Psi Cops Quotes

I'd blow someone for a valium," I said in Jacob's ear. "Maybe he's got one... but try offering a hand-job first so you retain some leverage.

I really hate threesomes when one of the participants is dead.

A psycho murderer who lubed. How considerate.

My waking life probably gave my subconscious an inferiority complex.

What the fuck happened to you? [...] You look like you lost a fight with a lamprey. Hickey, hickey...bruise, bruise, bruise...bite. I thought that thing on your neck the other day was just a fluke. I guess not--looks like you get off on picking up a few souvenirs when you...get off. ~Crash

He was nuts. He'd scammed the quarterly mental health exam and was certifiably insane. Not that that's ever stopped me from sleeping with anyone.

No wonder I worried about talking dirty; talking in general seemed to escape me.

You don’t have to be psychic to end up knowing things you were a lot happier not knowing.

Queer. And not in the way I like.

Gee, I wasn't as up on my Native American traditions as the chick who used to call herself Faun fucking Windsong even though she was fifteen sixteenths as lily-white as me. Imagine that.

I've never liked the word team. I've always equated it with being picked last and getting nailed in the groin with a dodgeball.

Have you ever made her angry?" If the cop said that he and his wife lived in a state of constant connubial bliss, Andrew decided he'd have full cause to throw a punch. Max raised an eyebrow. "Sure, I'm human." He slid the phone into the pocket of his suit pants and rose to his feet with a distinctly amused glint in his eyes. "Making up is the fun part, in case you haven't figured that out yet.

I’ve got more talent than everyone on their payroll put together,” I said. Jacob squeezed me tighter. His eyes never moved from mine. “I’m so far beyond level five it’s not even funny.

I'd like to think that we're not just sacks of biological goo careening through a random universe.

Those wire baskets where you leave your paperwork to die...

Say something,” he said.   “What?” I mumbled, struggling to orient myself. “What?”   “Can you hear me? What day is it? Who’s the president?”   “Yes, I don’t know, and a horse’s ass.

Victor, back there in that basement, when the zombies were… were… moving around on those tables…. Twitching? And dead? You didn’t even blink. This is nothing like those zombies. No shit. Because this time, you’re scared—beyond scared. You’re terrified. And whatever’s got you scared? I don’t want any part of it.

We’ll need you to unlock your desk, sir.” “Sorry,” Dreyfuss said. “Not until I’ve read this form.” “You haven’t…looked at it.” “And I’m a very slow reader. Sometimes I wonder if I’m dyslexic.

We don’t use the word crazy around here. We prefer coping mechanism.

The past is only a memory. Memories have no power to hurt you.

I looked at my spices again. Salt for protection, cinnamon to enhance psychic ability, and pepper to drive away evil. I figured I should start with the cinnamon. My first impulse was to snort it.

Jacob cut his gaze to me. I wasn't quiet sure how to convey, /I know we hate him, but based on the circumstances, it was the most logical thing to do/, with a nonverbal signal. I widened my eyes a little.

I'll be fast. I can make you come in two minutes." "I can do that myself. I never get to see you anymore- I'd rather talk to you" That had to be the most romantic things anyone had ever said to me, and I went all gooshy inside.

...Blakewood had a collection of miniature furniture with Scotty dogs painted on it, arranged on a semicircular shelf int he corner. Yeah. He was queer.

Sometimes the only place you find help is the last place you look.

A siren pierced the air, cutting off her breath. “Damn.” A scowling Jessie pulled over to the side of the long, otherwise empty road. “I swear,” the blonde muttered, “the hick cops have nothing better to do than hassle law-abiding citizen.” “Jessie, we’re actually—” “Shh. Think law-abiding thoughts.

I smelled the cinnamon, and I imagined myself full of white light. I think I felt something. Something more than the desire for a piece of toast—though that was there, too.

...knowing often felt preferable to not knowing. It provided the illusion of control.

Eventually Young Vic would have ditched me for someone with a bunch of piercings and an edgy record collection, if I didn’t take off with a pseudo-intellectual political activist first.

When people die,” I said, “and you’ll be able to verify this for yourself—most of ’em move on. A few of ’em stick around. But the ones who stick around are usually messed-up. Murders and suicides, or people with unfinished business. As for accidents and illness—at the very worst, they leave a little residue. A repeater. A psychic impression of the final moments, like a moving snapshot. I think the spirits of those repeaters, they’re fine. They go wherever it is people…go. When they die.

He was nuts. He’d scammed the quarterly mental health exam and was certifiably insane. Not that that’s ever stopped me from sleeping with anyone.

The news was its usual discouraging self—people in Chicago can’t help but shoot at each other, and we only hear about the ones who didn’t miss.

That was so not fair. My life was perfectly fine until suddenly I had this live-in boyfriend who wanted to interact with me, and I realized that I was almost always high.

I put them near the cellar door in case you want to store them down there." "Yeah. I, uh... I'm not big on going down into this basement." "But you said this place only had one ghost in it, and she left." I had. But I never claimed that ,y loathing of basements was entirely rational. "I had a bizarre fabric softener incident once," I told her. "It scarred me for life.

Jacob went to the sink and held his hands under the tap. He splashed cold water on his face and formed another ab-flashing maneuver that would bring every card-carrying queer to his knees.

Jacob slid down my body and knelt in front of me. The two of us were wedged into the narrow lane between the and the dresser. He took the front button of my shirt into his mouth. I heard a snap. He spat, and a button pinged to the floor. He was nuts. He'd scammed the quarterly mental health exam and was certifiably insane. Not that that's ever stopped me from sleeping with anyone.

Crash took a long drag off his cigarette and gave me a smug little smile. He always looked smug. His hair was dyed Kool-Aid green. Maybe that's what he was looking smug about today, despite the fact that it clashed with his olive drab army duster. Or maybe he knew my ass stung with every step I took- either because he was an empath who hot "feelings" about what everyone was experiencing, or because he'd taken it up the ass from Jacob himself. Crash's smirk widened and I looked away. One day I'd probably slap him. And then I'd regret it, because he was probably into stuff like that.

You got to ask yourself what's more important-- to try to do everything your own way and lose it all, or to ask for help so you can get what you need, when you need it. Always remember, you not here in this world alone. You got friends.

I was surprised to see Patrick waving vigorously at me from the corner. “Cashing in my rain check!” Huh. I didn’t think people actually did that. Maybe “rain check” wasn’t actually shorthand for “I prefer not to spend any time with you, ever.

I hit Crash's button and we heard the phone inside start to ring. After four, he answered. "Hey, PsyPig." His voice was husky. "I'd normally tell you not to call me at this ungodly hour, but evidently someone's running a cockfghting ring in the hall, so I wasn't actually asleep...." "It's me. Open up." He was actually silent for a second. "Aren't /you/ butch?" "Don't fuck around. I need to see Miss Mattie." "Okay, okay, don't get your handcuffs in a twist. I can't find my pants." I wondered if he could say the word "pants" without making something dirty out of it. "Unless, of course, this visit is clothing-optional." And there it was. I rolled my eyes, even though he couldn't see me since the door was still shut.

Certain people just have a look about them—you can spot them here and there, at gas stations and in checkout lines—like they fully expect to have a shitty day, and if it hasn’t happened yet, by golly, they’ll make sure they’re disappointed before the sun goes down.

The kitchen guy wheeled out the tray of lunches. The salmon looked too fancy for institutional food, more at par with something Jacob would have cooked up at home as a way of saying, I’m sorry I stood you up at that party where all my friends were flexing so hard you could barely fit in the room with their delts.

Do you sell anything that can answer a yes or no question?“ I asked him. "For entertainment purposes,” he asked me not bothering to look up, “or for real?” I squelched the impulse to scream, “What do you think, you jackass?” Maybe he was asking a serious question- though I had my doubts. “You’re the one with the metaphysical shop. If I wanted a magic Eight Ball, I’d go to SaverPlus.” He looked up at me and grinned. “Did you notice the new guy who works at the return counter in the SaverPlus basement?He’s kind of a creep- which I think I like about him- and he’s got this monster bulge in his pants.” I could totally see him getting into someone who was a creep. “Um. No.” “They’re still open. Why don’t you go buy a Magic Eight Ball so I can return it?” “No.” “Then what the fuck good are you?

And then I saw it. The mirror fogged over as I squinted at my reflection, and I scrubbed it with the heel of my palm. My skin squeaked against the glass, I turned my head to the side. I peered at my reflection from the corner of my eye. Toothmarks. Jesus. "You left a bite mark on my neck!" Jacob opened the shower curtain just far enough to look out at me. He knuckled water out of his eyes and grinned at me. "Good thing you don't have to woke tomorrow." "You shit." He grinned wider and whisked the curtain shut. Way to go. I'd look real slick reporting for duty at the Fifth Precinct covered in hickeys like a slutty teenaged girl. Damn it. I rubbed at the toothmarks, which raised a pinkish blotch around them. "It better be gone by Thursday," I said. I'm sure Jacob felt very chastised. Not.

I stared at the spot where [the ghost of] Warwick's nephew had warned me never to tell anyone what I could do, and then I slid my hand into Jacob's and pulled him close. He slipped his other arm around me and held me. I kissed him, and tried to clear my mind of everything but him and me. I looked deep into his eyes, and tried to determine if I was ready to let him in on the one thing I'd been carrying with me since my first round of psychic testing. He started back at me like a man who'd fallen for me, hard. And that part inside, the one that usually tells me to run, or to shut up, or to play along and myself invisible and hopefully whatever I'm dealing with will just go away? That part of me said, /Yes. Tell him./ "I've got more talent than everyone on their payroll put together," I said. Jacob squeezed me tighter. His eyes never moved from mine. "I'm so far beyond level five it's not even funny

You married, Zig?“ I asked him. "Yeah, twenty-one years.” He actually glanced at his wedding ring as he said it. “You?” I looked down at my bare left hand. I’d never had the compulsion to do that before. How lame. “I’m, uh… .” Great, I couldn’t say it. But I had to. The longer I waited, the worse my anxiety would be. And I couldn’t imagine it feeling any worse than it did already. “I’m moving in with someone. Just as soon as we find a place that’s not haunted.” Say it, Vic. Damn it. Tell him. “That a common problem, spirit activity in a …?” “Jacob Marks. From the Twelfth. You know him? I’m moving in with him.” Zig almost did a spit-take. The color drained from his ruddy cheeks, leaving him a strange shade of gray. His already-bulging eyes bulged even more. And then a barrier slammed down somewhere behind them and he pressed his lips together hard. Shit. I’d thought I was up for the conversation, but evidently I was a much bigger pussy than I realized. My stomach clenched up and I fought the urge to tell Zig I was just kidding, and laugh, and give him a hearty, heterosexual clap on the back. God, I hate confrontation. I steeled myself for the tirade that was sure to come. The one where I was a drug addict, a shitty cop, and a miserable excuse for a human being. Zig blinked. He cleared his throat. “Marks,” he said. “Sure. We’ve met.” And then he looked back at his notepad with every ounce of attention he had.

Jackie, can you tell me if someone’s dead or not?’ “Who it be? Maybe I heard something.” “Miranda Lopez.” I pulled out the charm and balanced it on my fingertips, and then I realized the photo was probably a better likeness. I pocketed the milagro ad held up the Polaroid. “I find out for you if you get me a dime.” I sighed and put the photo away. “You can’t smoke crack. You’re dead. And even if you weren’t, I’m not gonna score for you. I’m a cop. “ “You so full of shit. You ain’t no cop neither.” “Would I be wearing this fucking suit if I wasn’t a cop?” “I don’t know. I always thought you sold cars or something.” I tucked my chin toward my chest and stomped toward my gate. Jackie couldn’t help me. And how dare she call me a used car salesman? I wasn’t always a dork in a blazer. Once upon a time I was actually cool. Until the Cook County Mental Health Centre, anyway. After that, I guess I kinda stopped caring.

The duplex had an attic—not the finished kind where there’s a guest room and a spot for out-of-season clothes, but the creepy kind where you’ve got to pull a set of folding stairs out of the ceiling to get up there.

I’d always thought that rules were just for people who tended to get caught.

we lingered there for just one more moment, and held each other, and savored the feeling of wanting and being wanted. Loving, and being loved.

And kissing him was like coming home, Tension drained from both of us as we sank into the kiss. Such a simple thing-something we had done a million times before. But the kiss was a powerful reminder that the two of us were solid. A true partnership. So much stronger together than either of us could ever be on our own.

really hate threesomes when one of the participants is dead.

I opened my eyes again to keep myself with Marks, anchored in the present, among the living.

I’ve never found anything good in a basement. Ever.

couldn’t imagine a worse crime scene than a snow-covered alleyway after dark. I’m sure one existed somewhere. I just couldn’t imagine it.

I didn’t argue. I don’t do confrontation any better than I do basements, or shots of Jägermeister.

Referring to my mental process as “thinking” was probably a stretch. It felt more like a broken record, and the part it kept skipping back to was the part where the world sucked, I sucked, and I was an idiot for thinking things would ever get any better.

what

So, Officer “Andy” managed to shoot a civilian in the head even after he’d died. Talk about taking incompetence to new heights.

I did my best not to smirk. It blows my “Don’t mind me, I never notice anything,” smokescreen when I give in to smirkiness.

Most of my Spanish vocabulary consists of phrases like I didn’t know that car was stolen, or I was home watching TV during the shooting, or That’s not blood, it’s molé sauce.

And besides, I might be white, but I’m most definitely not vanilla.

You probably don’t want to put me in any situation where I’m expected to know something about the sportball.

Writing is so difficult. It’s one of those things everyone thinks they can do, just because they can put together an email. But doing it well is another story.

Doctor, as in “an apple a day”? Or one of those guys who’s got an honorary title for staying in college too long?

I knocked—not the cop knock that says, “Let me in right now, you piece of shit,” but the polite human being knock that most cops reserve for victims’ families. That’s my typical knock anyway, since I’ve always hated calling attention to myself. I wondered briefly if my knock wasn’t manly enough for Zig, but then I thought, fuck it. I was already pretending to be macho by doing the driving. I didn’t need to batter down the door.

It’s always been weird to imagine Jacob dating Crash, but now that Red was in the picture, maybe I could see it. We all have our types, and maybe Crash thrived best against a backdrop of self-righteousness.