Leverage In Death Quotes

But, Christ on a tricycle, Roarke, this is going to be a pain in my ass.

The younger pushed a thumb-sucking baby in a stroller with little animals dangling—including a baby elephant. The kid’s eyes looked glassy with pleasure as it snacked on its own thumb. “What do they get out of that?” Eve wondered as they stepped into the vacated elevator. “How good could your own thumb taste?” “It’s not the taste, it’s the sucking action. Oral satisfaction and comfort.” “So, basically, they’re giving themselves a blow job?” For a couple of seconds, Peabody’s mouth worked silently. “I … I can’t possibly answer that without feeling really dirty and weirded.

Ritual abuse is highly organised and, obviously, secretive. It is often linked with other major crimes such as child pornography, child prostitution, the drugs industry, trafficking, and many other illegal and heinous activities. Ritual abuse is organised sexual, physical and psychological abuse, which can be systematic and sustained over a long period of time. It involves the use of rituals - things which the abusers 'need' to do, or 'need' to have in place - but it doesn't have to have a belief system. There doesn't have to be God or the Devil, or any other deity for it to be considered 'ritual'. It involves using patterns of learning and development to keep the abuse going and to make sure the child stays quiet. There has been, and still is a great deal of debate about whether or not such abuse exists anywhere in the world. There are many people who constantly deny that there is even such a thing as ritual abuse. All I can say is that I know there is. Not only have I been a victim of it myself, but I have been dealing with survivors of this type of abuse for almost 30 years. If there are survivors, there must be something that they have survived. The things is, most sexual abuse of children is ritualised in some way. Abusers use repetition, routine and ritual to forced children into the patterns of behaviour they require. Some abusers want their victims to wear certain clothing, to say certain things. They might bathe them or cut them, they might burn them or abuse them only on certain days of the week. They might do a hundred other things which are ritualistic, but aren't always called that - partly, I think because we have a terror of the word and of accepting just how premeditated abuse actually is. Abusers instill fear in their victims and ensure silence; they do all they can to avoid being caught. Sexual abuse of a child is rarely a random act. It involves thorough planning and preparation beforehand. They threaten the children with death, with being taken into care, with no one believing them, which physical violence or their favourite teddy being taken away. They are told that their mum will die, or their dad will hate them, the abusers say everyone will think it's their fault, that everyone already knows they are bad. Nothing is too big or small for an abuser to use as leverage. There is unmistakable proof that abusers do get together in order to share children, abuse more children, and even learn from each other. As more cases have come into the public eye in recent years, this has become increasingly obvious. More and more of this type of abuse is coming to light. I definitely think it is the word ritual which causes people to question, to feel uncomfortable, or even just disbelieve. It seems almost incredible that such things would happen, but too many of us know exactly how bad the lives of many children are. A great deal of child pornography shows children being abused in a ritualised setting, and many have now come forward to share their experiences, but there is a still tendency to say it just couldn't happen. p204-205

our home is not our refuge; God is our refuge. We nurture life in the face of death and leverage our homes for gospel work. For those whose hope is in the coming kingdom, our homes are less like retreats and more like a network of foxholes for planning and hosting kingdom advances into this present darkness. Our homes are centers of hospitality to show strangers and neighbors the light of Christ. And they are equipping centers for traveling ambassadors to help them on their way to doing the King’s business.

The kid’s eyes looked glassy with pleasure as it snacked on its own thumb. “What do they get out of that?” Eve wondered as they stepped into the vacated elevator. “How good could your own thumb taste?” “It’s not the taste, it’s the sucking action. Oral satisfaction and comfort.” “So, basically, they’re giving themselves a blow job?” For a couple of seconds, Peabody’s mouth worked silently. “I … I can’t possibly answer that without feeling really dirty and weirded.” With a shrug, Eve rode up to the fourth floor.

What do they get out of that?” Eve wondered as they stepped into the vacated elevator. “How good could your own thumb taste?” “It’s not the taste, it’s the sucking action. Oral satisfaction and comfort.” “So, basically, they’re giving themselves a blow job?” For a couple of seconds, Peabody’s mouth worked silently. “I … I can’t possibly answer that without feeling really dirty and weirded.” With a shrug, Eve rode up to the fourth floor. Decent building, Eve thought, decent security. Solid working class with residents who took enough pride of place

finally there was only one corpse left. A large man, weighing well over two hundred pounds, lay tightly wedged between two boulders deeply imbedded in the earth. His shirtless torso had a sickly greenish sheen. The only way to dislodge the man was to wrap arms around him in a bear hug and pull him from the rocks—not a pleasant prospect. We huddled in a silent group and looked at the dead man, building our resolve. Finally, SSgt. Ken Bollinger spoke, “I’ll do it.” The rest of us sighed in relief. Ken had a body builder’s muscular physique. He would need his great strength to free the wedged corpse. Sergeant Bolliger positioned a vinyl body bag next to the man-in-the-rocks. Then he lay on top of the corpse and worked his arms under and around the dead man’s chest. He intertwined his fingers, locked his grip and squirmed to his knees, struggling for leverage. As Ken heaved upwards we watched in awe as his muscles bunched and his face reddened with herculean exertion. And suddenly, the man-in-the-rocks came apart in the middle, his entrails spilling onto the ground. Some of us groaned and turned away, but Sergeant Bollinger was unfazed. He methodically filled the body bag with the largest parts of the corpse, then scooped the remaining organs and pieces into the bag. When he was finished not a speck of the person remained on the ground. We gave him kudos as he slowly stood. His uniform was slick with gore and stank of death, but he appeared totally unfazed. We all praised him, “That was hardcore Ken.” he looked at us quizzically, genuinely taken aback. “No big deal.” he said.

Curtis Bane screamed and though I came around fast and fired in the same motion, he’d already pulled a heater and begun pumping metal at me. We both missed and I was empty, that drum clicking uselessly. I went straight at him. Happily, he too was out of bullets and I closed the gap and slammed the butt of the rifle into his chest. Should’ve knocked him down, but no. The bastard was squat and powerful as a wild animal, thanks to being a coke fiend, no doubt. He ripped the rifle from my grasp and flung it aside. He locked his fists and swung them up into my chin, and it was like getting clobbered with a hammer, and I sprawled into a row of trash cans. Stars zipped through my vision. A leather cosh dropped from his sleeve into his hand and he knew what to do with it all right. He swung it in a short chopping blow at my face and I got my left hand up and the blow snapped my two smallest fingers, and he swung again and I turned my head just enough that it only squashed my ear and you better believe that hurt, but now I’d drawn the sawback bayonet I kept strapped to my hip, a fourteen-inch grooved steel blade with notched and pitted edges—Jesus-fuck who knew how many Yankee boys the Kraut who’d owned it gashed before I did for him—and stabbed it to the guard into Bane’s groin. Took a couple of seconds for Bane to register it was curtains. His face whitened and his mouth slackened, breath steaming in the chill, his evil soul coming untethered. He had lots of gold fillings. He lurched away and I clutched his sleeve awkwardly with my broken hand and rose, twisting the handle of the blade side to side, turning it like a car crank into his guts and bladder, putting my shoulder and hip into it for leverage. He moaned in panic and dropped the cosh and pried at my wrist, but the strength was draining from him and I slammed him against the wall and worked the handle with murderous joy. The cords of his neck went taut and he looked away, as if embarrassed, eyes milky, a doomed petitioner gaping at Hell in all its fiery majesty. I freed the blade with a cork-like pop and blood spurted down his leg in a nice thick stream and he collapsed, folding into himself like a bug does when it dies.

And the Enemy, the Destroyer, senses the surface truth that this Jesus is a threat, so he targets Him for destruction. Lucifer shows up in the desert to tempt a weakened Jesus using a trusted strategy—he will appeal to the same primal lust for power and control that bulldozed Adam and Eve into an unthinkable betrayal. But Jesus is having none of that. The Enemy is banished from His presence, where he stays until he sniffs an opportunity to launch a second assault in a lonely garden. In Mel Gibson’s brilliant portrayal of this tipping-point confrontation in The Passion of the Christ, the weight of the assault is palpable. Jesus is alone and tormented to the point of death on the eve of His crucifixion. The serpent moves through the Gethsemane garden toward the exposed feet of Jesus—now perilously within striking range. Everything hangs in the moment. And then, in a shocking burst of violence, Jesus stomps on the serpent’s head.3 It is sudden and brutal and … revelatory. It turns out that Jesus—sweating blood, abandoned, and apparently beaten—is no shrinking violet. The Great Surprise is that He cannot be leveraged and that He is no victim of circumstances. In this, He is not at all the way most Americans describe Him.

Nobody really wants to live forever, but nobody wants to die either. Nobody wants to watch people dying, so we have created entire industries to sequester them or rid ourselves of them, or we cleverly convince them to excuse themselves from our attention by exercising their autonomy. Perhaps even more pointedly, we don’t want to be seen dying, so the padded and privileged expend their energy and reserves on the creeping harbinger of death we call “aging.” Thus emerges another market, the wellness industrial complex, which at once capitalizes on our fear of dying and leverages what physician Raymond Barfield calls our “desire to be desirable.” “The fear of death, with no grasp of what makes a life truly good, is the stupendously irrational desire for mere duration.

The remnant would have to learn that their home was not their refuge. The Lord was their refuge. We, too, as “aliens and strangers” in a world that is passing away, need to learn that our home is not our refuge; God is our refuge. We nurture life in the face of death and leverage our homes for gospel work. For those whose hope is in the coming kingdom, our homes are less like retreats and more like a network of foxholes for planning and hosting kingdom advances into this present darkness. Our homes are centers of hospitality to show strangers and neighbors the light of Christ. And they are equipping centers for traveling ambassadors to help them on their way to doing the King’s business.

Jack’s secret is not just to reward people for their profit contribution in the “great game of business.” It’s to put real numbers right in workers’ faces so they make better decisions every minute, every day, for every customer. I would go one step further, and maybe Jack already has. I would give employees a minor share in the overall company, but I would also then use software to measure each individual’s or team’s contributions after fair overhead allocations and direct costs. This would mean the back-line “servers” have fair revenue recognition of their efforts on behalf of the front-line “browsers” who actually serve the end customers. Is this not possible in a light-speed world of software and business metrics? We need more real business leaders and visionaries like Jack Stack, not BS Wall Street leverage artists or old-line corporate managers who merely streamline their top-down management systems while their workers wait for their unfunded retirement and death. And we need real educators, like Neil deGrasse Tyson, who can make science understandable to everyday people. Most of all, we need people to love what they do so much that they won’t even think of retiring at age 63 or 65 or even 75. They’re so productive and happy that they don’t worry about a retirement that doesn’t make sense to them anymore, though it’s there if they have health challenges. They’re too busy satisfying their customers and creating new businesses to contemplate life without that fulfillment. They’re so focused on what they do that they’re like the champion basketball player who’s totally “in state” and one with his process. They’re certainly not bored or waiting to retire and do nothing!

Leading without constraints and giving into unbridled ambition will be the death of any leader because God didn’t intend for our ambition to run wild.

A Europe united by a Constitution is not merely a vision but a process through which the EU has to pass. This, however, is a long way, where debates about the distribution of power between EU and its member states are prominent and passes, as we shall demonstrate in this chapter, through the consolidation of the European identity, which, in its turn, shall leverage public support for the European constitution. Hence, a consolidated European identity means no spill-back for EU.

I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father’s protection. —Sigmund Freud

brains of a bag of wet mice,

By bringing Nikkie to power, Yeroen had carved out an influential role for himself. With Luit’s death, however, his leverage evaporated. All of a sudden, Nikkie didn’t need the old male anymore. Finally he could be boss on his own, or so he must have thought. Soon after I had left for America, however, Yeroen began to cultivate a tie with Dandy, a younger male. This took several years, but eventually led to Dandy challenging Nikkie as leader. The ensuing tensions drove Nikkie to a desperate escape attempt. He actually drowned trying to make it across the moat around the island. The local newspaper dubbed it a suicide, but to me it seemed more likely a panic attack with a fatal outcome. Since this was the second death on Yeroen’s hands, I must admit that I’ve always had trouble looking at this scheming male without seeing a murderer. A year after this tragic incident, my successor decided to show the chimps a movie. The Family of Chimps was a documentary filmed at the zoo when Nikkie was still alive. With the apes ensconced in their winter hall, the movie was projected onto a white wall. Would they recognize their deceased leader? As soon as a life-sized Nikkie appeared on the wall, Dandy ran screaming to Yeroen, literally jumping into the old male’s lap! Yeroen had a nervous grin on his face. Nikkie’s miraculous “resurrection” had temporarily restored their old pact.

Death precedes life; a seed buried in the ground has to die before it can bring forth life.

The secret of life is "to die before you die" and find that there is no death

I use chaos as leverage. I have made chaos normal. Chaos engenders chaos. The chaos I reek now opens the door to the vast chaos to come. I revel in chaos.

Money laundering’s frowned upon.” “A pity, as it comes out so crisp and clean.

Juxtapose, a Manhattan-based incubator that conceives and launches one new startup each year to massively disrupt an entrenched industry. Jordan knew Patrick from his Blackstone days and since Juxtapose’s model (raising money to spend most of their time thinking and then to build just one company every twelve months) was as weird and unconventional as ours (getting into deals by leveraging politics), naturally we all started working together.

I rarely do business with wankers.

Not only had the nefarious Candy Thief snatched her chocolate, he/she had taken the time and trouble to replace it with the actual item on the freaking menu. She had to respect that.

Life was easier when all I had to do was think about murder.

The unrestricted love of a child is a precious gift.

That was the woman he loved, no matter how much she could--and did--infuriate him.

The heart and the brain don't always mesh, do they? I know your heart, darling Eve, but your brain still has some mysterious corners.

needed leverage. She could stop this mission at any time, but I

times. She had them stand by, then took

Maybe it’s all they were after, but gamblers gamble. It worked, as far as they’re concerned.

That’s unbelievably cruel.” “Nothing cruel’s unbelievable.

She covered her hands with her face,

are on