Jeff The Killer Quotes

Really now: If you can't get me my newspaper on time, how can you expect me to refrain from killing people?

Oh, I wanted this killer stopped, brought to justice, yes, certainly - but did it have to be so soon?

Go to sleep!

In my absence, the surveyor had become a kind of frenzied serial killer of the inanimate.

My sweet girl never had any enemies, except for that one girl who lives next door to us.

She stared at me "You have a message," she said. "On you machine." I looked over at my answering machine. Sure enough, the light was blinking. The woman really was a detective. "It's some girl," La Guerta said. "She sounds kind of sleepy and happy. You got a girlfriend, Dexter?" there was a strange hint of a challenge in her voice. "You know how it is," I said. "Women today are so forward, and when you are as handsome as I am they absolutely fling themselves at your head." Perhaps an unfortunate choice of words; as I said it I couldn't help thinking of the woman's head flung at me not so long ago. "Watch out," La Guerta said. "Sooner or later one of them will stick." I had no idea what she thought that meant, but it was a very unsettling image. "I'm sure you're right," I said. "Until then, carpe diem." "What?" "It's Latin," I said. "It means, complain in the daylight.

Everyone has secrets. Some are just darker than others. And some, well, they're worth killing to keep.

You made one of my imaginations come true

I find others, those who prey on the innocent and do not play by the rules, and I make them go away in small, carefully wrapped pieces.

Aramaic has no vowels. So MLK spells Moloch.” “Or milk,” Deborah said. “Really, Debs, if you think our killer would tattoo milk on his neck, you need a nap.

Jeff the Killer | Creepypasta Files Wikia - Fandom

I did not see that there was much more I could do for Jeff. He was now totally in the hands of other people. They would decide what he wore, what he ate, where he slept, what medication, if, any, he received. My fatherly duties had been reduced to the provision of a few small services, none of them basic. As a father, my role had almost disappeared.

Grant had begun to despise reporters, had grown weary of reading the fine exploits of the rebel armies, while his own victories were never “complete.

Common early indicators of serial murder are bed-wetting, fire-starting, and animal torture, sometimes called the McDonald Triad

In the city, the line between nightmare and reality was fluid, just as the context of the words killer and death had shifted over time. Perhaps Mord was responsible. Perhaps we all were.

I had never been more alone than I was in my admiration for the real killer's work. The very body parts seemed to sing to me, a rhapsody of bloodless wonder that lightened my heart and filled my veins with an intoxicating sense of awe.

the hard look of a man who also understood, who had seen all the stupidity, who knew, after all, that the gold stars were often mindless decoration, that the army was led not by symbols, but by the fallible egos and blind fantasies of men.           I

This regiment was formed last fall, back in Maine. There were a thousand of us then. There’s not three hundred of us now.” He glanced up briefly. “But what is left is choice.” He was embarrassed. He spoke very slowly, staring at the ground. “Some of us volunteered to fight for Union. Some came in mainly because we were bored at home and this looked like it might be fun. Some came because we were ashamed not to. Many of us came … because it was the right thing to do. All of us have seen men die. Most of us never saw a black man back home. We think on that, too. But freedom … is not just a word.” He looked up into the sky, over silent faces. “This is a different kind of army. If you look at history you’ll see men fight for pay, or women, or some other kind of loot. They fight for land, or because a king makes them, or just because they like killing. But we’re here for something new. I don’t … this hasn’t happened much in the history of the world. We’re an army going out to set other men free.” He bent down, scratched the black dirt into his fingers. He was beginning to warm to it; the words were beginning to flow. No one in front of him was moving. He said, “This is free ground. All the way from here to the Pacific Ocean. No man has to bow. No man born to royalty. Here we judge you by what you do, not by what your father was. Here you can be something. Here’s a place to build a home. It isn’t the land—there’s always more land. It’s the idea that we all have value, you and me, we’re worth something more than the dirt. I never saw dirt I’d die for, but I’m not asking you to come join us and fight for dirt. What we’re all fighting for, in the end, is each other.

Sometimes I feel foolish for hoping she's alive. But then I feel guilty--as if being 'realistic' is giving up. Other times, I think the uncertainty is the worst part. Alive or dead, I just need to know... Or maybe that's just a bullshit rationalization. Because I know the day you come here to tell me that she's dead will be the worst day of my life.

Gudrun had a rough time when she got to Florida. Not only did Katina assert her dominance by raking and shoving the newcomer, but SeaWorld began breeding her almost immediately. She was locked in a back pool with Kanduke, who chased her around the tank, trying to penetrate her over and over, and often succeeding. What seemed like serial rape to Jeff produced the birth of Taima, the unpredictable Transient-Icelandic hybrid, in July 1989. Born during a summer storm, her name was a Native American word for 'crash of thunder.' It would prove to be an appropriate moniker.

Two things an officer must do, to lead men. This from old Ames, who never cared about love: You must care for your men’s welfare. You must show physical courage. Well,

We drove back to the doughnut shop where I’d left my car, idling past once on U.S. 1 while we looked for any sign of untoward activity, Legal or Otherwise, around my car. There was no sign of anything: no police cruiser or unmarked car, and as far as we could see, there was no conga line of swarthy killers with machine guns, either.

Dexter the no-bloodhound, who hid behind a human-seeming face and tracked down the truly naughty serial killers who killed without code.

Harry had molded him into a man who only killed the killers;

killer.” It is a scientific fact that most situations in life go from bad to worse—I believe it’s called entropy. Any scientists who happened to be observing us at this moment would have been quietly satisfied to see that this natural law held true.

Conan O'Brien doesn’t have it,' the NBC lawyers assured Jeff Gaspin, Entertainment Chairman (at NBC Universal). 'Conan was guaranteed The Tonight Show. He was not guaranteed that it would start at 11:35 p.m'.

Well,” I said, and I realized that it was at least the third time I’d said “well” since Deborah arrived. Was I really so flustered that I couldn’t even manage basic conversation? “You caught the Hammer Killer. Congratulations, sis.

could have said that the best way to catch a psycho motherfucker is by understanding what makes him a psycho motherfucker, but I doubted that Deborah would be very receptive to that message right now. Besides, it wasn’t really true. Based on my years of experience in the business, the best way to catch a killer is by getting lucky.

Shirley offered to drive us in her car, but Roger and I thought it was best if we took his car, since we knew that his vehicle was not equipped with a hidden button that you could press to make spikes burst out of the seats. Not that we thought Shirley's car had the spiked-seat feature, but it could have something ghastly, like a cobra compartment, and it just seemed like a wise idea not to let the possible serial killer drive.

First, it was entirely coincidental. This was Miami, after all. Random murders happen all the time, and they have to happen somewhere. The killers had simply chosen the handiest room, and that just happened to be mine. I thought about that for nearly a full second before concluding that it was nearly as likely that the sun would come up in the west, and just stay there for a few weeks.

Chamberlain

Americans know they’re overweight. In fact, we spend huge amounts of money on diet books and diet programs to help us lose that burdensome extra weight. There are more than 30,000 fitness clubs in the United States, all aimed at serving the national desire to lose weight and be fit. And it’s not just a question of being a little too heavy, or of how we look. Nutrition is one of the most significant factors in society’s major killers, like heart disease, cancer, and diabetes. Most of us are literally digging our graves with our teeth. And we know all this—yet clearly the majority of us aren’t doing anything about it. Why not?

The two also mated harmoniously. There was no 'rape' between Tilly and Gudrun ... 'Tilikum was so gentle!' she marveled to Jeff later that day.' He would swim behind her, and Gudrun would be in the lead, and she would look back at him, as if to say, 'You're still following me, right?' And then he would swim up to her and caress her with his head, or he'd roll over and take her on his chest. It was so romantic. Afterwards, they were completely content, resting side by side. It was totally different from Kanduke.

It was a small triumph, but it was just about the only one I got for the rest of the week. As I trudged through my daily routine, Robert trudged along with me. He did not really get directly in my way too often, but every time I turned around he was there, a frown of concentration on his face, and usually some kind of inane question: Why did I do that? Why was it important to do that? Did I do that often? How many killers had I caught by doing that? Were they serial killers? Were there a lot of serial killers in Miami? A lot of the time the questions were completely unrelated to whatever I was doing, which made the whole thing seem even more pointlessly annoying. I could understand that it was a little hard for someone like him to frame intelligent questions about gas chromatography, but then, why watch me do it in the first place? Why couldn’t he just go sit in a sports bar and text me his questions while he sipped a beer and watched a ball game?

I scanned the body head to toe, marveling at the thoroughness of the devastation, and the Passenger murmured its appreciation. Someone had spent a great deal of time and effort doing this, and although the results were certainly not up to my high artistic standards, they still showed a certain primitive vigor and abandon that were admirable, even infectious. The technique was clumsy, inefficient, even brutal, but it spoke of a wild experimental joy in the work that was a pleasure to see. After all, so very few of us seem to enjoy our jobs nowadays. Whoever did this clearly did enjoy it. Just as clearly—at least to me—the killer was exploring, seeking something he had not quite found, in spite of a very thorough search.

Vince shook it playfully. “Maybe it’ll help Anderson figure out who the victim is this time,” he said. I opened my mouth to say that it didn’t seem likely, that Anderson wouldn’t figure it out if he had notarized statements from the killer and the victim, and then I closed my mouth and took a step back and didn’t say anything at all.

It was very instructive: Manchineel, apparently, had been used by the Aboriginal Peoples of the Caribbean for poison, torture, and several other worthwhile purposes. Even sitting under the tree during a rainstorm could be deadly. In fact, the Carib Indians had actually tied their prisoners to the trunk of the tree when it rained, because the water dripping off the leaves made an acid bath strong enough to eat through human flesh. And arrows dipped in the sap could cause painful death; clearly it was wonderful stuff. But Frank’s main point—avoid the manchineel!—was very plain long before he wound up his lecture with a few halfhearted warnings about poison oak. And then, just when I thought we could make our getaway, one of the boys said, “What about snakes?” Frank smiled happily; on to lethal animals! He took a deep breath, and he was off again. “Oh, it’s not just snakes,” he said. “I mean, we talked about the rattlesnakes—diamondback and pygmy—and coral snakes! They are Absolute Killers! Don’t confuse them with the corn snake— Remember? ‘Red touches yellow’?” He

I didn’t want to hear, of course; Hood couldn’t possibly know anything beyond the third-grade level, except possibly about pornography, and that sort of thing is not really interesting to me. But it didn’t seem politic to say so, and in any case he didn’t wait for me to answer. “What I know is, your half-ass Hollywood sister shit the bed,” he said, and, completely untroubled by the fact that this image did not really make sense, he repeated it. “She shit the fucking bed,” he said again. “Well, maybe,” I said, trying to sound meek yet confident, “but there’s actually some evidence that this might be a copycat killer.” He

Every cop in the greater Miami area would be working each shift with extra diligence in hopes of becoming the Hero of the Day, the cop who caught the killer, and although all that extra watchfulness would make the streets temporarily a little safer for most of us, it would also make things a little too risky for a Dexter Dalliance. No,

Of course, there was no reason she should update me. She was not her Dexter’s keeper, and if she was finally beginning to realize that, so much the better. So I was completely content, not at all miffed with my sister, when she showed up at last to claim her child. It was almost midnight when she finally arrived, and Nicholas and I had watched several more news bulletins, and then the lead story on the late news itself, all pretty much repeating that first tiresome bulletin. Heroic officer injured while catching cop killer. Ho-hum. Nicholas showed no sign of recognizing his mother when she appeared on television. I was quite certain that Lily Anne would have known me, whether on TV or anywhere else, but that did not necessarily mean there was anything actually wrong with the boy. In

But Rita was relentless. For her, there was always one more house to look at, and every single Next One was going to be the One, the ideal location for Total Domestic Felicity, and so we would all race grumpily on to another perfectly serviceable home, only to discover that a leak in the sprinkler system in the backyard was almost certainly causing a sinkhole under the turf, or there was a lien on the second mortgage, or killer bees had been seen nesting only two blocks away. It was always something, and Rita seemed unaware that she had spun off alone into a deep neurotic fugue of perpetual rejection. And

So I took a quick circuit around the circular driveway. There were a couple of cars parked ostentatiously along the edge of the pavement: a Ferrari, a Bentley, and a Corniche. I didn’t think our killer would be driving anything that cost more than a new house on the water, but I looked inside anyway. They were empty. The valet parking attendant watched me skeptically as I came back from looking into the Corniche. “You like it?” he asked me.

The killer wanted to be noticed—by all of us, of course, which was why the body had been displayed so publicly. But far more important, he had wanted the victim to pay attention to him, truly and completely see him, appreciate his significance. I thought about that for a minute, and it felt right. You should have noticed me, but you didn’t. You ignored me and now your eye will pay for what your eyes failed to do.

There was just something about her that I found intriguing, even compelling. It was not that she was a famous actress—I’d had no idea who she was, had to be told that she was, in fact, a star. Celebrity had never interested me before, and I was quite sure it didn’t now. And I was certainly far too set in my wicked ways to be interested in any kind of dalliance that was merely sexual. When Dexter has a fling, his partner’s afterglow lasts forever. And yet there was Jackie, crowding the screen in my private internal television, tossing her mane of perfect hair and smiling just for me with a gleam of intelligent amusement in her eyes, and for some maddening reason I liked it and I wanted to— Wanted to what? Touch her, kiss her, whisper sweet nothings in her perfect shell-like ear? It was absurd, a cartoon picture, Dexter in Lust. Such things did not happen to our Dreadful Dark Scout. I was beyond the reach of mere mortal desire. I did not feel it, couldn’t feel it; I never had, didn’t want to—and whatever the thought of Jackie Forrest might be doing to me, I never would. This was no more than a Method-actor moment, a fleeting identification with the killer, a confusion of roles, almost certainly brought on because the process of digesting pork had taken all the blood away from my brain.

For half a moment, I toyed with the idea of telling her that Patrick was not sneaking into anything except possibly decomposition. And in a rational world, why wouldn’t I? What reasonable person could object to the removal of a brutal killer who did appalling things to human beings and liked doing them? But on sober reflection, it occurred to me that if I told her, Jackie might realize that this was an apt description for me, too, so it might not be a good idea to tell her. And after all, rotting flesh was hardly a suitable topic of conversation for the breakfast table. So I settled for more pedestrian reassurance. “There’s a chain on the door,” I said. “And a heavily armed and deadly Dexter on the couch.

What?” I said to her. She shook her head. Her ponytail flopped to one side, then back. “Nothing,” she said. “I just …” She bit her lip and frowned. “Where did you go just now?” “Oh,” I said, and I could feel a hot flush mounting into my cheeks. “I, uh, it’s hard to explain.” Deborah snickered, which I thought was extremely unkind. “Try,” she said. “I want to hear it, too.” “Well, uh,” I said, which was not up to my usual stellar standards of wit. “I, um … I try to imagine it, you know. What the killer was thinking, and feeling.” Jackie was still staring, still frowning. She hadn’t even blinked. “Uh-huh,” she said. “Um,” I said, still wallowing in uninspired monosyllables. “So, you know. I work backward from what we can see. Using what I know. I mean,” I added quickly, “what I know from research, and, uh, studying these things. In books, and …” “Work backward,” Jackie said. “What does that mean?

It is a scientific fact that most situations in life go from bad to worse—I believe it’s called entropy. Any scientists who happened to be observing us at this moment would have been quietly satisfied to see that this natural law held true. As Deborah had said, I really did get insights into the sick and twisted creatures of the night. But that was because I was one of them. Deborah was the only living person I had ever talked to on the subject. After all, I didn’t want people walking around and saying things like, “Gee, Dexter thinks just like a killer. Wonder why?” Additionally, since these thoughts came from a private place, deep inside Dexter’s Dungeon, discussing it always made me feel slightly naked. I thought my sister understood that, but every now and then, like now, she dragged me stripped and flinching into the spotlight.

And man is the greatest killer, the greatest hunter of them all. The whole world of nature knows man for the irresistible master. The roar of his gun, the cunning of his trap, the strength and agility of his arm place all else beneath him. Should man then be treated by nature differently from the other dominants, the army ants and the wasps? It

Borne wasn't even a killer as I was a killer, but someone who killed the innocent and tried to call them guilty.

May God have mercy on us all.

One of the paradoxes of growth is that growth creates complexity and complexity is the silent killer of growth,” said Bain director James Allen in the video.

I do not absolutely demand that every sick and twisted killer must show a bright gleam of intelligence and originality, but really. Something this pedestrian did seem to be letting down the side just a bit, don’t you think?

Cars are the #1 Freedom Fund killer. My good friend Jeff Rose of GoodFinancialCents.com describes car payments as the #1 thing that’s killing our wealth.

His intellectual powers were of the highest order . . . the readiness with which he approached his duty . . . was equaled by the celerity and skill with which he performed it. As a staff officer he had no equal.

I unrolled the condom completely just in case the killer had written some sort of message on it, but no, it still looked like your standard-issue prophylactic. Wow, these things were huge when you unrolled them all the way.

But the men … it was the men who began to understand. Lee thought of West Point. We learned how to fight the old way, the books were all about Napoleon, the textbooks translated from the French. But Napoleon did not have these guns. It has taken us too long to learn the lesson. Too many times we have ridden across the bloody fields, spread with the incredible horror of what these guns can do. Longstreet gave them shovels, at Fredericksburg, on the heights, and they laughed, the men thought it was not … manly. We would stand up and face the guns. Lee shook his head. Now we do not have enough shovels. No one believes in standing up in front of certain death. There is no honor in foolishness.

Make the fight, don’t talk about it. You cannot imagine … the volume of talk that flows around this place. Washington is like a barnyard full of braying mules … and that includes most of my cabinet.

The only one with a sense of ethics: Jeff Goldblum’s mathematician. He has that killer line: ‘Your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, they didn’t stop to think if they should.

It was easy to see how his killings could be misconstrued. The death tally was three Caucasian, two Latino, one Asian, one Native American, and ten African American men. He had proven to be a multicultural killer8. Murphy recorded his answer and asked, “Yeah, Jeff, but how did you decide which ones you were going to kill and which ones you would just have sex with?” Dahmer said that his decision to kill was based on a variety of factors. “Usually I knew when I went out if I was looking to keep someone. Before leaving the apartment, I crushed five to seven Halcion tablets in a glass and left it on the kitchen sink.

The world around him grew silent; there was something in the air. The odor of dead meat came down on the wind, drifting through the trees. Soft and sour, the smell of distant death.

We all assume that . . . things . . . really are a certain way. The way they’re supposed to be? And then they never are, they’re always more . . . I don’t know. Darker? More human. Like this. I’m thinking, of course the detective wants to catch the killer, isn’t that what detectives do? And it never occurred to me before that there could be anything at all political about murder.

For a long time he had believed, hoped, that surely mankind would learn from that war, would carry the lesson into the future. Our war was different, after all, he thought... This time, there were pictures... If we start to forget, then look, see it, the blood, broken pieces of men, the horrible things we can do to each other. That should be enough. He shook his head. But it is not enough. The rest of the world seems to pay no mind to our lesson, and the guns are still getting better... We are killer angels.

Some agents, like Steve Payne, stuck to traditional investigative methods: the interviews Gannaway was conducting with Heidi; searches through financial records, computers, datebooks, and journals; interrogations with Keyes himself. For other agents—Jeff Bell, Jolene Goeden, and now Ted Halla and Colleen Sanders, two FBI special agents who were starting to research Keyes down in Washington State—the few serial killers Keyes referenced were a source of fascination and, they hoped, insight. These agents began reading and watching every book, film, or TV show Keyes had consumed, building little libraries in their respective field offices and comparing notes.

Danny wanted to live alone because he was a serial killer. He’d read that you were supposed to start small and work your way up to killing human prey. Torture and kill animals first. But Danny loved animals, and if he ever hurt a dog or a cat he would’ve been filled with self-loathing. He’d thought about maybe torturing and killing a greasy sewer rat, but he had no way to obtain one, and the mouse he got from the pet store looked at him with its tiny little loving eyes and he had to set it free. So he went straight to killing humans.