the Marin County Daycare Board.” “How can Marin County justify having a suspected satanic child molester on their board?” I was astounded.

St. George’s Chapel is at the bottom of the hill inside the castle walls, and though it is quaint compared to Westminster Abbey, I love it—the spectacular fan vaulting in the ceiling, the surprisingly intimate chapel with its wood-carved stalls, and the graves of at least ten monarchs, including that infamous cad Henry VIII (buried with his third wife, Jane Seymour, his favorite on account of her not living long enough to irritate him).

After Blakely delivered that infamous and muchrepeated set down, he transferred his gaze to the new Marchioness of Blakely. She shook her head, once. Firmly. “Gareth,” she said dryly. “It is your sister’s wedding day. Behave.” Silence. He’d lifted his chin, in typical Blakely arrogance. The crowd waited for the blast. And then Lord Blakely shrugged and grinned helplessly. Grinned. Helpless. A Blakely. “Oh,” said his sister, from where she stood near him. “Is that how it’s done? I’ll have to practice that.” Like that, everything society knew about nine generations of Blakelys went up in smoke. Since that day, there had been no question. Lady Blakely had been granted otherworldly powers at birth. Every smile she coaxed from him, every laugh that she surprised from his lips, stood as testament to her arcane abilities. And those that questioned her worth still had only to see the look in his eyes when he watched her to find all the proof they required.

You pulled me into this conflict the moment you dropped this girl into my tree,” Grimalkin said, blinking lazily. “I cannot believe that was an act of coincidence, not from the infamous Robin Goodfellow. You should have known it might come to this.

Violet,' Xaden groans against my mouth. The plea in his tone floods my veins with a whole different form of power. Knowing he's just as affected by our attraction as I am is a rush. 'This isn't what you want.' 'It's exactly what I want,' I counter. I want to replace the anger with lust, the death of the day with the pulse-pounding assurance of my own life, and I know he's capable of delivering all that and more. 'You said to do whatever I need.' I arch my back, pressing the tips of my breasts against his chest. His breathing changes, and there's a war in his eyes that I'm determined to win. It's time to stop dancing around this unbearable tension and break it. He leans down, his mouth only inches from mine. 'And I'm telling you that I'm the last thing you need.' The barely leashed growl of his voice rumbles up through his chest, and every nerve ending in my body flares to life. 'Are you suggesting someone else?' My heart races as I chance calling his bluff. 'Fuck no.' The unmistakable flare of jealousy narrows his eyes for a heartbeat before his hips pin mine to the door, and my instant relief at his answer is replaced by a jolt of pure lust. I can see that infamous control of his hovering on the edge, balancing precariously on the point of a knife. All he needs is one. Little. Push. And I'm about to shamelessly shove. 'Good.' I tilt my head up to his and draw his bottom lip between mine, sucking before gently nipping him with my teeth. 'Because I only want you, Xaden.' The words breach something within him, and he gives. Finally. One mouths collide, and the kiss is hot and hard and completely out of our control.

James Dobson, founder of today’s infamous ‘Focus on the Family’ movement,fn1 is equally acquainted with the principle: ‘Those who control what young people are taught, and what they experience – what they see, hear, think, and believe – will determine the future course for the nation.’78

If you visit London, you’ll occasionally cross paths with young men (and less often women) on motor scooters, blithely darting in and out of traffic while studying maps affixed to their handlebars. These studious cyclists are training to become London cabdrivers. Before they can receive accreditation from London’s Public Carriage Office, cabbies-in-training must spend two to four years memorizing the locations and traffic patterns of all 25,000 streets in the vast and vastly confusing city, as well as the locations of 1,400 landmarks. Their training culminates in an infamously daunting exam called “the Knowledge,” in which they not only have to plot the shortest route between any two points in the metropolitan area, but also name important places of interest along the way. Only about three out of ten people who train for the Knowledge obtain certification.

When the lights go dark, I stop breathing. But then spotlights flash and the announcer talks about the points race for the upcoming finals. Rhett is firmly in first place, someone named Emmett Bush is sitting in second, and Theo Silva, the younger guy from the infamous milk clip, is in third.

An extreme representative of this view is Ted Kaczynski, infamously known as the Unabomber. Kaczynski was a child prodigy who enrolled at Harvard at 16. He went on to get a PhD in math and become a professor at UC Berkeley. But you’ve only ever heard of him because of the 17-year terror campaign he waged with pipe bombs against professors, technologists, and businesspeople. In late 1995, the authorities didn’t know who or where the Unabomber was. The biggest clue was a 35,000-word manifesto that Kaczynski had written and anonymously mailed to the press. The FBI asked some prominent newspapers to publish it, hoping for a break in the case. It worked: Kaczynski’s brother recognized his writing style and turned him in. You might expect that writing style to have shown obvious signs of insanity, but the manifesto is eerily cogent. Kaczynski claimed that in order to be happy, every individual “needs to have goals whose attainment requires effort, and needs to succeed in attaining at least some of his goals.” He divided human goals into three groups: 1. Goals that can be satisfied with minimal effort; 2. Goals that can be satisfied with serious effort; and 3. Goals that cannot be satisfied, no matter how much effort one makes. This is the classic trichotomy of the easy, the hard, and the impossible. Kaczynski argued that modern people are depressed because all the world’s hard problems have already been solved. What’s left to do is either easy or impossible, and pursuing those tasks is deeply unsatisfying. What you can do, even a child can do; what you can’t do, even Einstein couldn’t have done. So Kaczynski’s idea was to destroy existing institutions, get rid of all technology, and let people start over and work on hard problems anew. Kaczynski’s methods were crazy, but his loss of faith in the technological frontier is all around us. Consider the trivial but revealing hallmarks of urban hipsterdom: faux vintage photography, the handlebar mustache, and vinyl record players all hark back to an earlier time when people were still optimistic about the future. If everything worth doing has already been done, you may as well feign an allergy to achievement and become a barista.

“You’re high.” Because no one in their right mind would find me attractive. Especially when that person had seen the infamous scars. “Not yet, but I’m planning on it. Want to come?” I didn’t need full use of my brain for this answer. “No. I like my brain cells. I find they come in handy when I … oh, I don’t know … think.”

No. 2’s infamous opening line is a double gambit: the Village does not really want information, of course, only obedience. (From their point of view, information is an exchange-value, not a use-value). In fact, it is No. 6 who truly wants information: information on who No. 1 is, where the Village really is, which side runs it, and how it might be possible to escape.

«Ho detto che sono tutte sciocchezze. Tu stai giocando le carte che ti hanno dato come chiunque altro in questo mondo infame. Hai dei doni per cui la gente ucciderebbe, è inutile che tu li disprezzi. Hai una madre che ti vuole bene e una bella casa dove tornare. Quei villani dei tuoi vicini, che ti guardano dall'alto in basso senza sapere niente solo perché non hai un padre, sono soltanto dei coglioni, il mondo è grande, e a te è stato affidato un ruolo importante. Credi che tutti vadano in giro fischiettando felici della vita che fanno? Credi che a loro sia stato concesso di scegliersi il proprio destino? Mi dispiace, piccola, ma non funziona così. Ti attacchi a quelli a cui vuoi bene e combatti le battaglie che puoi vincere: è così che vanno le cose, micetta.»

It's kind of surprising, considering he spends most of his time in Vegas, playing poker (professionally, of all things), man-whoring, and tossing back his family's infamous Louisiana bourbon. That was his great-grandfather, Willard West's legacy. Hunter's father, Conrad West, after a long life in politics, is Secretary of State. He disapproves of Hunter’s lifestyle, or so I’ve heard.

I was wrong though. The hike was longer than I had remembered, and I did manage to get lost. So I was wandering down there, imagining the glory of the awesome battle happening above, when my father infamously broke ranks and fled from the enemy. His own flight shot him down in retribution. By the time I got home, the battle had been won, my father was gone. And I'd been branded the daughter of a coward.

He doesn’t flinch or react. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t even heard me. “Do you remember Kurt Claymore?” I swallow. The infamous Kurt. Of all the things he might say, this really wasn’t on my radar. “Yeah,” I say blandly. “I have a vague recollection.” “He’s been working the past five years as a manager at a Houston-based manufacturing company.” “So?” “So your friend Damien had him fired this morning.

In the words of the infamous Ice Cube, today was a good day. #GangstaRapInspiration   ...   You know when people say don’t count your chickens before they hatch?   I hate the saying. I’m terrified of birds and their evil, beady eyes and razor-sharp beaks waiting to peck me to death. But that’s not the point. The point is someone should’ve repeated this to me before I skipped down the street, whistling rap songs.

I based the appalling conditions and treatment of the women at Bothwell House on reports about the infamous York Asylum and Bedlam Hospital found in the excellent book Bedlam by Paul Chambers. While York and Bedlam were public hospitals, a large number of private madhouses, as they were called, were run as profitable businesses by people who often had no experience or interest in treating those living with mental illness.

A ese tiempo infame lo llaman siglo de Oro. Mas lo cierto es que, quienes lo vivimos y sufrimos, de oro vimos poco; y de plata, la justa. Sacrificio estéril, gloriosas derrotas, corrupción, picaresca, miseria y poca vergüenza, de eso sí que tuvimos a espuertas. Lo que pasa es que luego uno va y mira un cuadro de Diego Velázquez, oye unos versos de Lope o de Calderón, lee un soneto de don Francisco de Quevedo, y se dice que bueno, que tal vez mereció la pena.

Sensing another maternal oration coming on, one of those I-bore-you-and-thus-know-what’s-best-for-you lectures, Richard made a pointed move towards the door. ‘If that’s all for the moment, Mother, I really must be off. The War Office…’ The marchioness gave another of her infamous harrumphs. ‘Have a good time at White’s, darling,’ she said pointedly. Richard paused halfway out the door and flashed her an incredulous look. ‘How do you always know?’ Lady Uppington looked smug. ‘Because I’m your mother. Now, shoo! Get along with you!

You destroyed Saran'geth for an ideal. You butchered the Arathi for revenge. You created the Plains of Decay for the love of a woman long dead...You saved Jala Terr knowing it would cost you a century alone. You hid Wereth from the Shadows because you believed a good man was worth more than a good name. You destroyed us--and then, when we hated you most, you saved us at the expense of everything you ever wanted...You have lived for over four thousand years, and done so much evil and so much good. You are a legend here amongst the Lyth, despised and beloved, famous and infamous both.

Dr. Nicole Martin.” Riker felt Myne’s eyes boring into him. “She’s alive?” “Apparently.” A shiver of hatred slithered up Riker’s spine. Until last week, when he’d seen a newspaper article glorifying the return of the Martin heir, he’d believed only one member of the godforsaken immediate family, Charles, was alive. “After the rest of the Martins were slaughtered in the rebellion, she was sent to Paris to live with her mother’s relatives until she was old enough to work in Daedalus’s French division as a vampire physiologist.” The mere mention of the infamous Seattle Slave Rebellion made Myne’s voice degenerate into gravel. “And she’s here now?” Riker nodded at the female in the window. “Right there and all grown up. And if you’re done jacking off your dagger, we’ll go have a chat with her.” “You think she’ll cooperate?” Hell no. She was a Martin, after all, current CEO of the company that had revolutionized vampire slavery and used vampires like lab rodents to advance human medicine. Daedalus went through vampires like a slaughterhouse went through cattle, and Riker doubted the company held to any kind of “humane” standards. “For her sake,” Riker said slowly, “I hope so.

For every classical work that sat comfortably with Christian minds and morals, there was another that grated unbearably on them. ‘Carmen 16’ by the poet Catullus was a particular thorn. This poem opens with the infamously bracing line: ‘I will bugger you and I will fuck your mouths’ – hardly the sort of thing to gladden the heart of Basil. ‘Epigram 1.90’ of Martial was little better: this little verse attacks a woman for having affairs with other women. Or, as Martial put it: 'You improvised, by rubbing cunts together, And using that bionic clit of yours To counterfeit the thrusting of a male.

Their mouths crashed together. Tongues tangled. He kissed her as if he wanted to consume her, devour her alive. Fierce kisses, hard kisses, desperate, wanting kisses. He tasted like chocolate and smelled like sin. "Sam..." She pulled away. "I can't breathe." "Neither can I." Her wrapped his arms around her and drew her in for another hungry kiss. Hot, hard, and wet, melting her to the side of the Jeep. His tongue worked past her lips to plunge into her mouth, every stroke tugging at things low and deep in her belly. Her hands moved to his chest, sliding over his pecs and the ripple of abs beneath his shirt. Harman was perfect but Sam was real, his body hard from his fight training, muscles thick from use. He hissed out a breath when her fingers grazed the top of his belt, his infamous self-control giving way to her curious hands. "What are we doing?" he murmured as he drew her earlobe into his mouth, his five-o'clock shadow rough against her sensitive skin. "I don't know, but don't stop." "No chance of that." He shifted against her, his arousal as evident from his ragged breaths as the growing hardness pressed against her hips. When he thrust a thick thigh between her legs, she rocked against him, reckless and wanton in her need for release. She was dying, burning, her body on fire. She'd never felt anything like the toxic combination of anger and lust that pounded through her veins. It made her head spin, drove logic away.

Most people, after arriving at the conclusion that Jehovah is not God, that the Bible is not an inspired book, and that the Christian religion, like other religions, is the creation of man, usually say: "There must be a Supreme Being, but Jehovah is not his name, and the Bible is not his word. There must be somewhere an over-ruling Providence or Power." This position is just as untenable as the other. He who cannot harmonize the cruelties of the Bible with the goodness of Jehovah, cannot harmonize the cruelties of Nature with the goodness and wisdom of a supposed Deity. He will find it impossible to account for pestilence and famine, for earthquake and storm, for slavery, for the triumph of the strong over the weak, for the countless victories of injustice. He will find it impossible to account for martyrs—for the burning of the good, the noble, the loving, by the ignorant, the malicious, and the infamous.

Bill Clinton’s Mena Airport drug operation spawned more deaths than just the infamous murder of drug dealer Barry Seal1. Two teenage boys, Kevin Ives and Don Henry, were murdered after apparently stumbling onto the Mena drug operation2. Their remains were found on the railroad tracks in accordance with Wayne Cox’s m.o.3 At least six people investigating or attempting to expose this horrendous crime were murdered, still in accordance with Cox’s m.o.4 I had already reported to law enforcement that I had witnessed Cox murdering people on the same pivotal stretch of railroad tracks in the course of Bill Clinton’s Mena CIA drug ops. At great risk to his life, Arkansas Deputy Sheriff John Brown confirmed those murders and more around Mena. Few survived the Mena massacres until pertinent documentation circulated among the people5 thanks to the efforts of concerned civil servants like John Brown. Since then, John Brown has become an elected Sheriff.

I'm falling in love with you too, sweetheart. I know you're scared, and I know the shit that dickless douchebag put you through has you doing everything in your power to never go through something like that again, but I'm not him, baby. Don't run from it. Fall with me. Be with me, Ellie. I want to give you every part of myself. I want to be the reason you wake up every day with a smile on your beautiful face. God, Ellie. You own me. You fucking have me by the balls and I don't even care.

We are paying for and even submitting to the dictates of an ever-increasing, unceasingly-spawning class of human beings who should never have been born at all.1 —Margaret Sanger, The Pivot of Civilization In 2009, Hillary Clinton came to Houston, Texas, to receive the Margaret Sanger award from Planned Parenthood. Sanger was the founder of Planned Parenthood and the award is its highest prize. In receiving the award, Hillary said of Sanger, “I admire Margaret Sanger enormously, her courage, her tenacity, her vision. I am really in awe of her. There are a lot of lessons we can learn from her life and the cause she launched and fought for and sacrificed so greatly.”2 What was Margaret Sanger’s vision? What was the cause to which she devoted her life? Sanger is known as a champion of birth control, of providing women with the means to avoid unwanted pregnancies. But the real Margaret Sanger was very different from how she’s portrayed in Planned Parenthood brochures. The real Margaret Sanger did not want women in general to limit their pregnancies. She wanted white, wealthy, educated women to have more children, and poor, uneducated, black women to have none. “Unwanted” for Sanger didn’t mean unwanted by the mother—it meant unwanted by Sanger. Sanger’s influence contributed to the infamous Tuskegee experiments in which poor blacks were deliberately injected with syphilis without their knowledge. Today the Tuskegee Project is falsely portrayed as an example of southern backwardness and American bigotry; in fact, it was a progressive scheme carried out with the very eugenic goals that Margaret Sanger herself championed. In 1926, Sanger spoke to a Women’s Chapter of the Ku Klux Klan in New Jersey about her solution for reducing the black birthrate. She also sponsored a Negro Project specifically designed, in her vocabulary, to get rid of “human beings who should never have been born.” In one of her letters Sanger said, “We do not want word to get out that we are trying to exterminate the Negro population.”3 The racists loved it; other KKK speaking invitations followed. Now it may seem odd that a woman with such views would be embraced by Planned Parenthood—even odder that she would be a role model for Hillary Clinton. Why would they celebrate Sanger given her racist philosophy? In

Существует также третья группа людей, часть личности которых отказывается верить религиозным традициям, однако вера не покидает их полностью. Французский философ Вольтер — прекрасный пример. Он яростно нападал на католическую церковь (ecrasez 1'infame) ("уничтожьте гадину!" (франц) — стандартное окончание писем Вольтера к энциклопедистам о религии и церкви. (Прим.ред.)), рационально аргументируя каждый выпад, но на предсмертном одре, говорят, попросил соборования. Правда это или нет, но его разум был определенно разумом атеиста, тогда как его чувства и эмоции были, по всей видимости, ортодоксально католическими.

He rode into Vassy on March 1, 1562, accompanied by an entourage of two hundred armed knights and found the local Huguenot congregation, numbering some five or six hundred people, including many women and children, conducting its Sunday morning meeting not outside the city walls, as was specified in the Edict of Toleration, but right in town—and, worse, on his property in one of his very own buildings, which they had appropriated without his permission, an unimaginable insult. An altercation between the duke’s people and the Protestants promptly ensued. Being for the most part unarmed, the Huguenots had to improvise. Rocks were thrown. Members of the lower classes were not supposed to throw stones at their superiors from the upper classes. The duke’s soldiers retaliated by shooting and stabbing as many of the dissenters as they could (which was quite a few, as their opponents were trapped inside the building attending a church service), accompanied by rousing shouts of “Kill! Kill! By God’s death kill these Huguenots!” An hour later the Massacre of Vassy, as this infamous incident would later be dubbed, was over. Fifty Huguenots lay dead, another two hundred were wounded, and a flaming torch had been thrust into the tinderbox of religious controversy that would blaze up into the bonfire of the Wars of Religion.

During Bill Clinton’s presidency, the Palestinian terrorist Yasser Arafat was invited to spend more time in the White House than any other foreign leader—thirteen invitations.303 Clinton was dead set on helping the Israelis and Palestinians achieve a lasting peace. He pushed the Israelis to grant ever-greater concessions until the Israelis were willing to grant the Palestinians up to 98 percent of all the territory they requested. And what was the Palestinian response? They walked away from the bargaining table and launched the wave of suicide bombings and other terrorist attacks known as the Second Intifada. And what of Osama bin Laden? Even while America was granting concessions to Palestinians—and thereby theoretically easing the conditions that provided much of the pretext for Muslim terror—bin Laden was bombing U.S. embassies in Africa, almost sank the USS Cole in Yemen, and was well into the planning stages of the catastrophic attacks of September 11, 2001. After President George W. Bush ordered U.S. forces to invade Afghanistan and Iraq in 2001 and 2003, respectively, bringing American troops into direct ground combat with jihadists half a world away, many Americans quickly forgot the recent past and blamed American acts of self-defense for “inflaming” jihad. One of those Americans was Barack Obama. Soon after his election, Obama traveled to Cairo, Egypt, where he delivered a now-infamous speech that signaled America’s massive policy shifts. The United States pulled entirely out of Iraq despite the pleas of “all the major Iraqi parties.”304 In Egypt, the United States actually backed the Muslim Brotherhood government, going so far as agreeing to give it advanced F-16 fighters and M1 Abrams main battle tanks, even as the Muslim Brotherhood government was violating its peace treaty with Israel and persecuting Egypt’s ancient Coptic Christian community. The Obama administration continued supporting the Brotherhood, even when it stood aside and allowed jihadists to storm the American embassy, raising the black flag of jihad over an American diplomatic facility. In Libya, the United States persuaded its allies to come to the aid of a motley group of rebels, including jihadists. Then many of these same jihadists promptly turned their anger on the United States, attacking our diplomatic compound in Benghazi the afternoon and evening of September 11, 2012—killing the American ambassador and three more brave Americans. Compounding this disaster, the administration had steadfastly refused to reinforce the American security presence in spite of a deteriorating security situation, afraid that it would anger the local population. This naïve and foolish administration decision cost American lives.

The German Volk will believe me when I say that I would have chosen peace over war. Because for me, peace meant a multitude of delightful assignments. What I was able to do for the German Volk in the few years from 1933 to 1939, thanks to Providence and the support of numerous excellent assistants, in terms of culture, education, as well as economic recovery, and, above all, in the social organization of our lives, this can surely one day be compared with what my enemies have done and achieved in the same period. In the long years of struggle for power, I often regretted that the realization of my plans was spoiled by incidents that were not only relatively unimportant, but also, above all, completely insignificant. I regret this war not only because of the sacrifices that it demands of my German Volk and of other people, but also because of the time it takes away from those who intend to carry out a great social and civilizing work and who want to complete it. After all, what Mr. Roosevelt is capable of achieving, he has proved. What Mr. Churchill has achieved, nobody knows. I can only feel profound regret at what this war will prevent me and the entire National Socialist movement from doing for many years. It is a shame that a person cannot do anything about true bunglers and lazy fellows stealing the valuable time that he wanted to dedicate to cultural, social, and economic projects for his Volk. The same applies to Fascist Italy. There, too, one man has perpetuated his name for all time through a civilizing and national revolution of worldwide dimensions. In the same way it cannot be compared to the democratic-political bungling of the idlers and dividend profiteers, who, in the Anglo-American countries, for instance, spend the wealth accumulated by their fathers or acquire new wealth through shady deals. It is precisely because this young Europe is involved in the resolution of truly great questions that it will not allow the representatives of a group of powers who tactfully call themselves the “have” states to rob them of everything that makes life worth living, namely, the value of one’s own people, their freedom, and their social and general human existence. Therefore, we understand that Japan, weary of the everlasting blackmail and impudent threats, has chosen to defend itself against the most infamous warmongers of all time. Now a mighty front of nation-states, reaching from the Channel to East Asia, has taken up the struggle against the international Jewish-capitalist and Bolshevik conspiracy. New Year’s Proclamation to the National Socialists and Party Comrades January 1, 1942

Chance looked over at Quinn as he explained the rules... again. Chance knew all of those things, hell, he had lived by them since he bedded his first woman. In the fact, he even added a rule of his own. He never, under any circumstances, went back for seconds with the women he slept with. He was infamous for pissing off women when they said something about him calling them, or seeing them again. Rather than pulling a dodging act most men learned at method which gained him adoration from other men and venom from women. No matter how progressive a woman claimed to be, the moment she realized she had just been fucked like she had never been fucked before or would ever be fucked again; they wanted to hang on. Chance had termed it the law of dickmitizing.

Chance looked over at Quinn as he explained the rules... again. Chance knew all of those things, hell, he had lived by them since he bedded his first woman. In the fact, he even added a rule of his own. He never, under any circumstances, went back for seconds with the women he slept with. He was infamous for pissing off women when they said something about him calling them, or seeing them again. Rather than pulling a dodging act most men learned at method which gained him adoration from other men and venom from women. No matter how progressive a woman claimed to be, the moment she realized she had just been fucked like she had never been fucked before or would ever be fucked again; they wanted to hang on. Chance had termed it the law of dickmitizing.

Well, Dax had wanted distraction, but he didn’t think meeting the infamous Tribe with a raging hard-on could be considered putting his best foot forward.

I'm not sure if I'm famous or infamous - I suspect it depends who you ask and which side of the fence they are on.

A high school dropout, Robert Vesco bilked and conned his way to riches. Two times Forbes magazine named Vesco as one of the 400 richest Americans. The articles simply stated that he was a thief. As a man continually on the run, he was constantly attempting to buy his way out of the many complicated predicaments he got himself into. In 1970, Vesco made a successful bid to take over Investors Overseas Services (IOS), an offshore, Geneva-based mutual fund investment firm, worth $1.5 Billion. Employing 25,000 people and selling mutual funds throughout Europe, primarily in Germany, he thought of the company as his own private slush fund. Using the investors’ money as his own, he escalated his investment firm into a grand “Ponzi Scheme.” During this time he also made an undisclosed $200,000 contribution to Maurice Stans, Finance Chairman for President Nixon’s Committee to Re-elect the President, known as CREEP. To make matters worse, the media discovered that his contribution was being used to help finance the infamous Watergate burglary.

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Thomas’s heart drummed. Where was Eliza? And then he saw her. His breath stalled in his lungs as she moved toward him, floating over the ground like a pink angel from heaven. The dusty-rose gown she’d worn that infamous night hugged her luscious curves, giving him ample fuel for his imagination, but he pushed those thoughts away for the moment. They would be man and wife soon enough. Never had he seen such beauty, or known such grace. Lord, help me be the kind of man she deserves. He glanced to heaven. Robert, I shall do my best to make you proud and give your daughter the best of my days. A quiet voice brushed behind his ear, and Thomas stilled as Robert’s familiar tone made his heart swell. I know. In that moment Eliza’s dark eyes found his, and she smiled, lifting Thomas from the ground. Her cheeks darkened to the same rosy hue of her gown as she neared. Nathaniel chuckled deep and low. “You’re a lucky man, Thomas.” Nodding, Thomas couldn’t move his eyes away from his bride. “I know.” “Good

True, it was customary in Schongau that the hangman could spare the offender if he married her. But Johannes Kuisl had a wife already, and Katharina Kuisl wasn’t exactly known to be kind and gentle. She was the daughter of the infamous executioner Jörg Abriel, and people called her the “Bloody Daughter” or “Satan’s Wife.

Una chica a la que algunos llamaron Hija Pálida. O la Coronadora. O Cuervo. Pero a la que la mayoría no llamó de ningún modo. Una asesina de asesinos, la cifra exacta de cuya cuenta de finales solo conocemos la diosa y yo. ¿Fue famosa o infame por esa cifra al término de sus días? ¿Por tanta muerte? Confieso que nunca he sabido ver la diferencia. Pero es que yo nunca he visto las cosas como las veis vosotros. Nunca he vivido del todo en el mundo que llamáis propio. Ni ella tampoco, en realidad. Creo que por eso la amaba.  

Recipe Hello from Honey Hollow! Lottie here! I hope you’re in the mood for something devilishly delicious. My famous, or rather infamous devil’s food cake is well—to die for. If you have a serious hankering for chocolate, you will not regret this. But be warned, your entire home will hold the scent of warm, tempting chocolate. It is rather hard to resist. Happy baking! From the kitchen of the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery Devil’s Food Cake 1½ cup of softened butter ¾ cup unsweetened baking coco 2 cups sugar 3 eggs 3 cups sifted all-purpose flour ¼ tsp salt 1 ½ tsp baking soda ¾ cup milk 1 cup hot water 1 tsp white distilled vinegar 1 tablespoon vanilla extract Instructions Preheat oven 350° Grease and dust with coco powder or flour, two 9 inch round pans or a 9x13 pan. *I prefer to use a stand mixer. Although mixing by hand works well, too. Mix and cream together coco, sugar, butter, milk and eggs. Slowly mix in one cup of hot water. Add flour, salt, baking soda, vinegar and vanilla extract. Pour into two pans evenly, or a single prepared pan. Bake at 350° for 30 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the middle, comes out clean. Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery’s Go-to Chocolate Frosting Recipe 6 tablespoons softened butter ¾ cup unsweetened baking coco Pinch of salt 3 tablespoons hot water 1 ¾ cup of powdered sugar In a mixing bowl, cream butter, coco, salt, and water. Stir until it reaches a smooth finish. Slowly add in powdered sugar. Make sure it reaches your desired consistency. If it’s too thick, add a touch more water. If it’s too thin, add in a touch more powdered sugar. Frost your cooled devil’s food cake and enjoy!

This is a Cylindropuntia fulgida, also called a jumping cholla because if you get too close, the plant will hurl a stickery ball of pain at you. These guys are infamous for sticking to any part of your unprotected skin. Look up this plant on YouTube and you won’t find educational videos. You’ll just see ones of people trying to pull these things off various body parts. Jumping chollas are pretty much nature’s way of saying, “I hate you and your entire species.

According to her, cursed aren’t magick’s natural state. You need to twist the power into that shape, and it will do everything it can to resist you. So you have to mean them. Death curses especially. If your command is weak, the curse won’t work—or worse.” He gave her a pointed look. Isobel nearly rolled her eyes. Meaning a curse was pointless. The sort of idea a villain would fancy. Crafting enchantments was a neutral art. But she wouldn’t tell him that. She was completely powerless in the lair of the tournament’s most infamous champion, alive based only on his mood swings. Survival meant swallowing her insults and forcing a smile. “Maybe you can help, then,” she said, as though she’d offered him the page he’d grabbed from her. He scoffed. “I can’t teach you how to be wicked.

In that moment, I almost kissed her. An instinctive reaction, really. I was Robin Goodfellow, the infamous Puck; I had kissed countless pretty girls, human and fey alike. Graceful nymphs, flirtatious satyrs, ethereal sidhe, and naive human females in the mortal world, none could resist my charm once I'd turned it on. I'd kissed a few boys as well, along with a mermaid, a trio of plant creatures that had no discernible gender, and one very disillusioned frog that thought it was a princess. Kissing, and all the activities that came with it, was so common an occurrence in the Nevernever it was almost expected. Love was never an option, or even an afterthought. While some fey did grow quite attached to each other, even to the point of developing real affection, true love required work, sacrifice, and putting the other person before yourself, something few faeries understood. So while I had done a lot of kissing in my long years as Robin Goodfellow, very little of it meant anything to me. With a couple exceptions, of course. The most notable was the queen we were on our way to see, right now. The princess I'd lost, who had chosen my greatest rival instead of me.

Adolf Hitler was likely the most infamous missionary serial killers.

Consider a forecast Steve Ballmer made in 2007, when he was CEO of Microsoft: “There’s no chance that the iPhone is going to get any significant market share. No chance.” Ballmer’s forecast is infamous. Google “Ballmer” and “worst tech predictions”—or “Bing” it, as Ballmer would prefer—and you will see it enshrined in the forecasting hall of shame, along with such classics as the president of Digital Equipment Corporation declaring in 1977 that “there is no reason anyone would want a computer in their home.” And that seems fitting because Ballmer’s forecast looks spectacularly wrong. As the author of “The Ten Worst Tech Predictions of All Time” noted in 2013, “the iPhone commands 42% of US smartphone market share and 13.1% worldwide.”1 That’s pretty “significant.” As another journalist wrote, when Ballmer announced his departure from Microsoft in 2013, “The iPhone alone now generates more revenue than all of Microsoft.”2

Que les forts attaquent les faibles, c'est un mal parfois inévitable et même à certains égards une loi naturelle, à condition toutefois que les moyens ne violent pas les normes de la nature comme c'est le cas dans les guerres mécanisées, et que la force ne serve pas des idées intrinsèquement fausses, ce qui serait une anomalie de plus (1) ; mais que les forts écrasent les faibles au moyen d'une hypocrisie intéressée et des bassesses qui en résultent, cela n'est ni naturel ni inévitable, et il est gratuit et même infame de mettre sur le compte de la "sensiblerie" toute opinion qui condamne ces méthodes ; le "réalisme" politique peut justifier les violences, jamais les vilénies. (1) C'est donc surtout aux guerres tribales ou féodales que nous pensons, ou encore aux guerres d'expansion des civilisations traditionnelles. D'aucuns objecteront qu'il y a toujours eu des machines et qu'un arc n'est pas autre chose, ce qui est aussi faux que de prétendre qu'un cercle est une sphère ou qu'un dessin est une statue. Il y a là une différence de dimensions dont les causes sont profondes et non quantitatives.

Am I right in thinkin' you've maybe been" - he dropped his voice - "the victim of an infamous outrage by the darkies?

Each interlude led to fuller and better orgasms than the last, yet we desired more. Count Mario Conti definitely lived up to the reputation of a great Italian lover of men, like the infamous Giacomo Girolamo Casanova de Seingalt was to women. Needless to say, our lovemaking flowed unceasingly until the final hour we were scheduled to depart to Teatro La Fenice, to attend the evening’s performance of La Traviata. We unwillingly left the comfort of the king bed to dress. I did not want our lovemaking to ever end.

Esteban Ventura Novo rose to the rank of a police Lieutenant Colonel during the Batista regime in Cuba. Feared by many, he became known as the white-suited assassin and was infamous in Havana’s Fifth Precinct. He later moved to the Ninth Precinct where he continued his reign of terror. The University of Havana was closed due to the ongoing revolution and the students feared for their lives. Esteban Ventura Novo was known for the cruel torturing of people and how he dispatched his adversaries. On April 20, 1957 Ventura organized the largest massacre of students in Havana. At the time he sent a squad of undercover police to find Fructuoso Rodríguez, the president of the Federation of University Students and his followers and without hesitation Ventura ordered that they be killed in cold blood. During the second half of 1958, the swinging city of Havana became a dangerous place in which to live. The ruthless but dapper Ventura who started as a police snitch gained his promotions by means of his vicious conduct and the diabolical way he eliminated the so-called “enemies of the state.” Ventura, was condemned to death by Fidel Castro’s revolutionary army but managed to escape to Miami where he and other members of the Batista regime found refuge. Ventura settled in Miami, where he founded a security agency, which was located on First South West Street and Bacon Boulevard. On April 1, 1959, Ventura was granted permission to stay in the United States. He had escaped justice despite the overwhelming evidence against him. Esteban Ventura Novo, the “Man in the White Suit” continued to live a comfortable life in South Florida, until his death at the age of 87.

Hitler had been sworn in as Chancellor two months earlier by Paul von Hindenburg, President of the German Republic, on the supposition that only he and his National Socialists—by then the largest party in the country, with one-third the popular vote—could deal with the paralysis that had immobilized the government for months. Hitler took power legally; there followed immediately a series of illegal acts designed to consolidate his power and intimidate the opposition. A fire set in the Reichstag, blamed on a Dutch pyromaniac, who may have been used by the National Socialists, gave Hitler his excuse to begin a pseudolegal process of abolishing all constitutional guarantees of individual freedom. The party’s infamous storm troopers assaulted the political opposition, trade union leaders and Jews. Sheer terror purged the Reichstag of so many opposition deputies that Hitler had no trouble in pushing through the Enabling Act that gave him dictatorial powers. The boycott of Jewish businesses on April 1, 1933, which simply institutionalized storm trooper violence against Jewish professionals and businesses, was Hitler’s first formal effort against the people he believed to be at the heart of a Bolshevik conspiracy to destroy Germany. That

Karish. The Stallion of the Triple S. My Source. I was chained to a legend. An infamous legend. Stories of drunkenness, whoring, and general recklessness filled my head. Oh. My. God. I must have been evil in a former life. This was it. The person I would work with the rest of my life.

What you are holding in your hand is the status of our shield walls and a brief explanation to Ardain as to how they got that way. Feel free to read it. This is vital information. There are those who will definitely try to suppress it. So, stay alert.” Ari smiled slightly. “The queen enjoys your company on her morning rides. I would hate to explain to her why I got her favorite riding companion killed if you don’t come back.” Tevon’s mouth quirked up. “No, that is certainly to be avoided. No disrespect intended, High Lord, but life gets uncomfortable for you when she is displeased. I would not want to be the cause of that.” Ari sighed and looked at Doral. “I am never going escape that infamous week, am I?” “She made quite an impression on the men. You could have all of them shot. That would slow down the gossip.” Doral shrugged, seemingly indifferent. “You would lose quite a number of highly skilled commanders and staff.

I've never kissed an art forger before" Lord Huntington to Eliza Somerton in "An Artful Seduction

Mr. VITTER. Will the Senator yield for a question?   Mr. CRUZ. I am happy to yield for a question without yielding the floor.   Mr. VITTER. I thank the Senator. Does he acknowledge that he understands, as I do, that as this monstrosity goes into effect October 1 and as it has all of these really devastating impacts on individuals and small businesses, under a special illegal rule from the Obama administration, Congress and Washington get an exemption; they get a special pass; they get a special deal no other American gets under the law?   Mr. CRUZ. I thank the Senator for his question, and he is absolutely right. There are many scandalous aspects of ObamaCare: how it was passed--on a brutal partisan vote rammed through with late-night deals that have earned rather infamous nicknames, such as the ``Cornhusker kickback,'' which has sadly become part of modern political lore; and the ``Louisiana purchase,'' with all due respect to my friend from the great State of Louisiana, who was not involved in that. And one of the most sorry aspects of ObamaCare is the aspect Senator Vitter refers to, which is that President Obama has chosen, at the behest of majority leader Harry Reid, at the behest of Democratic Members of the Senate, to exempt Members of Congress and their staff from the plain language of the statute.   When

The Paleo diet is about eliminating carbs Going along with the “caveman” image, many people mistakenly think that Paleo eating is all about tearing into endless plates of meat and nothing else. This is not true. On a Paleo eating plan, carbs are usually kept below 100 or 150 grams per day, which is actually ample. The kind of carbs is more important, and Paleo eaters get their carbohydrates from starchy vegetables, nuts and seeds instead of the empty calories from bread, rice or pasta. Paleo dieters will occasionally fast and put their bodies into ketosis, but this is not automatically a very low carb plan and has very little in common with the infamous Atkins diet. The Paleo diet is not practical Many people reel in horror at the thought that you could stay alive without grains. The truth is grains, especially wheat, are nutrient poor and usually only serve to disrupt blood sugar and insulin levels, promote fat storage and increase over time allergies, obesity and even the initial stages of type II diabetes. Grains contain phytates and other plant proteins that damage the intestinal lining and lead to leaky gut syndrome and a host of other complaints, not to mention overweight. A diet rich in empty carbohydrates is nutrient deficient, fattening and even addictive, if white sugar plays a big role. You can eat as much fat as you like on the Paleo diet Partly true. Again, it’s not so much the quantity but the quality of the fat in question. While eating fat has been shown again and again not to make you fat, it’s also important to choose the right kinds. Butter, good quality animal fats, avocado, coconut and olive oil as well as the fat found in eggs and good quality dairy are excellent for the health in every way. Avoid refined, deodorized and hydrogenated oils such as sunflower, cottonseed or canola oil. These are incredibly toxic to the body and high in inflammation causing Omega 6 fatty acids. Dairy is forbidden on the Paleo diet Always a point of debate, whether to eat dairy or not comes down to a matter of personal choice. Some of us possess the enzymes to properly digest milk, other do not. The only way to test for your own sensitivity is to experiment and listen to your body. If lactose is a problem, eat cultured dairy like yogurt, kefir and cheese. If milk forms a good part of your diet, be sure that you’re getting hormone free, grass fed milk from a quality source and don’t binge on milk as it’s also quite high in carbohydrates. If fat loss is your main goal, eliminate dairy until your goal weight is reached.

March 2 MORNING “But all the Israelites went down to the Philistines, to sharpen every man his share, and his coulter, and his ax, and his mattock.” — 1 Samuel 13:20 WE are engaged in a great war with the Philistines of evil. Every weapon within our reach must be used. Preaching, teaching, praying, giving, all must be brought into action, and talents which have been thought too mean for service, must now be employed. Coulter, and axe, and mattock, may all be useful in slaying Philistines; rough tools may deal hard blows, and killing need not be elegantly done, so long as it is done effectually. Each moment of time, in season or out of season; each fragment of ability, educated or untutored; each opportunity, favourable or unfavourable, must be used, for our foes are many and our force but slender. Most of our tools want sharpening; we need quickness of perception, tact, energy, promptness, in a word, complete adaptation for the Lord’s work. Practical common sense is a very scarce thing among the conductors of Christian enterprises. We might learn from our enemies if we would, and so make the Philistines sharpen our weapons. This morning let us note enough to sharpen our zeal during this day by the aid of the Holy Spirit. See the energy of the Papists, how they compass sea and land to make one proselyte, are they to monopolize all the earnestness? Mark the heathen devotees, what tortures they endure in the service of their idols! are they alone to exhibit patience and self-sacrifice? Observe the prince of darkness, how persevering in his endeavours, how unabashed in his attempts, how daring in his plans, how thoughtful in his plots, how energetic in all! The devils are united as one man in their infamous rebellion, while we believers in Jesus are divided in our service of God, and scarcely ever work with unanimity. O that from Satan’s infernal industry we may learn to go about like good Samaritans, seeking whom we may bless!

Yet I provided you everything (almost) in my book, which the government denies you the access to. I was going to go deeper in details, but I figured it was futile. To make a long story short, you may divide my time in two big steps. (1) Pre-torture (I mean that I couldn’t resist): I told them the truth about me having done nothing against your country. It lasted until May 22, 2003. (2) Post-torture era: where my brake broke loose. I yessed every accusation my interrogators made. I even wrote the infamous confession about me planning to hit the CN Tower in Toronto, based on SSG ■​■​■​■​■​■​■​■​■​ advice. I just wanted to get the monkeys off my back. I don’t care how long I stay in jail. My belief comforts me.2

So I was wandering down there, imagining the glory of the awesome battle happening above, when my father infamously broke ranks and fled from the enemy. His own flight shot him down in retribution. By the time I got home, the battle had been won, my father was gone.

So this bucket is for your journey back from the oasis—you’ll need it. And this one”—she held up the other—“is just to make the trip hell.” “Why?” Ansel hooked the buckets into the yoke across her shoulders. “Because if you can run three miles across the dunes of the Red Desert, then three miles back, you can almost do anything.” “Run?” Celaena’s throat dried up at the thought of it. “Don’t tell me the infamous Celaena Sardothien can’t run three miles!” “If you’ve been here for so many years, doesn’t the three miles seem like nothing now?” Ansel rolled her neck like a cat stretching out in the sun. “Of course it does. But the running keeps me in shape. You think I was just born with these legs?” Celaena ground her teeth as Ansel gave her a fiendish grin. “If you walk, it’ll take all day! And then you’ll certainly never impress anyone!

That’s your best memory?” I ask. “A gory injury?” “A gory injury that made me infamous in Spokane Valley. You can’t put a price on the kind of street cred it got me.

La más reciente bibliografía de la derecha intelectual argentina —Ni década ni infame: del ‘30 al ‘43 (1991) de Carlos Aguinaga-Roberto Azaretto, y la correlativa El general Justo (1993) de Rosendo Fraga— se dedica esforzadamente a justificar esos años y a exaltar a sus protagonistas conservadores. En esa secuencia sólo falta la apología de Manuel Fresco que contradiga otros trabajos documentados adversos (cfr. Ronald H. Dolkart, Manuel Fresco, Governor of The Province of Buenos Aires, Universidad de California, 1969).

Wand-quality aspen wood is white and fine-grained, and highly prized by all wand-makers for its stylish resemblance to ivory and its usually outstanding charmwork. The proper owner of the aspen wand is often an accomplished duellist, or destined to be so, for the aspen wand is one of those particularly suited to martial magic. An infamous and secretive eighteenth-century duelling club, which called itself The Silver Spears, was reputed to admit only those who owned aspen wands.

One side of me says, ‘I’d like to talk to her, date her.’ The other side says, ‘I wonder how her head would look on a stick.

The reporter asked him how he felt after killing his mother, when he saw an attractive girl. His answer to the reporter was, “One side of me says, ‘I’d like to talk to her, date her.’ The other side says, ‘I wonder how her head would look on a stick.

According to the FBI, Semtex has an indefinite half-life and is far stronger than traditional explosives such as TNT. It is also easily available on the black market. Semtex became infamous when just 12 ounces of the substance, molded inside a Toshiba cassette recorder, blasted Pan Am flight 103 out of the sky above Lockerbie, Scotland, in December 1988, killing 270 people. A year later, after the Czech Communist regime was toppled, the new president, Vaclav Havel, revealed that the Czechs had exported 900 tons of Semtex to Col. Moammar Qaddafi's Libya and another 1,000 tons to other unstable states such as Syria, North Korea, Iraq, and Iran. Some experts now put worldwide stockpiles of Semtex at 40,000 tons. Brebera says that with so much Semtex already in the hands of terrorists, and similar explosives being produced in other countries, the Czech Republic can no longer control it. "Semtex is no worse an explosive than any other," he says, defensive at the sight of accusatory headlines in Western newspapers. "The American explosive C4 is just as invisible to airport X-rays, but they don't like to mention that." After the Lockerbie tragedy, Brebera added metal components and a distinct odor to make Semtex easier to detect. But that did not stop terrorists from using it to bomb the US Embassy in Nairobi, Kenya, in 1998, or prevent the IRA, which received about 10 tons of Semtex from Libya, from continuing its attacks.

I want to play Legos with you.

Cardan's clothes are disarranged from crawling under tables or being captured and tied, and his infamous tail is showing under the white lawn of his shirt. It it slim, nearly hairless, with a tuft of black fur at the tip. As I watch, the tail forms one wavering curve after another snaking back and forth, betraying his cool face, telling its own story of uncertainty and fear. I can see why he hides that thing away.

A bushy prickle?" I asked before bursting out laughing. "Organic adamantium solution? Now remind me, do we get ours straight from outer space or is that shipped through Amazon?

He was trying to remind me that I could join Team Hero instead of Team Career Criminal. That I was capable of doing some real good. Too bad he was going to have to settle for something in between the two.

Lucas didn’t respond. His eyes remained locked on me, burning with anger like I’d somehow deliberately misled him. Okay, sure. That’s what I’d done. But so fucking what? He’d gotten to screw the infamous Hades in a storeroom. There were wannabe gangsters—and fully blooded ones—all over this side of the country who would cut their own fingers off for a chance to get in my panties.

I turned the phone over in my hands and found the smarmy billionaire staring back at me, his smile glowing white and his face wrinkle-free. I cringed as I remembered him flirting with me and fought the urge to smash the jeweled smile off his face.

One thing was certain: Artemis Jones was no shrinking wallflower. She was more like an arbor rose—beautiful and as beguiling as sin. And despite the fact he was an infamous duke, she was unafraid to aim a well-deserved barb or two his way. She was definitely a refreshing change from the usual fare on offer at society balls.

And would you indeed not lift a finger, even for the moderate aims?’ ‘I would not. With the revolution in France gone to pure loss I was already chilled beyond expression. And now, with what I saw in ‘98, on both sides, the wicked folly and the wicked brute cruelty, I have had such a sickening of men in masses, and of causes, that I would not cross this room to reform parliament or prevent the union or to bring about the millennium. I speak only for myself, mind – it is my own truth alone – but man as part of a movement or a crowd is indifferent to me. He is inhuman. And I have nothing to do with nations, or nationalism. The only feelings I have – for what they are – are for men as individuals; my loyalties, such as they may be, are to private persons alone.’ ‘Patriotism will not do?’ ‘My dear creature, I have done with all debate. But you know as well as I, patriotism is a word; and one that generally comes to mean either my country, right or wrong, which is infamous, or my country is always right, which is imbecile.’ ‘Yet