Mic Power Quotes

I laughed and pointed out that "Hash Browns Mean Nothing Without You" was a pretty good name for a band. "Or a song," the Duke said, and then she started singing all glam rock, a glove up to her face holding an imaginary mic as she rocked out an a cappella power ballad. "Oh, I deep fried for you / But now I weep 'n' cry for you / Oh, babe, this meal was made for two / And these hash browns mean nothing, oh these hash browns mean nothing, yeah these HASH BROWNS MEAN NOTHIN' without you.

When you’re in a band, you spend the first four hundred thousand years of your career dragging around your own crap. Your speakers, speaker stands, mixing head, mics, pickups, power cables, mic cables, speaker cables, instruments, the everything. You forget something, you’re screwed. You break something, you’re screwed. You don’t have a long enough extension cord? Screwed. Once you hit it big, though — You’re packing your shit into a late-model Mustang and a pickup truck and hoping you didn’t forget anything.

Powerful women don’t need another pair of yoga pants, we need a mic.

(In the Afghan parliament, apparently, they disconnect the mics when they don’t want to hear the women speak).

Good humor pokes fun at the powerful — not the weak.

My apologies, see, I forgot my manners. I get on the mic ’cause it’s my life. You show off for girls and cameras. You a pop star, not a rapper. A Vanilla Ice or a Hammer. Y’all hear this crap he dumping out? Somebody get him a Pamper. And a crown for me. The best have heard about me. You can only spell “brilliant” by first spelling Bri. You see, naturally, I do my shit with perfection. Better call a bodyguard ’cause you gon’ need some protection, And on this here election, the people crown a new leader. You didn’t see this coming, and your ghostwriters didn’t either. I came here to ether. I’m sorry to do this to you. This is no longer a battle, it’s your funeral, boo. I’m murdering you. On my corner they call me coroner, I’m warning ya. Tell the truth, this dude is borin’ ya. You confused like a foreigner. I’ll explain with ease: You’re just a casualty in the reality of the madness of Bri. No fallacies, I spit maladies, causin’ fatalities, And do it casually, damaging rappers without bandaging. Imagining managing my own label, my own salary. And actually, factually, there’s no MC that’s as bad as me. Milez? That’s cute. But it don’t make me cower. I move at light speed, you stuck at per hour. You spit like a lisp. I spit like a high power. Bri’s the future, and you Today like Matt Lauer. You coward. But you’re a G? It ain’t convincing to me. You talk about your clothes, about your shopping sprees. You talk about your Glock, about your i-c-e. But in this here ring, they all talking ’bout me, Bri!

True worship of God springs from our inability to answer two simple questions posed by a biblical understanding of the fear of the Lord: (1) O God, who is like you in power, righteousness, mighty deeds, and in pardoning sin (Ps. 71:18-19; Mic. 7:18-20)? and (2) what are woman and man that God should look down from heaven and care for them and lift them up to sit with princes (Ps. 8:4; 113:5-8)?

Then Terry - fucking Terry, the Blind King, the pain in the ass, the boy who tapped on her basement window, the kid who asked her the question that started everything, that caused all this pain, that sparked a thousand shows, the boy who said, "You wanna start a band?" - he grabbed his mic and right on time, right on cue, he said the words that were coming but that Kris thought he would never sing: "And inside that hole!" Terry shouted, and the black ocean fell silent, its colossal sound held back for three seconds, its power coiling, building up, about to overflow. "And inside that hole!" Terry shouted again, "is Black Iron Mountain!

Praying for the Nations, INTERCESSION. Consider the dynamic power of God’s declaration of what He can do with any one of us. “Threshing” means interceding, and God links it with nations (see Mic. 4:11–13). Further, He encourages us that if we will yield to the Holy Spirit, obey His promptings, and believe that He is working, He will use us to radically change the course of the history of the nations as we pray. Our responsibility is to be interceding for every nation of the world. “My house shall be called a house of prayer for all nations” (Is. 56:7). Seek a systematic plan of praying for each of the world’s nations. Make your main focus to be on the body of Christ in those nations. God has shaped history around His people, and He still calls them to expect to shape the history of the nations. Intercession is foundational to this (see notes on Ps. 2:8, 9).

On the night of September 13, Bill O’Reilly had an exchange with Sam Husseini, a former spokesperson for the American-Arab Anti-Discrimination Committee, that characterized Fox’s position as it was developing. “Here’s what we’re going to do, and I’ll let you react to it,” O’Reilly said. “We’re going to take out this Osama bin Laden. Now, whether we go in with air power or whether we go in with a Delta force, he’s a dead man walking. He’s through. He should have been through long before this. He’s been wanted for eight years. Now, they’re going to go in and they’re going to get him. If the Taliban government of Afghanistan does not cooperate, then we will damage that government with air power, probably. All right? We will blast them, because …” Husseini told O’Reilly that innocent Afghans would be killed by a protracted air strike. “Doesn’t make any difference,” O’Reilly huffed. “Bill—” “They—it was an act of war.” “No, no. It does make a difference,” Husseini said. “I don’t want more civilians dead. We’ve had civilians dead in New York and now you’re saying maybe it’s okay to have civilians dead in Afghanistan.” “Mr. Husseini, this is war.” “Yeah, exactly. And in war you don’t kill civilians. You don’t kill women and children. Those are your words, Bill.” “Oh, stop it,” O’Reilly said. “You just made the most absurd statement in the world. That means we wouldn’t have bombed the Nazis or the Japanese. We wouldn’t have done any of that, because you don’t want somebody who has declared war on us to be punished. Come on.” “Who declared war on us?” “The terrorist states have declared war, Mr. Husseini!” “Get them. Get the terrorists,” Husseini said. “Cut his mic,” O’Reilly responded, waving his finger across the screen, the lower third of which was covered with Stars and Stripes graphics and a caption that read: “AMERICA UNITES.

She clicks on the last slide, and that’s when it happens. “Me So Horny” blasts out of the speakers and my video, mine and Peter’s, flashes on the projector screen. Someone has taken the video from Anonybitch’s Instagram and put their own soundtrack to it. They’ve edited it too, so I bop up and down on Peter’s lap at triple speed to the beat. Oh no no no no. Please, no. Everything happens at once. People are shrieking and laughing and pointing and going “Oooh!” Mr. Vasquez is jumping up to unplug the projector, and then Peter’s running onstage, grabbing the microphone out of a stunned Reena’s hand. “Whoever did that is a piece of garbage. And not that it’s anybody’s fucking business, but Lara Jean and I did not have sex in the hot tub.” My ears are ringing, and people are twisting around in their seats to look at me and then shifting back around to look at Peter. “All we did was kiss, so fuck off!” Mr. Vasquez, the junior class advisor, is trying to grab the mic back from Peter, but Peter manages to maintain control of it. He holds the mic up high and yells out, “I’m gonna find whoever did this and kick their ass!” In the scuffle, he drops the mic. People are cheering and laughing. Peter’s being frog-marched off the stage, and he frantically looks out into the audience. He’s looking for me. The assembly breaks up then, and everyone starts filing out the doors, but I stay low in my seat. Chris comes and finds me, face alight. She grabs me by the shoulders. “Ummm, that was crazy! He freaking dropped the F bomb twice!” I am still in a state of shock, maybe. A video of me and Peter hot and heavy was just on the projector screen, and everyone saw Mr. Vasquez, seventy-year-old Mr. Glebe who doesn’t even know what Instagram is. The only passionate kiss of my life and everybody saw. Chris shakes my shoulders. “Lara Jean! Are you okay?” I nod mutely, and she releases me. “He’s kicking whoever did it’s ass? I’d love to see that!” She snorts and throws her head back like a wild pony. “I mean, the boy’s an idiot if he thinks for one second it wasn’t Gen who posted that video. Like, wow, those are some serious blinders, y’know?” Chris stops short and examines my face. “Are you sure you’re okay?” “Everybody saw us.” “Yeah…that sucked. I’m sure that was Gen’s handiwork. She must’ve gotten one of her little minions to sneak it onto Reena’s PowerPoint.” Chris shakes her head in disgust. “She’s such a bitch. I’m glad Peter set the record straight, though. Like, I hate to give him credit, but that was an act of chivalry. No guy has ever set the record straight for me.

But then he grabbed the mic like a cudgel, raised it to the sky, lightning struck, and the cudgel was now a hammer, and the slave was transfigured into a god whose voice shivered the Earth. And that is the story hip-hop told me then. And for anyone who has felt, as I so often did, ignorant, enfeebled, enslaved to circumstance, this was myth and this was saga, awesome as any Aeneid, Iliad, or Odyssey.

Where does Christ rule as king? His kingdom is spiritual. He rules in the hearts of men. He sets up his throne where no other king does; he rules the will and affections; his power binds the conscience; he subdues men's lusts. "He will subdue our iniquities." Mic 7:19.

Version Two-Morning (Engage in your beginning ritual if you are using one.) THIS MORNING I ADMIT WHEN ISOLATED I AM POWERLESS OVER (Fill in problem). (BREATHE) THIS MORNING I ADMIT WHEN I RELY ONLY ON MY WILL MY LIFE IS UNMANAGEABLE. (BREATHE) THIS MORNING I BELIEVE THERE IS A POWER GREATER THAN MYSELF. (BREATHE) THIS MORNING I BELIEVE THIS POWER CAN, AND WILL, RESTORE ME TO SANITY. (BREATHE) THIS MORNING I AM MAKING A DECISION TO TURN MY WILL OVER TO THAT POWER’S CARE. (BREATHE) THIS MORNING I AM MAKING A DECISION TO TURN MY LIFE OVER TO THAT POWER’S CARE. (BREATHE) THIS MORNING I AM ENTIRELY READY TO HAVE THAT POWER REMOVE ALL MY DEFECTS OF CHARACTER. (BREATHE) THIS MORNING I HUMBLY ASK THAT POWER TO REMOVE MY SHORTCOMINGS. (BREATHE) THIS MORNING I AM SEEKING THROUGH THIS PRAYER TO IMPROVE MY CONSCIOUS CONTACT WITH THAT SPIRITUAL POWER. (BREATHE) THIS MORNING I AM PRAYING FOR KNOWLEDGE OF THAT SPIRITUAL POWER’S WILL FOR ME. (BREATHE) THIS MORNING I AM PRAYING FOR THE POWER TO CARRY OUT THAT SPIRITUAL POWER’S WILL FOR ME. (BREATHE) THIS MORNING I AM PRAYING FOR THE WILLINGNESS TO TAKE THE ACTION NECESSARY TO CARRY OUT THAT SPIRITUAL POWER’S WILL FOR ME. (BREATHE) THIS MORNING I AM PRAYING FOR A SPIRITUAL AWAKENING. (BREATHE) THIS MORNING I AM PRAYING FOR THE OPPORTUNITY TO CARRY THIS MESSAGE TO OTHERS WHO STILL SUFFER. (BREATHE) THIS MORNING I AM PRAYING FOR THE ABILITY AND WILLINGNESS TO PRACTICE THESE PRINCIPLES IN ALL ASPECTS OF MY LIFE. (Engage in your ending ritual if you are using one.) Version Two-Evening (Engage in your beginning ritual if you are using one.) TONIGHT I ADMIT IN ISOLATION I AM POWERLESS OVER (Fill in problem)-THAT MY LIFE IS UNMANAGEABLE. (BREATHE) TONIGHT I BELIEVE THAT YOU ARE A POWER GREATER THAN MYSELF AND YOU ARE RESTORING ME TO SANITY. (BREATHE) TONIGHT I AM GRATEFUL THIS DAY I WAS ABLE TO MAKE A DECISION TO TURN MY WILL AND MY LIFE OVER TO YOUR CARE. (BREATHE) TONIGHT I CONTINUE TO BE ENTIRELY WILLING TO HAVE YOU REMOVE ALL MY DEFECTS OF CHARACTER. (BREATHE) TONIGHT I HUMBLY ASK YOU TO CONTINUE TO REMOVE MY SHORTCOMINGS. (BREATHE) TONIGHT I TAKE PERSONAL INVENTORY AND FIND I HAVE BEEN WRONG AND NOW PROMPTLY ADMIT IT TO YOU. (If after an honest review of the day you are unable to identify anyone you have harmed, skip the next two sentences.) (BREATHE) TONIGHT I LIST THESE PERSONS I HAVE HARMED TODAY, AND AM WILLING TO MAKE AMENDS TO THEM ALL. (BREATHE) TONIGHT I AGREE TO MAKE DIRECT AMENDS TO THESE PEOPLE WHEREVER POSSIBLE, EXCEPT WHEN TO DO SO WOULD INJURE THEM OR OTHERS. (BREATHE) TONIGHT I AM SEEKING THROUGH PRAYER TO IMPROVE MY CONSCIOUS CONTACT WITH YOU. (BREATHE) TONIGHT I AM PRAYING FOR KNOWLEDGE OF YOUR WILL FOR ME. (BREATHE) TONIGHT I AM PRAYING FOR THE POWER TO CARRY OUT YOUR WILL FOR ME. (BREATHE) TONIGHT I AM PRAYING FOR THE WILLINGNESS TO CARRY OUT YOUR WILL FOR ME. (BREATHE) TONIGHT I AM SEEKING THROUGH MEDITATION TO IMPROVE MY CONSCIOUS CONTACT WITH YOU. (BREATHE) TODAY I EXPERIENCED A SPIRITUAL AWAKENING AS A RESULT OF THESE STEPS. (BREATHE) TODAY I TRIED TO CARRY THIS MESSAGE TO OTHERS WHO STILL SUFFER. (BREATHE) TODAY I PRACTICED THESE PRINCIPLES IN ALL MY AFFAIRS. (Engage in your beginning ritual if you are using one.)

The king’s heart is like channels of water in the hand of the LORD; He turns it wherever He wishes” (Prov. 21:1 NASB). Micah had prophesied that Messiah would be born in Bethlehem (Mic. 5:2). By issuing the order that a census be taken throughout the Roman Empire, Augustus provided the reason for Mary and Joseph to travel from Nazareth to Bethlehem. And there the Word of the Lord was proved true. There is a mystery in how God’s providence shapes the choices of human agents, but the lesson is that God fulfills His purposes according to His Word. Those in positions of political or financial power may not realize it, but ultimately they serve God’s purposes. Rulers may be a blessing or a threat to God’s people, but God rules over the nations (see Rom. 13:1–7). The persons in power are not as powerful as they may think.

Seriously? I wouldn't need to be rescued. I would find out which way was downhill and locate the nearest water source to follow or I'd climb high and look for gaps in tree lines due to roads, power cables, or train tracks. At night, I'd look for artificial light sources..." I paused when I noticed the smirk had been totally wiped off Jack's face. "Do you want me to tell you how I'd read the night sky? I can do that, too. Oh, and I also know how to make a fire out of sticks and build a rudimentary shelter. I joined an orienteering club when I was a kid to learn outdoor survival skills, and every Christmas I asked Santa for survival gear." Silence. "Boom." I opened my hand and closed it again, giving Jack my most satisfied smile. "Mic drop.

Whenever there was a conflict between democracy and order, defined as the protection of elites in capital accumulation, the US came down on the side of the latter. This 1945–1970 period also gave rise to the military-industrial complex (MIC), and the related speech by Dwight Eisenhower warning of the incipient power of the MIC and its ongoing control and influence of US economic and military policy. To generate profits in that sector, there must be continual and expanding arms sales and therefore the constant proliferation of enemies. In addition to building the power of the MIC economically and politically, this has contributed to the ongoing and dangerous militarization of the planet, including proliferation of nuclear weapons. We can see this ongoing.

You will learn on the job, in the process of repairing many different kinds of equipment and seeing how the designers solved various problems, or failed to solve them in some cases. For every repair, you will fill out a log describing the cause of the failure and what you did to rectify it. If you don’t understand something, you may consult the more experienced Technicians, including myself.” He led the group down a wide hallway, and they crowded into a soundproofed studio. “This is the backup broadcast studio, which kept operational at all times in case of a major failure in the main studio. The first item in the signal chain is the microphone. We use dynamic mics for DJ’s and guests, and various ribbons and condensers for radio plays and orchestral broadcasts. For pre-recorded sound sources, we have direct-drive turntables, cassette decks, open-reel decks, and cart machines. All machines are wired for remote start from the console. “The consoles are vacuum tube type, fully balanced with input, output, and interstage transformers, and completely modular. They were designed in-house for absolute reliability. Channel modules can be hot-swapped without powering down the console, so that breakdowns can be fixed in a matter of seconds. “The output of the console is wired to a stereo compressor, variable mu type, to regulate the overall volume. The studio switcher selects the currently active studio and routes it to the transmitter. The output passes through an additional compressor, VCA type, with sophisticated circuitry for leveling, peak limiting, soft clipping, filtering, and pre-emphasis, in order to maximize the station’s loudness without overmodulating the transmitter.

Come back to me,” he says. But Wren is silent and still. Oak lets go of his power, cursing himself. He glances up helplessly at Jude, who looks back at him and shakes her head. “I’m sorry.” It is a very human thing for her to say. He lets his head fall forward until his forehead is touching Wren’s. Gathering her in his arms, he studies the hollowness of her cheeks and the thinness of her skin. Presses a finger to the edge of her mouth. Oak thought his magic was just finding what people wanted to hear and saying it in the way they wanted, but since he’s let himself really use the power, he discovered that he can use it to find truth. And for once, he needs to tell her the truth. “I thought love was a fascination, or a desire to be around someone, or wanting to make them happy. I believed it just happened, like a slap to the face, and left the way the sting from such a blow fades. That’s why it was easy for me to believe it could be false or manipulated or influenced by magic. Until I met you, I didn’t understand to feel loved, one has to feel known. And that, outside of my family, I had never really loved because I hadn’t bothered to know the other person. But I know you. And you have to come back to me, Wren, because no one gets us but us. You know why you’re not a monster, but I might be. I know why throwing me in your dungeon meant there was still something between us. We are messes and we are messed up and I don’t want to go through this world without the one person I can’t hide from and who can’t hide from me. Come back,” he says again, tears burning the back of his throat. “You want and you want and you want, remember? Well, wake up and take what you want.” He presses his mouth against her forehead. And startles when he hears her drawn in a breath. Her eyes open, and for a moment she stares up at him. “Wren?” Bex says, and smacks Oak on the shoulder. “What did you do?” Then she pulls the prince into her arms and hugs him hard. Jude is staring, hand to her mouth. Bogdana stays back, glowering, perhaps hoping that no one noticed she rent her garments with her nails as she watched and waited. “I’m cold,” Wren whispers, and alarm rings through him like the sound of a bell. She could walk barefoot through the snow and not have it hurt her. He had never heard her complain of even the most frigid temperatures. Oak stands, lifting Wren in his arms. She feels too light, but he is reassured by her breath ghosting across his skin, the rise and fall of her chest. He still cannot, however, hear the beat of her heart. With the storm stopped, it seems that all of Elfhame has forded the distance between Insear and Insmire. There are boats aplenty, and soldiers. Grima Mic’s second-in-command is barking orders. Bex scavenges a blanket from one of the tents, and Oak manages to bundle Wren in it. Then he carries her to a boat and commandeers it to take him across so he can bring her to the palace. The journey is a blur of panic, of frantic questions, plodding steps. Finally, he carries her into his rooms. By then, her body is shivering, and he tries not to let terror leak into his voice as he speaks to her softly, explaining where they are and how she will be safe. He puts Wren in his bed, then pushes it close by the fire and piles blankets on top of her. It seems to make no difference to her shuddering.

Come back to me,” he says. But Wren is silent and still. Oak let’s go of his power, cursing himself. He glanced up o helplessly at Jude, who looks back at him and shakes her head. “I’m sorry.” It is a very human thing for her to say. He lets his head fall forward until his forehead his touching Wren’s. Gathering her in his arms, he studies the hollowness of her cheeks and the thinness of her skin. Presses a finger to the edge of her mouth. Oak thought his magic was just finding what people wanted to hear and saying it in the way they wanted, but since he’s let himself really use the power, he discovered that he can use it to find truth. And for once, he needs to tell her the truth. “I thought love was a fascination, or a desire to be around someone, or wanting to make them happy. I believed it just happened, like a slap to the face, and left the way the sting from such a blow fades. That’s why it was easy for me to believe it could be false or manipulated or influenced by magic. Until I met you, I didn’t understand to feel loved, one has to feel known. And that, outside of my family, I had never really loved because I hadn’t bothered to know the other person. But I know you. And you have to come back to me, Wren, because no one gets us but us. You know why you’re not a monster, but I might be. I know why throwing me in your dungeon meant there was still something between us. We are messes and we are messed up and I don’t want to go through this world without the one person I can’t hide from and who can’t hide from me. Come back,” he says again, tears burning the back of his throat. “You want and you want and you want, remember? Well, wake up and take what you want.” He presses his mouth against her forehead. And startles when he hears her drawn in a breath. Her eyes open, and for a moment she stares up at him. “Wren?” Bex says, and smacks Oak on the shoulder. “What did you do?” Then she pulls the prince into her arms and hugs him hard. Jude is staring, hand to her mouth. Bogdana stays back, glowering, perhaps hoping that no one noticed she rent her garments with her nails as she watched and waited. “I’m cold,” Wren whispers, and alarm rings through him like the sound of a bell. She could walk barefoot through the snow and not have it hurt her. He had never heard her complain of even the most frigid temperatures. Oak stands, lifting Wren in his arms. She feels too light, but he is reassured by her breath ghosting across his skin, the rise and fall of her chest. He still cannot, however, hear the beat of her heart. With the storm stopped, it seems that all of Elfhame has forded the distance between Insear and Insmire. There are boats aplenty, and soldiers. Grima Mic’s second-in-command is barking orders. Bex scavenges a blanket from one of the tents, and Oak manages to bundle Wren in it. Then he Carrie’s her to a boat and commandeers it to take him across so he can bring her to the palace. The journey is a blur of panic, of frantic questions, plodding steps. Finally, he carries her into his rooms. By then, her body is shivering, and he tries not to let terror leak into his voice as he speaks to her softly, explaining where they are and how she will be safe. He puts Wren in his bed, then pushes it close by the fire and piles blankets on top of her. It seems to make no difference to her shuddering.

He imagined a reality show host selling Los Angeles to a live audience: “Are you a surfer dude hitting the waves? You’ll fit right in. How about a hipster starting a gluten-free cookie brand or a new church? Of course. And is there a place for a young family raising small children? You bet. How about a retired couple wanting to play bingo all day? Indeed. High-powered executives? Yes! Lawyers, doctors, agents, and managers? Best place to thrive. Gym buffs, starlets, chefs, yoga teachers, students, writers, healers, misfits, trainers, nurses? Right this way, please. Are you into cosplay, improv, porn, Roller Derby, voyeurism, cemetery movie screenings, food truck drag racing, AA, relapse, rehab, open mic, plastic surgery, wine tastings, biker meetups, karaoke, clubbing, S and M, or escape rooms? Come on over!” Every race, religion, nationality, gender, sexual orientation, and food preference was well represented within Los Angeles County, and this is what Oscar loved most about his city;

You may think of myths as worlds of light sabers, rings of power, and enchanted spells. Hip-Hop is also a mythical place. A place free from strangling bonds of racism, sexism and bigotry. A place where the only currency is your skills with a mic, a turntable, or a drum machine. Hip-Hop is filled with faraway lands populated by dragons, wizards and knights - places like Marcy Projects, 5th Ward, Compton, Shaolin and Strong Island. Our knights are MC's, B-Boys, B-Girls, DJs, producers and graf artists.

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There’s a bit of clapping, and I walk up to the podium. I see a few clusters of students I teach and many others I don’t know. Their faces are lifted up at me. I think of Holden Caulfield, wanting to catch children before they fall off the cliff, and I get it now. I take a long breath. A kid from eleventh grade gives a little whoop. ‘Thank you, Brad,’ I say into the mic. ‘Your grade just went way up.’ There are so many more people than I had imagined. But it can’t be that much harder than reciting the specials to an impatient ten-top at Iris. Plus, I want to tell these kids the things I’ve written down. My lips tremble and my voice hops around a bit, but I get it out. I tell them the truth. I tell them I am thirty-one years old and seventy-three thousand dollars in debt. I tell them that since college I’ve moved eleven times, had seventeen jobs and several relationships that didn’t work out. I’ve been estranged from my father since twelfth grade, and earlier this year my mother died. My only sibling lives three thousand miles away. What I have had for the past six years, what has been constant and steady in my life is the novel I’ve been writing. This has been my home, the place I could always retreat to. The place I could sometimes even feel powerful, I tell them. The place where I am most myself. Maybe some of you, I tell them, have found this place already. Maybe some of you will find it years from now. My hope is that some of you will find it for the first time today by writing.

You're a liar, and worse-- you broke my heart. You're not a mother. You're a villain." Gothel's eyes went wide. Her mouth opened and hung there as though even she was a little curious as to what she would say, what words would come and bring the situation back under her control. "I would rather take my chances with an honest villain like Bathory!" Rapunzel hissed. "Get out of my sight and never let me see you again!" "Or what?" Gothel asked, a knowing, nasty tone in her voice: her real voice. "What could you do to me, Rapunzel? I am your mother, and besides that I control all of these sword-playing idiots." "Did you forget that I'm a crown princess? And a powerful witch who can control her hair now. Or did you think the castle just fell on its own today? "Either way, your time with me is over, if you know what is good for you." The two women glared at each other. And after a minute, Rapunzel realized that's what they were: two women. Despite being younger and shorter than Gothel, she wasn't a girl anymore. She had power and will and a stubborn disposition. "Go. Now," she ordered. "Never approach me again." Her mother started to growl something-- "What's that? I can't hear you. All that mumbling," Rapunzel said airily, and walked away, turning her back on the woman forever.

Bolin was less a pastor than he was a performer. He had traded his pulpit for a soapbox, riffing like it was open-mic night at a campus coffeehouse. He openly preyed on the political and cultural insecurities of his congregants.