Mayhem Guy Quotes

Dee!” he shouts. “The guy who snuck in your room last night is here!

Guy was saying, “What the hell is it about you that attracts murder and mayhem?" "Something in my body language?" He groaned. “That was bad—even for you.

You don't know what you're talking about. When you fall in love, even a kiss is mind-blowing. You don't fuck other people, because there's only one person you want to be close to. When he fucks me, it's like I give him a part of my soul," his words became quieter. "I'm not looking for other guys, and I don't wanna do it with anyone else.

If my future doesn’t involve college or the only guy I ever gave my heart to, I don’t know where that leaves me, but I need to figure it out. “It’ll

A woman saying yes to a date with a man is literally insane and ill-advised, and the whole species' existence counts on them doing it. I don't know how they...how do women still go out with guys, when you consider the fact that there is no greater threat to women than men? We're the number one threat to women. Globally and historically, we're the number one cause of injury and mayhem to women. We're the worst thing that ever happens to them. That's true! You know what our number one threat is? Heart disease.

It was a strange experience to be looking out the window of an eighteenth-century Chinese house at a seventeenth-century colonial graveyard full of people in twenty-first-century Halloween costumes. Salem, guys.

In short, three older guys to keep me firmly in my place—which I guess is no bad thing for a kid who’s about to embark on a wizarding career.

Fishing poles. The weapon of choice for the traveler in distress. We also had lots and lots of marshmallows. Maybe we could immobilize these guys with sticky gooey goodness.

I hadn't told him the news yet, but in that same preternatural way he was always aware of what I was feeling or thinking, he could smell my lies a mile away. He was just giving me time to come to him. To tell him I'd be baking his bun for the next seven and a half months. ''I'm okay." Dex's chuckle filled my ears as he wrapped his arms around my chest from behind, his chin resting on the top of my head. "Just okay?" He was taunting me, I knew it. This man never did anything without a reason. And this reason had him resembling a mama bear. A really aggressive, possessive mama bear. Which said something because Dex was normally that way. I couldn't even sit around Mayhem without him or Sonny within ten feet. I leaned my head back against his chest and laughed. "Yeah, just okay." He made a humming noise deep in his throat. "Ritz," he drawled in that low voice that reached the darkest parts of my organs. "You're killin' me, honey." Oh boy. Did I want to officially break the news on the side of the road with chunks of puke possibly still on my face? Nah. So I went with the truth. "I have it all planned out in my head. I already ordered the cutest little toy motorcycle to tell you, so don't ruin it." A loud laugh burst out of his chest, so strong it rocked my body alongside his. I friggin' loved this guy. Every single time he laughed, I swear it multiplied. At this rate, I loved him more than my own life cubed, and then cubed again. "All right," he murmured between these low chuckles once he'd calmed down a bit. His fingers trailed over the skin of the back of my hand until he stopped at my ring finger and squeezed the slender bone. "I can be patient." That earned him a laugh from me. Patience? Dex? Even after more than three years, that would still never be a term I'd use to describe him. And it probably never would. He'd started to lose his shit during our layover when Trip had called for instructions on how to set the alarm at the new bar. "Dex, Ris, and Baby Locke, you done?" Sonny yelled, peeping out from over the top of the car door. "Are you friggin' kidding me?" I yelled back. Did everyone know? That slow, seductive smile crawled over his features. Brilliant and more affectionate than it was possible for me to handle, it sucked the breath out of me. When he palmed my cheeks and kissed each of my cheeks and nose and forehead, slowly like he was savoring the pecks and the contact, I ate it all up. Like always, and just like I always would. And he answered the way I knew he would every single time I asked him from them on, the way that told me he would never let me down. That he was an immovable object. That he'd always be there for me to battle the demons we could see and the invisible ones we couldn't. "Fuckin' love you, Iris," he breathed against my ear, an arm slinking around my lower back to press us together. "More than anything.

The Stereophonics were nice guys and we got along fine, though the differences between us were marked. Before they played they would practise their harmonies by playing the Extreme song ‘More Than Words’, with the whole band singing along with Kelly, the singer, and his acoustic guitar. For our pre-gig ritual we would sniff as many poppers as we could and listen to ‘Raw Power’ by The Stooges at ear-splitting volume.

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.

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.

Zak swallowed, eyeing Stitch in silence. He didn’t want to read too much into Stitch’s words, especially not after seeing him kill a man. It hadn't been planned, and Cox’s cruel words had been the trigger, but that didn’t change anything about the contents of the trunk. He wanted to make a hole in the ground and scream into it until his voice would give out. If only he could bury all his worries and doubts this way. Cox didn’t deserve this. He’d been a good guy, with dreams and hopes for the future that would never come.

He’s not doing anything to your shop. Just look at him, acting like a big baby that can’t get the toy it wants.” He shook his head and rolled back to his stomach. “These guys don’t fuck around. You know that. You must have inked at least a few.” Travis went back to tattooing, but kept looking back to the door. “Not to mention he’s most probably in a closet so deep he’s, like, in Narnia

Fuck,” he uttered through his teeth. “This wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for this freak.” A powerful kick shook Zak’s seat, but he didn’t even try to reason with the unreasonable. “It’s not his fault that I don’t like pussy.” Stitch briefly turned around and smacked Captain’s leg. “I am done doing what others try to push me to do. Aren’t we supposed to be fucking outlaws? Living life without rules? Who says I can’t fuck a guy if I want to? Fuck that.

This wouldn’t be the first time Stitch woke up in someone else’s bed, but he already anticipated an unnaturally high level of awkwardness, and all his senses screamed for him to pick up his stuff and run. On the other hand, it wouldn't be enough to just run. As girly as this bedroom was, with its pinks and baby blues, with the dried flowers in a huge vase, the room belonged to a guy, and nothing could erase what Stitch had done the night before. The logical part of his brain kept suggesting that since he already went for it, fucked Zak like a bunny in heat, then he might as well continue because there was no taking it back. If the guy knew how to keep quiet, Stitch could finally have a hot guy to fuck. Not to mention the mind-blowing head Zak had given him. He’d love to have that inked up body under him again

I wanna fuck you. I had a rethink, took some time, and I really wanna fuck you, okay? As long as you keep this shit quiet, we could have a, you know, mutually optimal situation here.” Zak frowned, slowly moving his eyes down the massive chest, the package at the front of Stitch's jeans, his firm legs. It was an attractive prospect. “Why do you think I'd want that after what you did earlier? Are you mad?” For the first time Zak saw real confusion on Stitch’s face. “But you’re a—you’re gay, you said it yourself.” Zak eyed him, startled. This guy had no idea how the world worked, apparently. “You might have noticed that I am also pretty hot. I don’t need to settle on whatever someone throws my way. If you want me, you need to convince me why should I want you.

Before he even knew it, Stitch’s lips were on his, tongue forcing its way in, as Stitch’s hands gripped the sides of Zak’s face, like a physical reminder of how he’d held Zak in place during the blow job. When Stitch’s body pushed on Zak’s, he actually regretted not sleeping naked. The kiss was just too good. It sent trails of heat wandering all over Zak’s skin. They made his lips tingle, and his throat ache again. He hardly even noticed when he melted into the wall behind him, gasping for breath. Stitch’s tongue was hot and teasing, never leaving Zak’s mouth, not letting him speak. Stitch pulled one of his hands away, but before Zak knew it, it was on his hip, fingers already sliding under the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms. Zak grasped his wrist, keeping it in place. He opened his eyes, looking straight into Stitch's. The display had been pretty convincing. “You’re a good kisser. Way to go, using an asset like that,” he uttered breathlessly against the soft lips. His cock was already stiffening from the close contact. “So, do I get to fuck you now?” Stitch groaned and gave Zak’s lips a quick lap. He didn’t push his hand farther down Zak’s pants, but he curled his fingers and scratched the side of Zak’s buttock. Fucking charmer. “We get to fuck, but only as long as you guarantee me you won’t be lashing out or intimidating me again. That kind of shit’s not on,” growled Zak, trying to ignore the warm shivers racing all over his body. He needed to set boundaries. “Promise.” Stitch licked the side of Zak’s face, leaving him speechless. The guy really was a dog.

You like to be fucked like a little bitch?” he groaned and laid his weight on top of Zak, grinding his cock into Zak’s hip. Zak’s ass accepted the thick digit without question, but his mind rattled in alarm even as he ground back, fucking himself on the finger. He wasn’t against dirty talk but he didn’t know this guy, and it felt very off. “No, I like to be fucked like a man,” he whispered. Stitch snorted. “Oh yeah? And how does a man get fucked, huh?” He pulled out his thumb just to replace it with two other fingers, screwing in even harder. “Up the ass, yeah?” His hot breath tickled Zak’s skin. “A man isn’t a bitch,” whispered Zak. “He’s choosing to get fucked up the ass, and he’s proud of it.” His breathing became shallow as he relaxed to the penetration after initial discomfort. He squeezed his muscles around the digits, anticipating Stitch’s reactions. He would show him how good it would be to fuck a real man. “So why don’t you stop lecturing me and take it like a man, huh?” Stitch snarled at him and added another finger, fucking Zak with them in quick, harsh jabs. “I don’t like being told what to do.

Wasn’t that the way of the outlaw after all? Why the fuck should Stitch be constrained by rules? Wasn’t lack of them what he loved about the biker lifestyle in the first place? Some arrangements made sense: don’t rat, have your brothers’ back, don’t mess with another guy’s bike, but cocksucking, ass-fucking? Why the fuck would anyone in the MC care whom he fucked? Because someone believed it’s disgusting? Hell, he thought Freddy puking all over the pool table was disgusting, and no one kicked him out. “Fuck the rules.” Stitch bit his lip, looking down and already awaiting those skilled lips

He wasn't wrong, but what was I supposed to do? Move the guy to somebody else's barn like a baton in a relay?

We were just a bunch of horny guys trying to change the world. 

I’m not having sex in front of all these guys.” “Yeah, you are and you’re going to fucking like it.

I’m not gonna let them go easy on me knowing he’s out there hurting some other kid. How can a decent person live with that?” Indeed. Even a guy like Artice, who’s caused his share of mayhem, sees that.

Remember the root spray color I used to extend trips to the colorist? Guess what can disguise thin spots too? The same thing! Spray hair! I know we all laughed at the Ronco guy in the ’80s who marketed hair in a can, but he was onto something. You just have to be careful not to go all Rudy Giuliani and use so much that it drools down your face like an oil rig is hovering above you.

A regular feature of a day’s filming would be visitors to set. They would generally be children and mostly the visits would be in aid of a children’s charity. Alan Rickman requested by far the most visits for charities that he supported. It seemed to me that he had a group in almost every day. And if anyone understood what a child wanted from a trip to the Harry Potter set, it was him. None of our visitors were that interested in meeting Daniel, Rupert, Emma or, for that matter, me. They wanted to meet the characters. They wanted to put on Harry’s glasses, to get a high five from Ron or a cuddle from Hermione. And since Daniel, Rupert and Emma were so similar in real life to their idea of the characters, they never disappointed. It was different for us Slytherins. I might have got the role of Draco in part because of the similarities between us, but I liked to think that I was not so Draco-esque that I’d be unpleasant to a group of nervous, excited youngsters. So I’d greet them, all smiles, and be as friendly and welcoming as I could be. “Hi, guys! Are you having fun? What’s your favourite set?” And crikey did I get that wrong. Without exception they’d look aghast and confused. Draco being a nice bloke was as anathema to them as Ron being a dickhead. They didn’t quite know how to process it. Alan understood this implicitly. He understood that while they might want to meet Alan Rickman, they’d much rather meet Severus Snape. Whenever he was introduced to these young visitors, he gave them the full Snape experience. They’d receive a clip round the ear and a terse, drawn-out instruction to tuck… your… shirt… in! The kids would be wide-eyed and joyfully terrified. It was a lovely thing to watch. I’d learn, as the years progressed, that some people find it difficult to distinguish between fact and fiction, between fantasy and reality. Sometimes that could be trying. But I wish I’d had Alan’s confidence to remain in character during some of those meet and greets at Leavesden Studios. There’s no doubt that in doing so, he brightened many a day.

Don’t fuck with an old lady, you shitty kid,” I yelled. “I have a lifetime of asshole tricks up my sleeve. They’re all right behind my Kleenex and my emergency Advil.” Mind you, I was doing all this in no bra, sweatpants, and leather slippers with shearling lining. “Sara,” I asked, “when we all get together for dinner in a restaurant, do you think other people see a group of old people having dinner instead of—us?” “Yeah,” she said after she thought for a moment. “Yeah, I think they see old people.” And that’s a trip, because when I look at Sara, I still see Sara. I see Sara as she was at twenty-seven. She hasn’t changed to me. Most of my friends haven’t changed, in my opinion. Jim lost his hair, but so what? Lots of guys shave their heads. Sandra has a couple of gray hairs in her long, jet-black hair. And yet, some of our friend group has died. From heart attacks. Pancreatitis. Liver failure. Drug overdoses. Suicides. Cancer. Aneurysms. We were stunned by each of those deaths. Honestly, drug overdoses and suicides are almost easier to take than pancreatitis and heart attacks, because those diseases rarely happen to kids our age. And then one day, your body stops working. It can be sudden, like throwing out your back while shaving your legs, and it just never goes back to normal. You live the rest of your days with a “bad back.” Then there’s the opposite; there’s the creep. In your thirties, a nerve pings in your hand, like someone has plucked a rubber band inside it. It’s startling and odd. In another five years, your hands start to tingle a little bit when you’re typing, and you buy a pair of hand braces to wear at night. In the next five years, you can’t open a jar, and in the five years after that, they suddenly fall asleep and you have to elicit a hearty round of applause to no one to wake them back up and make them functional again. And no one prepared me for that. I noticed that my nana’s fingers were oddly formed, racked with arthritis, but she never explained that they hadn’t always been like that. She never told me that once, a long time ago, she had hands just like mine, until she felt that first ping. And that’s the weird thing. As a young person, you assume all old people were just always that way—unfortunate. They came like that. And, as an old person, you think that young people surely understand that yesterday, you were just like them.

Penny deserved better than a guy like him. And he felt guilty for praying to God she never realized it, because he didn’t know what he’d do if she left. She’d put the color back into his life. The depth. She was his anchor. And if she were here right now, she’d tell him to stop dwelling. He grinned and looked at his feet. She’d be right, too. Life felt better when you enjoyed the positive instead of lingering on the negative.

This is the guy who got the part after sending in a video of himself rapping the immortal line “Hello there, my name is Rupert Grint, I hope you like this and don’t think I stink.” He was, unsurprisingly, extremely Ron-like.

No, I don’t know what is at the root of this. No one has revealed your secrets to me. Not the guys. Not Mayhem. No one. I want you to trust me enough to tell me, but whether you do or not is irrelevant. Because you’re my baby sister, and what comes for you, is coming for me.

Aren’t you proud that you know how to use a dial phone? That you lived a whole, full life without a digital device in your pocket? You remember who Gilligan is! You watched Fonzie jump the shark! You remember when coming in second place was still awesome. You know how to use a phone book and roll down a window manually. You probably drove a stick shift. As a kid, you played outside all day until dinner. You lived in a time when you could walk your loved ones all the way to the gate in an airport. The guy who sang your favorite song on the radio wasn’t also a model. You know what “Where’s the beef?” means and remember when everyone ate Hamburger Helper. You watched Jaws at the drive-in. We have seen a lot. We survived Aqua Net. We were the last generation of children to ride in a car without seat belts! And there’s nothing shameful in saying that.

Car insurance,” said Serge. “Watch any channel on TV for any length of time, and every other commercial is a British lizard, an upwardly mobile caveman, a calcified chick named Flo, the anthropomorphic jerk named Mayhem who tricks you into accidents, the guy in a hard hat who hits cars with sledgehammers, the character who played the president in the show 24 saying, ‘That’s Allstate’s stand,’ ‘Nationwide is on your side,’ ‘Fifteen minutes could save you some shit.’ ” “I like Mayhem,” said Coleman. “He makes me not feel so bad about breaking stuff.” “And yet we’re still not manufacturing anything you can hold in your hands,” said Serge.

Webster Street is one of the nicer areas in Chamber, which is one of the nicer towns in Florida. It has about thirty-five thousand people, a couple of decent movie theatres, a bookstore where the owner calls me whenever a new Flip the Weasel cartoon collection comes out, nice schools, nice parks, nice restaurants, and a guy who mutters memorable television quotes while wandering the streets giving the finger to unsuspecting motorists. If you're ever looking to relocate, you could do much worse.

Raja could take a shitload of dirty talk, but these words made him flush. He scratched his head and shrugged. “You heard him, Hunter. This little guy’s unstoppable, and I doubt that, out of all things, anyone could deny him me.

Did my education fail me? Or, even worse, did I fail my education? There's a larger question to be asked here, too, since I'm also a microcosm of my peer group. Why did so many highly educated people from elite business schools and privileged background contribute to and exacerbate the financial crisis of 2008-2009? Did our education fail us? Or did we fail our education? These questions haven't been answered adequately by the prestigious universities that groomed all these high-powered creators of economic mayhem.

You guys are going to be the death of me,” I mumble, rubbing my hands down my face and wondering how the hell I ended up in here, with the love of my life and my husband together. Must be, like, karma or something. Or maybe it’s just balance? Maybe life has lobbed so much shit my way that she just had to give me something nice to play with? That bitch better not be just a lending library, if you know what I mean.

The Kids in the Hall were doing everything pretty much right in my book. Their show hung together, was distinctive, really likable, and you got to know them even while they were playing stridently strange characters. Plus they had a number of homes for the show, all in off-brand time slots and locales—right where it belonged. This made me envious and mad. Not at the guys—I liked them all—but at Canada in general. Somehow they were able to bring Canadian niceness to the brain-warping comic mayhem. How much maple syrup do I have to drink to become that nonthreatening? There isn’t enough in the world.

Then the guy in the car behind me laid on his horn as I paused at a Yield sign to merge with traffic. I looked up, and in the rearview mirror I could see a younger man in a red truck getting very animated because I wasn’t moving fast enough for him. “The sign says ‘yield,’ not ‘forge ahead with total disregard for human life,’” I yelled at the rearview.

Ha,” Wendy barked, “she wouldn’t have listened to you. She would have been snide and rude and, in her head, she’d have twisted it all around so that you were the bad guy. It’s what she does. Did.

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.