Jack's Savage Quotes

You never know," Jack said speculatively. "There may come a time when savages like William Hamleigh aren't in power; when the laws protect the ordinary people instead of enslaving them; when the king makes peace instead of war. Think of that - a time when towns in England don't need walls!

It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild. (Ch.1)

A vast silence reigned over the land. The land itself was a desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of laughter more terrible than any sadness-a laughter that was mirthless as the smile of the Sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and partaking of the grimness of infallibility. It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild.

Jack of all trades, master of none, though often better than a master of one.

Jack doesn’t give a jackshit about me. No, wait, I got that backwards. I don’t give a jackshit about Jack the Shit.

Wisdom doesn't go out of style, even if it's in increasingly short supply.

All writers are manipulative liars." Jack O. Savage, The Poet

Now there were plenty of words to describe the kind of rippling muscle perfection that greeted me. Jacked. Ripped. Built. Drool-worthy. Man candy. God damn! But the most appropriate seemed to be: holy fucking shit.

It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life.  It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild.

Never did he fail to respond savagely to the chatter of the squirrel he had first met on the blasted pine.

Kill one man, and you are a murderer. Kill millions of men, and you are a conqueror. Kill them all, and you are a god.

But this is not a world of free freights. One pays according to an iron schedule--for every strength the balanced weakness; for every high a corresponding low; for every fictitious god-like moment an equivalent time in reptilian slime. For every feat of telescoping long days and weeks of life into mad magnificent instants, one must pay with shortened life, and, oft-times, with savage usury added.

All was confusion and action, and every moment life and limb were in peril. There was imperative need to be constantly alert; for these dogs and men were not town dogs and men. They were savages, all of them, who knew no law but the law of club and fang.

[excerpt] The usual I say. Essence. Spirit. Medicine. A taste. I say top shelf. Straight up. A shot. A sip. A nip. I say another round. I say brace yourself. Lift a few. Hoist a few. Work the elbow. Bottoms up. Belly up. Set ‘em up. What’ll it be. Name your poison. I say same again. I say all around. I say my good man. I say my drinking buddy. I say git that in ya. Then a quick one. Then a nightcap. Then throw one back. Then knock one down. Fast & furious I say. Could savage a drink I say. Chug. Chug-a-lug. Gulp. Sauce. Mother’s milk. Everclear. Moonshine. White lightning. Firewater. Hootch. Relief. Now you’re talking I say. Live a little I say. Drain it I say. Kill it I say. Feeling it I say. Wobbly. Breakfast of champions I say. I say candy is dandy but liquor is quicker. I say Houston, we have a drinking problem. I say the cause of, and solution to, all of life’s problems. I say god only knows what I’d be without you. I say thirsty. I say parched. I say wet my whistle. Dying of thirst. Lap it up. Hook me up. Watering hole. Knock a few back. Pound a few down. My office. Out with the boys I say. Unwind I say. Nurse one I say. Apply myself I say. Toasted. Glow. A cold one a tall one a frosty I say. One for the road I say. Two-fisted I say. Never trust a man who doesn’t drink I say. Drink any man under the table I say. Then a binge then a spree then a jag then a bout. Coming home on all fours. Could use a drink I say. A shot of confidence I say. Steady my nerves I say. Drown my sorrows. I say kill for a drink. I say keep ‘em comin’. I say a stiff one. Drink deep drink hard hit the bottle. Two sheets to the wind then. Knackered then. Under the influence then. Half in the bag then. Out of my skull I say. Liquored up. Rip-roaring. Slammed. Fucking jacked. The booze talking. The room spinning. Feeling no pain. Buzzed. Giddy. Silly. Impaired. Intoxicated. Stewed. Juiced. Plotzed. Inebriated. Laminated. Swimming. Elated. Exalted. Debauched. Rock on. Drunk on. Bring it on. Pissed. Then bleary. Then bloodshot. Glassy-eyed. Red-nosed. Dizzy then. Groggy. On a bender I say. On a spree. I say off the wagon. I say on a slip. I say the drink. I say the bottle. I say drinkie-poo. A drink a drunk a drunkard. Swill. Swig. Shitfaced. Fucked up. Stupefied. Incapacitated. Raging. Seeing double. Shitty. Take the edge off I say. That’s better I say. Loaded I say. Wasted. Off my ass. Befuddled. Reeling. Tanked. Punch-drunk. Mean drunk. Maintenance drunk. Sloppy drunk happy drunk weepy drunk blind drunk dead drunk. Serious drinker. Hard drinker. Lush. Drink like a fish. Boozer. Booze hound. Alkie. Sponge. Then muddled. Then woozy. Then clouded. What day is it? Do you know me? Have you seen me? When did I start? Did I ever stop? Slurring. Reeling. Staggering. Overserved they say. Drunk as a skunk they say. Falling down drunk. Crawling down drunk. Drunk & disorderly. I say high tolerance. I say high capacity. They say protective custody. Blitzed. Shattered. Zonked. Annihilated. Blotto. Smashed. Soaked. Screwed. Pickled. Bombed. Stiff. Frazzled. Blasted. Plastered. Hammered. Tore up. Ripped up. Destroyed. Whittled. Plowed. Overcome. Overtaken. Comatose. Dead to the world. The old K.O. The horrors I say. The heebie-jeebies I say. The beast I say. The dt’s. B’jesus & pink elephants. A mindbender. Hittin’ it kinda hard they say. Go easy they say. Last call they say. Quitting time they say. They say shut off. They say dry out. Pass out. Lights out. Blackout. The bottom. The walking wounded. Cross-eyed & painless. Gone to the world. Gone. Gonzo. Wrecked. Sleep it off. Wake up on the floor. End up in the gutter. Off the stuff. Dry. Dry heaves. Gag. White knuckle. Lightweight I say. Hair of the dog I say. Eye-opener I say. A drop I say. A slug. A taste. A swallow. Down the hatch I say. I wouldn’t say no I say. I say whatever he’s having. I say next one’s on me. I say bottoms up. Put it on my tab. I say one more. I say same again

The consolidation of power at the federal level in the guise of public safety is a national trend and should be guarded against at all costs. This erosion of rights, however incremental, is the slow death of freedom.

Civilized men are more discourteous than savages because they know they can be impolite without having their skulls split, as a general thing.

She stepped closer to him, closer still, until her breasts touched his jacket, watching his eyes all the time. “My darling Jack.” She lifted herself up on tiptoe and awkwardly kissed the side of his mouth. “I’m yours. You know that.” His control broke. His hands fisted in her hair and he kissed her hard, almost savagely. He knew he was bruising her mouth but he couldn’t stop himself. It was as if her mouth were giving him life. He would stay alive as long as he was kissing her.

Bankruptcy—a peculiar institution that enabled an individual, who had failed in competitive industry, to forego paying his debts. The effect was to ameliorate the too savage conditions of the fang-and-claw social struggle.

DARK SPRUCE FOREST FROWNED ON EITHER SIDE THE FROZEN WATERWAY. The trees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering of frost, and they seemed to lean towards each other, black and ominous, in the fading light. A vast silence reigned over the land. The land itself was a desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of a laughter more terrible than any sadness—a laughter that was mirthless as the smile of the sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and partaking of the grimness of infallibility. It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild.

It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild.

the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild.

He kissed her then, not gently, not tenderly. He didn’t kiss her to comfort her. He took her mouth hungrily, almost savagely, wanting to punish her for having a body that tormented him, for telling him that his last kiss had meant nothing, needed to punish her for letting scum like Jack Caldwell call her honey, and for ever thinking about a man who wasn’t him.

I’ve always loved wild people, and Sixteen-String Jack Rann reminds so much of my mate, Dave Brotherton, that it’s uncanny. Not that Dave was ever a highwayman – although he may well have been in a past life – but like Jack he was born with a wild hair up his arse, and that’s all there is to it. He has a savage charisma about him that radiates out of the chaos of his life. His energy comes at you from all directions and watching Dave, when he’s on form, is like trying to keep your eyes on the pattern the sun makes as it bounces off the waves at dusk

Tower of the Elephant in my third novel, Savage Son: “Civilized men are more discourteous than savages because they know they can be impolite without having their skulls split, as a general thing.

—Bill—that was it; Bill, the Chauffeur. That was his name. He was a wretched, primitive man, wholly devoid of the finer instincts and chivalrous promptings of a cultured soul. No, there is no absolute justice, for to him fell that wonder of womanhood, Vesta Van Warden. The grievous-ness of this you will never understand, my grandsons; for you are yourselves primitive little savages, unaware of aught else but savagery. Why

The trouble began when the first witch was hounded and stoned to death, by the first savage man. It will go on till the last witch is dead. Always, everywhere, men must follow that old Biblical law: Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

I do hope Diana don't savage Henage on the way back,' said Jack, 'You might not think it, but he is a very sensitive cove, and he feels harsh words extremely. I remember when his father called him a vile concupiscent waste-thrift whoremonger he brooded over it the whole evening.

Perhaps because polish is so visible,” Jon Franklin says, “many people erroneously believe it to be the most important part of writing.” But polish, Franklin adds, is merely “the plaster on the walls of structure.” The proof is in the window of the bookstore down the block. The display of current best sellers no doubt contains several titles by tin-eared pop novelists who wouldn’t recognize a graceful sentence if it asked them to dance. The likes of Jean Auel and Tom Clancy sell books by the millions because they understand story structure, a point that’s lost on the critics who savage their syntax.

Here was neither peace nor rest, nor a moment's safety. All was confusion and action, and every moment life and limb were in peril. There was imperative need to be constantly alert; for these dogs and men were not town dogs and men. They were savages, all of them, who knew no law but the law of club and fang.

a full-blooded Seneca Iroquois sachem, Ely S. Parker, who grew up on an Indian reservation in upstate New York and was a chief of the Six Nations. Trained as a civil engineer, he was a man of giant girth with jet-black hair, penetrating eyes, and exceptional strength who styled himself a “savage Jack Falstaff of 200 [pound] weight.

On Fiction: (Martin) had discovered, in the course of his reading, two schools of fiction. One treated of man as a god, ignoring his earthly origin; the other treated of man as a clod, ignoring his heaven-sent dreams and divine possibilities. Both god and clod schools erred, in Martin's estimation, and erred though too great singleness of sight and purpose. There was a compromise that approximated the truth, though it flattered not the school of god, while it challenged the brute-savageness of the school of clod. It was his story, "Adventure," which had dragged Ruth, that Martin believed had achieved his ideal of the true in fiction; and it was in an essay, "God and Clod," that he had expressed his views on the whole subject.

Jack Reed, whom The New York Times had labeled "the Bolshevik agitator," hesitated and then equivocated on the stand. But by then the defense of The Masses was plain: criticism of the government didn't amount to a desire to overthrow it. If all hostile opinion were suppressed, how could Americans believe they lived in a free country? Dissent was a safeguard to freedom, not an impediment.

The fleeting systems lapse like foam,'" he mumbled what was evidently a quotation. "That's it—foam, and fleeting. All man's toil upon the planet was just so much foam. He domesticated the serviceable animals, destroyed the hostile ones, and cleared the land of its wild vegetation. And then he passed, and the flood of primordial life rolled back again, sweeping his handiwork away—the weeds and the forest inundated his fields, the beasts of prey swept over his flocks, and now there are wolves on the Cliff House beach." He was appalled by the thought. "Where four million people disported themselves, the wild wolves roam to-day, and the savage progeny of our loins, with prehistoric weapons, defend themselves against the fanged despoilers. Think of it! And all because of the Scarlet Death—

As with the Hawaiian savage, so with the white sailor-savage. With the same marvellous patience, and with the same single shark's tooth, of his one poor jack-knife, he will carve you a bit of bone sculpture, not quite as workmanlike, but as close packed in its maziness of design, as the Greek savage, Achilles's shield; and full of barbaric spirit and suggestiveness, as the prints of that fine old Dutch savage, Albert Durer.

turned the antenna selection dial, cycling through all eight positions, forward and aft. The tone went away when he limited reception to the aft antenna positions. Came back when he selected the forward positions. UL FWD—upper left forward—strongest of all. Line of sight away from Earth. Receiving from the outer solar system. Jack drew breath to call to the others, get up here, you have to hear this, and then he grew abashed. His cheeks heated. It’s just cosmic noise. Or some clever-clogs hacker pranking the space shuttle. Yet he kept listening,

A vast silence reigned over the land. The land itself was a desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of laughter more terrible than any sadness-a laughter that was mirthless as the smile of the Sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and partaking of the grimness of infallibility. It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild.

Jack Goody (1977) has convincingly shown how shifts hitherto labeled as shifts from magic to science, or from the so-called ‘prelogical’ to the more and more ‘rational’ state of consciousness, or from Lévi-Strauss’s ‘savage’ mind to domesticated thought, can be more economically and cogently explained as shifts from orality to various stages of literacy. I had earlier suggested (1967b, p. 189) that many of the contrasts often made between ‘western’ and other views seem reducible to contrasts between deeply interiorized literacy and more or less residually oral states of consciousness.

She’s also quite the master carver, as her sculptures attest, even if her medium is rather morbid. Ana carves things out of bone. Human bone mostly, though shifters have been known to make the cut. Her carvings are tiny, but perfectly formed. The old woman in her shoe house; kids hanging out of every window, blackbirds trying to escape their pie, Jack (not my Jack) jumping over the candlestick. Like Carly’s paintings, Ana’s art has a savage edge to it. The old woman has a belt in her hand, the blackbirds have teeth and Jack’s on fire and screaming. We’re a happy, well-adjusted bunch, I know

At milking-time Ma was putting on her bonnet, when suddenly all Jack’s hair stood up stiff on his neck and back, and he rushed out of the house. They heard a yell and a scramble and a shout: “Call off your dog! Call off your dog!” Mr. Edwards was on top of the woodpile, and Jack was climbing up after him. “He’s got me treed,” Mr. Edwards said, backing along the top of the woodpile. Ma could hardly make Jack come away. Jack grinned savagely and his eyes were red. He had to let Mr. Edwards come down from the woodpile, but he watched him every minute. Ma said, “I declare, he seems to know that Mr. Ingalls isn’t here.” Mr. Edwards said that dogs knew more than most folks gave them credit for.

Dark spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen waterway. The trees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering of frost, and they seemed to lean towards each other, black and ominous, in the fading light. A vast silence reigned over the land. The land itself was a desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of a laughter more terrible than any sadness - a laughter that was mirthless as the smile of the sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and partaking of the grimness of infallibility. It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild.

Sgt. Jack was a hard-ass teacher, but kids need hard-ass teachers sometimes. I know that might hurt your ears because things are different now. We are warned of the lasting effects of stress on children, and to compensate, parents strategize about how to make their children’s lives comfortable and easy. But is the real world always comfortable? Is it easy? Life is not G-rated. We must prepare kids for the world as it is. Our generation is training kids to become full-fledged members of Entitlement Nation, which ultimately makes them easy prey for the lions among us. Our ever-softening society doesn’t just affect children. Adults fall into the same trap. Even those of us who have achieved great things. Every single one of us is just another frog in the soon-to-be-boiling water that is our soft-ass culture. We take unforeseen obstacles personally. We are ready to be outraged at all times by the evil bullshit of the world. Believe me, I know all about evil and have dealt with more bullshit than most, but if you catalog your scars to use them as excuses or a bargaining chip to make life easier for yourself, you’ve missed an opportunity to become better and grow stronger. Sgt. Jack knew what awaited me as an adult. He was preparing me for the grip of life. Whether he knew it or not, the man was training me to be a savage.

The city reeked of death, and the savages that resided within its imposing starkness existed in fear of their lives. They had been shocked by the recent bloody Whitechapel murders, as if starvation, disease, moral degradation, and perpetual smog drowning all color in gray wasn’t enough to bring home the pathetic reality of their miserable existence. The police were no nearer to capturing the monster that lurked in the crevices, and London seemed stiller in the dark, the streets devoid of hope.

I've been on the warpath for forty years. I've probably put a thousand men in the ground. Women too. Hell, probably some kids mixed in along the way, although I can't say for sure. And I know some good guys got caught in the crossfire, too; cops, security guards, watchmen, even your run of the mill innocent bystanders. Wrong place at the wrong time and all that.” I stared off into space. “Why are you telling me this?” “Because you need to remember I'm not a nice guy. I'm not far removed from that thing in your dream. Call me a war criminal and you'd probably be more right than wrong. I always thought at the time I was working for the good guys, fighting for the right reasons. But the Cold War was still a bloody business and I was always there at its bloodiest. Afghanistan, Burma, Egypt, Iran, India, Brazil, Russia...I've been all over, always where the fighting was the dirtiest. Tore up some places here in the States as well. Things the press was threatened to keep quiet about, or bribed into silence, or worse.” “Just keeps getting better and better,” I said. “And just remember, I'm one of the good guys. Some of the animals I worked with, they make your run of the mill concentration camp guard look like he's gentle enough to run a daycare center. Some of those older guys, they probably were concentration camp guards back in the day. Plenty of the grey-hairs I went into the field with, those were the war addicts, the guys who couldn't go back home. Saw it after 'Nam, too; men who lived for death, lived for the blood and the thrill of the kill. They weren't much better than the dummies we were gunning after. Matter of fact, most of them were probably worse. At least the guys at the end of my gun usually died for a cause: communism, Islam, even plain old fashioned world domination. Some of the savages I fought with, they killed simply for the fun of it. The money? That was just gravy.” I turned to look at Richard, slouched in his rocker, hat pulled down low over his blue eyes. “So what about you? Killing for a cause, or was it the fun?” Richard finally turned and looked me square in the eye. “You ain't figured that out yet? I killed for profit, kid. And back in the day, business was good. Business was really good.

Sagrib brought the saw up against the man’s throat and hacked it back and forth. The rusty blade chewed deep into the flesh and the chief gasped involuntary as the jagged teeth tore through his jugular and windpipe. Crimson blood spewed out of the horrific wound as Sagrib sawed through the spine, laughing like a mad man as the tribal elder gurgled. Garang screamed and thrashed against the men holding him. The baton returned, smashing his legs out from under him. The guards beat him savagely while Sagrib continued to hack at the once proud elder’s head. The old man died without so much as a whimper. The last thing Garang saw before he succumbed to unconsciousness was Sagrib holding the severed head aloft, his uniform drenched in blood, toothless mouth grinning.

The Accidental Guerrilla, War of the Flea, Counterinsurgency, The Sling and the Stone, Counter-Guerrilla Operations, and A Savage War of Peace

Volenti non fit injuria. To a willing person, no injury is done.

philosophy class while in college in Boston were the words of French biologist Jean Rostand: Kill one man, and you are a murderer. Kill millions of men, and you are a conqueror. Kill them all, and you are a god.

Though he loved the challenge and purity of traditional archery, he also couldn’t separate himself from the adage he’d learned on the battlefield: exploit all technical and tactical advantages.

Never trust the French.

Trust but verify,

Russia through the waning days of the Soviet Union and into the heyday after the fall, the Red Mafia was imbedded in almost all facets of state affairs. The bratva was not an outside criminal threat, but rather part of the government itself. When Stalin betrayed his criminal ties during the Great Purge, he inadvertently created an even stronger organization that had survived and thrived to this day.

Reece picked up her suitcase as they moved through the airport, his eyes subconsciously sweeping the area ahead; first hands, then bodies, then faces. The sixth sense that had kept warriors alive since time immemorial was reminding him that his peace could never last.

Why do you file off the front sight of your 1911 when going into bear country?” his father had asked. “So it doesn’t hurt as much when the grizzly shoves it up your ass.

It wasn’t good, but it could have been worse; it can always be worse.

If this was his last stand, he wasn’t going to make it easy on them.

The Teams had a saying: “Don’t rush to your death.

The Teams had a saying: “Don’t rush to your death.” There was hardly ever a good reason to go barging into a target at full speed without carefully assessing the situation.

The one big exception was a hostage rescue mission, where safety was sacrificed for speed in the name of protecting the hostage.

There was another exception: when your friends were in trouble.

She remembered her own mother tucking her into bed and explaining the reality of life in Rhodesia: if someone with mal intent enters our property, they have declared war on our family.

One of the first rules of interrogation was to only ask questions to which you already knew the answers.

Reece’s time with the bow was not so much about hitting the target as it was about the discipline of the art. It was a meditative state where any outside influences and distractions ceased to exist.

Stance, grip, shoulder, anchor, peep, pull, and finish, Reece thought, reviewing the basics. As with anything in life, the best do the basics exceptionally well.

Dimitry suppressed a smile, thinking of Stalin’s adage, Quantity has a quality all its own. All they needed now was the signal to execute.

Fire had once provided safety to those who stood within its sphere, warding off tigers, leopards, and bears. Now that light from the burning vehicle was the death knell for those it illuminated.

Sir.” Chavez stood and addressed the man before him. “I certainly can’t speak for everyone but please give my money to Freddy Strain’s kid, the one with the special needs.” Reece swallowed hard as a chorus of voices followed suit. “I’m not one for this kind of emotion, as Caroline can attest,” Jonathan said, “but, thank you, lads. The deposit will be made. In whose name?” Reece looked around the room, “From the Warrior Guardians.

The special operations culture is unique in its willingness to ignore rank when it comes to providing brutally honest assessments of an action.

Good. What do you need to pull it off?” “Take a breath, look around, make a call,” Reece muttered.

Build your foundation, Reece, he remembered his friend and one of the best archers on the planet telling him years earlier. Winning starts from the ground up.

He treasured his last visit with her, when, in a moment of lucidity, she’d recognized her only son, reminding him of Gideon’s mission in Judges. “You’ve always been one of the few, James. Keep watching the horizon.

The reason each and every one of us is alive today is the martial prowess and hunting abilities of our ancestors.

Where would they take her? That was the psychology of tracking; learn from the spoor and anticipate your prey’s next move.

Their loss-of-comms link-up point was just a mile to the southeast. There was no sign of any other human life.

Keep moving forward, he heard his dad’s voice urging him on. Always improve your fighting position, son.

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Hold on, savage girl.” Jack tightens his grip on my hips. “I won’t be responsible for what comes next.

Falling in love is easy,” I say, and continue despite his growling. “The hard part is when you love someone who doesn’t love you back.

Robert E. Howard from The Tower of the Elephant in my third novel, Savage Son: “Civilized men are more discourteous than savages because they know they can be impolite without having their skulls split, as a general thing.

Reece unzipped the aid bag and dug around until he found an Asherman Chest Seal. He wiped Solomon’s chest with a gauze pad before tearing open the package and placing the adhesive seal on his chest. He rolled his tracker and repeated the process on the exit wound. Reece found a 2.5-inch needle and laid it on top of the Asherman on Solomon’s chest. Then, locating a spot above the wound, between the first and second rib, Reece held his left finger on the spot and, with the needle held in his right fist, stabbed it into the chest cavity. He heard a hissing sound and watched with relief as Solomon was able to take a breath. When the hissing stopped, he removed the needle and laid it back on the bandage. The breathing situation handled for now, Reece searched the bag until he found a large dressing. There was a small section of bowel herniating out of the abdominal wound that needed to be addressed

Do you think I’m ugly?” I ask. If so, I shall capture a fae fucker and force him to throw some pretty glamour at me until I win my mate. After she’s mine, I can get back to being ugly all I like.

The books seemed to be arranged loosely by topic and period. Titles such as The Accidental Guerrilla, War of the Flea, Counterinsurgency, The Sling and the Stone, Counter-Guerrilla Operations, and A Savage War of Peace jumped out at the detective. Right next to Machiavelli, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius were books on the Boer War, the Rhodesian Selous Scouts, and various other conflicts spanning both recent and ancient history. Phil pulled a book titled The Book of Five Rings, by Miyamoto Musashi, and cracked the cover.

Her father had taught her that trust is the foundation of any relationship.

She whispered a quiet prayer to the patron saint of paratroopers: “Saint Michael the Archangel, defend them in battle, be their protection against the enemy…

Am I Jack?” I whispered. “Floating around, missing the obvious?” He huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess so. You missed how much I fucking love you. That no one exists for me but you.

Good. Remember. No one is coming. It’s up to us. Take your positions.

if someone with mal intent enters our property, they have declared war on our family.

Model 37,

Ithaca

There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.” —Ernest Hemingway

Hunting and war are inexorably mixed. They share a common father. Death begets life, and in defense of oneself, one’s family, one’s tribe, or one’s country, killing is often a part of the equation.

medical study warned that because the vape liquid contained lipoid components and toxins, when heated they caused an acute chemical inhalation injury to the lungs, or as a federal lawmaker whose daughter had died at a college party after vaping with friends stated, “It poisons and kills our kids from the inside out. This is murder.

It

Dark spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen waterway. The trees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering of frost, and they seemed to lean toward each other, black and ominous, in the fading light. A vast silence reigned over the land. The land itself was a desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of a laughter more terrible than any sadness—a laughter that was mirthless as the smile of the Sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and partaking of the grimness of infallibility. It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild. JACK LONDON,

Take a breath, look around, make a call.

Quantity has a quality all its own

It doesn’t matter where you live in the world; wherever light exists, darkness will always seek to overcome it. Wherever freedom and truth abound, there will always be someone there to undermine them.

French biologist Jean Rostand: Kill one man, and you are a murderer. Kill millions of men, and you are a conqueror. Kill them all, and you are a god.

Elephant

Kill them all, and you are a god.