Mayhem Dead Quotes

Oh yeah? You already got a little devil in you?” “No. I have a wicked little rainbow unicorn that shoots glitter and sparkles from its horn and gets bored easily and makes questionable decisions.

Hearing her say my name - a name I'd walked away from long ago - tore at my insides worse than any bullet could. It hurt like love. Like dying.

What'll be left of me when I'm dead, there was nothing when I lived

Madness, chaos, bone-deep mayhem, devastation of innumerable souls—while we scream and perish, History licks a finger and turns the page.

Of course she was bloody found dead." Moore grumbled. "Some bastard cut off her head and her limbs. If she'd been found alive I would have been more than bloody surprised.

Evil spawns mayhem while benevolence repairs; doing good comforts the living while prayers are extended to the one who attends to the dead.

What is known is that in 1805 in the dead of night a group of white landowners, chafing at the limits of their own manifest destiny, set fire to the last remaining indigenous village on the teardrop-shaped peninsula that would become Charon County. Those who escaped the flames were brought down by muskets with no regard to age, gender, or infirmity. That was the first of many tragedies in the history of Charon. The cannibalism of the winter of 1853. The malaria outbreak of 1901. The United Daughters of the Confederacy picnic poisoning of 1935. The Danforth family murder-suicide of 1957. The tent revival baptismal drownings of 1968, and on and on. The soil of Charon County, like most towns and counties in the South, was sown with generations of tears. They were places where violence and mayhem were celebrated as the pillars of a pioneering spirit every Founders’ Day in the county square.

He held my face in his palms, those malevolent eyes deceptively peaceful. Like the eye of a hurricane. No wind. No rain. No storm. But surrounded by chaos and followed by mayhem. Destruction was the only thing it left behind, leaving nothing it touched unruined. That was Saint. A deadly hurricane, and there was not a chance in hell I’d survive the storm.

Because every questionable decision deserved matching T-shirts.

Your boner lie-detector test has determined that’s the truth!

Found dead. A verdict as useful as a fucking Bible in the Bluegate Brothel.

Did you touch my fucking wife?” Ramel asked, his voice deadly calm. “I think he did, Ram,” Shem purred. If Ram was murder, Shem was mayhem.

Sometimes there is a big and scary Storm inside us, and there is nothing we can do, no one to hold to. Just you and the Storm. The world around us is dead silent, just like a spectator.

When I've been in my dramatic states, friends who look beyond my spiraling downward are quick (and kind) to remind me of what is good in my life. They tell me the truth. This world is not all about me, nor am I just about to slip off the precipice of sadness. They help me see the blessings in the mess, the beauty underlying the mayhem. And when I have a dramatic friend, I can also offer this same perspective.

Ava was blessed with amazing beauty but was academically challenged. Angelina tried to give her a quick introduction to computers but was horrified at Ava’s lack of knowledge and complete failure to understand. Ava called the CD drawer the cup holder and honestly thought it was her holding her coffee or drink when typing. She thought the monitor was the telly and the mouse was the roller. She kept exiting programmes instead of closing documents and kept deleting items and forgetting to save things. Things happened Angelina’s computers that never happened before: programs failed to respond and the computer kept crashing. She typed e-mails and then printed them and put them in an envelope to post them, Angelina was speechless. She even killed a machine by constant abuse for the week. It just died the screen went blank and a message came up of fundamental hard drive failure, the monitor went black and the keyboard and mouse went dead and could not be restored. It went to the computer scrap yard, RIP. Angelina ran her out of the IT dept in their firm terrified she’d cause any more mayhem. She was the absolute blonde bombshell when it came to computers

Warning: “Good Intentions” contains violence, explicit sex, nudity, inappropriate use of church property, portrayals of beings divine and demonic bearing little or no resemblance to established religion or mythology, trespassing, bad language, sacrilege, blasphemy, attempted murder, arguable murder, divinely mandated murder, justifiable murder, filthy murder, sexual promiscuity, kidnapping, attempted rape, arson, dead animals, desecrated graves, gang activity, theft, assault and battery, panties, misuse of the 911 system, fantasy depictions of sorcery and witchcraft, multiple references to various matters of fandom, questionable interrogation tactics, cell phone abuse, reckless driving, consistent abuse of vampires (because they deserve it), even more explicit sex, illegal use of firearms within city limits, polyamory, abuse of authority, hit and run driving, destruction of private property, underage drinking, disturbances of the peace, disorderly conduct, internet harassment, bearers of false witness, mayhem, dismemberment, falsification of records, tax evasion, an uncomfortably sexy mother, bad study habits, and a very silly white guy inappropriately calling another white guy “nigga” (for which he will surely suffer). All characters depicted herein are over the age of 18, with the exception of one little girl who merely needs to get her cat out of a tree. Don’t worry, nothing bad happens to her. She makes it through the story just fine.

In the presence of our families and friends, I take you, Celestia, to be my mate, my love, my consort, and my wife. Together, we can accomplish more than I could ever do alone. I will never let the pressures of the present and uncertainty of the future stop me from loving you, because you are my partner in mayhem, my enabler in trouble, and my companion in a life full of unexpected, strange adventures. I will encourage you to try new things and revisit the old to refresh your memories. I promise to celebrate our love daily, snuggle with you often, and make you laugh out loud. I vow to lend you my strength only when you need it, and to cheer you on from the sideline and support you when you don’t. I pledge to nurture and be respectful of your talents and quirks even when they involve dead animals.” He glanced at a raven in the back of the room, which I’d assumed was one of Odin’s. “You have a huge, kind, and giving heart, and I’m the lucky man you’ve given it to for safekeeping. I promise to never give you a reason to doubt my love for you, because this is just the beginning of our journey together. We have forever, and I will love you always.

The divine right of kings may now be acknowledged as a fabrication, a falsified permit for prideful dementia and impulsive mayhem. The inalienable rights of certain people, on the other hand, seemingly remain current: somehow we believe they are not fabrications because hallowed documents declare they are real. Miserly or munificent as a given right may appear, it denotes no more than the right of way warranted by a traffic light, which does not mean you have the right to drive free of vehicular misadventures. Ask any paramedic as your dead body is taken away to the nearest hospital.

Dahmer was as manipulative and calculating as the other killers we've covered in this book, demonstrating a keen understanding of how to evade capture the vast majority of his victims were Black men, not because Dahmer was exclusively attracted to the them but because he knew that police were much less likely to investigate their disappearances. In this, he was absolutely correct, harkening back to the "less dead" theory we discussed in Gacy's case. When you add gay and poor to that victim profile as many of Dahmer's victims were, you've got the perfect trifecta of investigative apathy.

Hold on,” I said. “Frank, name three things you like. And no, Darling doesn’t count.” “Easy,” Frank said. “Murder—” “Too dark. It’s abundantly clear that you like inflicting suffering on things, but we’re going for lighthearted interests at the moment, so try again.” “Uh, mayhem.” “Still too dark.” He paused for a very, very long moment. “Mmm… macarons.” “Are you just naming things that start with m?” “No.” “I think you are.” “Am not.” “Are too.” “Is this really the time for this argument?” Lars said. “I mean, macarons?” I said. “Seriously? That’s a weird flex.” “What is a flex?” Lars said. “How is that weird?” Frank said. “That’s a bougie cookie, man. I’m rich as hell and I still feel guilty buying macarons. Those things are expensive.” “I don’t think it’s about the money. I think deep down in your heart of hearts, you know that you don’t deserve macarons.” “Wow,” I said. “They’re not even that good.” “Macarons are the Cadillac of cookies and if you ever imply otherwise again I will cut that uncultured palate right out of your mouth and force you to eat it.” “Wow,” Lars said. “That’s a really strong opinion.” “Those are the only opinions I have,” Frank said. “Yeah, apparently the guy who’s all about mystery meat also likes macarons,” I said. “Go figure.” “Oh yeah,” Frank said. “I do love me some mysterious meats. I just really like the suspense of wondering what dead animal I’m about to bite into, you know?” “I really think we should go,” Lars said. “Yeah, you’re right. Frank, lemme know when you come up with a third thing.

Help, help, a whole passel of raping, murdering, wild-eyed Apache just broke through my door with mayhem on their minds, slaying in their hearts, and a whole arsenal of tomahawks and assorted deadly blades tucked in their belts

I’ve trudged along so many lanes this Christmas searching for holly. I’ve even considered going out at the dead of night and nicking some from the hedge over the road. And all the time, it was right here. In my back garden.

Lance grinned back. “In the old days, you were faster,” he said as he sheathed his sword. “My grandma has better moves than you.” “Your grandma once raised an army of mummies from the dead in order to overthrow a terrorist military regime.” “Yeah, she’s feisty.

Bloodshed, carnage, mayhem and us. That was all I never knew I needed, and all I’d ever want now. Just me, her, a feral dog and two bloodthirsty arseholes who loved her beyond the point of sanity too. And that was all I desired in this world of chaos, our own little home in the storm.

Mayhem really was the most beautiful thing in this world.

Ravens were omnivores and ate an array of tidbits including insects, seeds, berries, meat, and carrion, the dead flesh of animals, which made her cringe.

Farley gestured toward Roger's crutches. "The magazine business is dangerous, huh?" "More dangerous than you can imagine," said Roger. "Those computer terminals can be deadly. Hurt my leg typing an adjective.

Three hours waiting in a graveyard after dark starts to get to you. I don't know why. Maybe it's all the dead people hanging around underground. Whatever it was, by the time my watch said it was ten minutes to midnight, I had a major case of the creeps, the willies, and the heebie-jeebies. At least the flesh-eating zombies were keeping themselves hidden away. I sat there for another ten minutes and the same nothing that had been happening all night continued happening.

You could beat an orphan to death with a dead nun and not deserve what will happen to you if Mr. Burke catches us. I don't want to overhype him, but the man is mentally unhinged!

Did his brothers and the men now believe him dead? Would they blame themselves? Aye, they would. Iain would curse himself for giving up his command and seeking a new life with Annie. Connor would hate himself, believing that he’d left Morgan to die when he ought to have saved him. Joseph would wonder why he hadn’t foreseen Morgan’s death in a dream. Even the men would blame themselves, Dougie most of all, for ‘twas he whose life Morgan had stayed behind to save. Och, the bletherin’ idiots! What they ought to do is get good and bloody drunk! They should play the pipes, curse the English in his name, and send him off to hell with a bit of mayhem, giving Wentworth a bad night’s sleep. That would be a fitting farewell.

Widow Magik would rinse this life away.

Even in the dead of night, fluorescent lights in the hard seat compartment never shut off. It’s a policy with a purpose — total darkness in a packed car would be an invitation to mayhem — but the unceasing illumination presents passengers waking at 4 a.m. with a Pompeii-esque tableau: hundreds of men, women and children slumped unconscious across the booths, sinks and stairwells.

I knew middle school was going to be challenging, but I never expected to end up DEAD in the computer lab, wearing a SUPERHERO COSTUME, with four slices of PIZZA stuck to my BUTT!

Here is the thing: law and grace are friends. They were always meant to go together. If the law is the skeleton, grace is the flesh. Without the law in there, the grace is just a blob. And without the grace, the law can’t move. It can’t carry grace anywhere. If there is no law, there is no grace. And without grace, the law is dead. Your parenting needs to represent both the law and the grace to your children.

When a nuclear bomb hits Washington, D.C., chaos will grip the nation. Without a functioning government, there will be no rule of law. Democracy will be replaced by anarchy. Moral constructs will disappear. Murder, mayhem, and madness will prevail. In the words of Nikita Khrushchev, “The survivors will envy the dead.

making him look like a very small mortician who had somehow wandered into the wrong sort of neighborhood, one where there were too many living people and not nearly enough dead ones.

Madness, chaos, bone-deep mayhem, devastation of innumerable souls—while we scream and perish, History licks a finger and turns the page. Fiction, unable to compete with the world for vividness of pain and lasting effects of fear, compensates in its own way.

OGDEN, TOM. Haunted Hollywood: Tinseltown Terrors, Filmdom Phantoms, and Movieland Mayhem. Globe Pequot, 2009.

Hypothetically asking,” she said, leaning on the counter and waving her half-devoured pickle spear into the air. “If you sleep with someone, they leave that night, and they don’t call for a week, is that considered a one-night stand?” “Hypothetically?” he asked as he cleaned the grill in the kitchen. “Yep.” “Hypothetically, you are now a floozy. That’s definitely a one-night stand. Congratulations. You are now the same as most of the population of the world. Ho status achieved.” “I’m going to check out a book on feminism and the harmful ways words like ‘ho’ and ‘floozy’ can hurt women. And I’m going to let you read it.” “I’m not reading that crap.” “Then I’ll spend every three-year lunch break reading it out loud to you until it’s finished.” “I fuckin’ hate this job,” Billy griped.

Mayhem in the body expresses itself in the mind.

On this point we could agree. The bones of the fallen should be treated with respect and accorded the dignity that was their proper due. If only the living were also granted such grace, what a wonder our world could become.

I understand you, Marco Antonio Guerra said to him. I mean, if I’m right, I think I understand you. You’re like me and I’m like you. We aren’t happy. The atmosphere around us is stifling. We pretend there’s nothing wrong, but there is. What’s wrong? We’re being fucking stifled. You let off steam your own way. I beat the shit out of people or let them beat the shit out of me. But the fights I get into aren’t just any fights, they’re fucking apocalyptic mayhem. I’m going to tell you a secret. Sometimes I go out at night, to bars you can’t even imagine. And I pretend to be a faggot. But not just any kind of faggot: smooth, stuck-up, sarcastic, a daisy in the filthiest pigsty in Sonora. Of course, I don’t have a gay bone in me, I can swear that on the grave of my dead mother. But I pretend that’s what I am. An arrogant little faggot with money who looks down on everyone. And then the inevitable happens. Two or three vultures ask me to step outside. And then the shit kicking begins. I know it and I don’t care. Sometimes they’re the ones who get the worst of it, especially when I have my gun. Other times it’s me. I don’t give a fuck. I need the fucking release. Sometimes my friends, the few friends I have, guys my age who are lawyers now, tell me I should be careful, I’m a time bomb, I’m a masochist. One of them, someone I was really close to, told me that only somebody like me could get away with what I did because I had my father to bail me out. Pure coincidence, that’s all. I’ve never asked my father for a thing. The truth is, I don’t have friends. I don’t want any. At least, I’d rather not have friends who’re Mexicans. Mexicans are rotten inside, did you know? Every last one of them. No one escapes. From the president of the republic to that clown Subcomandante Marcos. If I were Subcomandante Marcos, you know what I’d do? I’d launch an attack with my whole army on any city in Chiapas, so long as it had a strong military garrison. And there I’d sacrifice my poor Indians. And then I’d probably go live in Miami. What kind of music do you like? asked Amalfitano. Classical music, Professor, Vivaldi, Cimarosa, Bach. And what books do you read? I used to read everything, Professor, I read all the time. Now all I read is poetry. Poetry is the one thing that isn’t contaminated, the one thing that isn’t part of the game. I don’t know if you follow me, Professor. Only poetry—and let me be clear, only some of it—is good for you, only poetry isn’t shit.

There are plenty of variants of Krampus runs scattered through Europe, especially in the Alpine regions. In some, the performers are separated from the public by metal fencing and the worst the monsters can do is rattle the railings or swipe at the spectators standing too close. Given the mayhem of Salzburg, I can see why some town councils and attendees prefer to be a little safer and a little more removed from the Krampuses (though if I’m entirely honest, it sounds a lot less fun). In other places, the spectacle is more stage managed, with pyrotechnics, fog effects, and a soundtrack of heavy metal rather than clanking cow bells. In some places, modern additions to the Krampus outfits, like glowing LED eyes, are forbidden, in others they’re happily embraced. Plenty of Krampus groups do house calls as well as the main run (some, joyously, allow for house visits to be booked online on the Krampus group’s website). In other places, the Krampuses take part in a short play with St Nicholas before they rampage through the town.

And so they stick to traps and tricks. And if one takes any of these informal fallacies home in hopes of making pets of them, giving them tidy roosts and appropriate newspaper potty spots in your brain, the mayhem will soon commence. You will soon find your mental furniture shredded, dead birds in your frontal lobe, wriggling worms in your moral outrage, and what can only be excrement in your aesthetic sense. And worst of all, you—like a hoarding cat lady—might be too far gone to even notice, because the culprits will be busily holding your loving gaze with wide glistening eyes. You might even find yourself voting for politicians because they promise to build us all a bridge to the future. As though someone was going to build one to somewhere else? The danger these creatures represent is considerable. The economic devastation they have caused has run up into the trillions, and that is just under the current administration.1 Families are under strain because Mom persists in saying “just because.” Climate change activists

And so they stick to traps and tricks. And if one takes any of these informal fallacies home in hopes of making pets of them, giving them tidy roosts and appropriate newspaper potty spots in your brain, the mayhem will soon commence. You will soon find your mental furniture shredded, dead birds in your frontal lobe, wriggling worms in your moral outrage, and what can only be excrement in your aesthetic sense. And worst of all, you—like a hoarding cat lady—might be too far gone to even notice, because the culprits will be busily holding your loving gaze with wide glistening eyes. You might even find yourself voting for politicians because they promise to build us all a bridge to the future. As though someone was going to build one to somewhere else? The danger these creatures represent is considerable. The economic devastation they have caused has run up into the

muscle strength. And so they stick to traps and tricks. And if one takes any of these informal fallacies home in hopes of making pets of them, giving them tidy roosts and appropriate newspaper potty spots in your brain, the mayhem will soon commence. You will soon find your mental furniture shredded, dead birds in your frontal lobe, wriggling worms in your moral outrage, and what can only be excrement in your aesthetic sense. And worst of all, you—like a hoarding cat lady—might be too far gone to even notice, because the culprits will be busily holding your loving gaze with wide glistening eyes. You might even find yourself voting for politicians because they promise to build us all a bridge to the future. As though someone was going to build one to somewhere else? The danger these creatures represent is considerable. The economic devastation

muscle strength. And so they stick to traps and tricks. And if one takes any of these informal fallacies home in hopes of making pets of them, giving them tidy roosts and appropriate newspaper potty spots in your brain, the mayhem will soon commence. You will soon find your mental furniture shredded, dead birds in your frontal lobe, wriggling worms in your moral outrage, and what can only be excrement in your aesthetic sense. And worst of all, you—like a hoarding cat lady—might be too far gone to even notice, because the culprits will be busily holding your loving gaze with wide glistening eyes. You might even find yourself voting for politicians because they promise to build us all a bridge to the future. As though someone

Apparently arsenic is odorless and can't be detected by taste, so it's easy to administer." Gram took another sip of tea. Then one more. "It often isn't detected in the bloodstream after death because no one thinks to test for it." Look at Gram knowing all the arsenic facts.

You know…” Archer cut me off, forcing my gaze up to his shrewd one. “All my life, I’ve believed the best about people. Even if their first impression of me was always to assume the worst. I have been called worthless and told my life had no meaning, that I’d be better off dead. That I should just do people the kindness of leaving… And yet, I still smile. I still try. I still hold my hand out for a greeting. Time and time again, people just spit in my face, telling me to shove all my good intentions up my ass. I have no idea what I did to deserve your rudeness, and I know I’m not as clean-cut as that guy, Brian, but honestly, Wren, you can fuck all the way off with your judgment.” His glare cut me to my bones, robbing me of breath.

Sofia De Sanctis. My ghost. My love. My greatest triumph and biggest failure. Her skin was like cream under my fingers. I couldn’t stop running my hand up and down her bare arm. It was dangerous. It might wake her. I didn’t care. Let her wake up to a dead man, dressed in black, with empty eyes, looming over her bed. She shifted in her sleep, rolling onto her back and throwing her arm over her head. I couldn’t stop staring at her. My hand fell to her face, and then lower, circling her neck. All the times I’d held her right there, her precious pulse fluttering against my palm, flashed through my mind. Now, I needed it more than anything. I needed the visceral proof that this woman was real. Alive. I circled her neck. Her pulse pounded against my hand with reassuring regularity.