Saga Car Quotes

I'm not like a car you can fix up. I'm never gonna run right" Bella

Yes, heaven forbid I not be protected from tanks.

I raced alongside the car but they were too far down the road. Brokenheartedly, I roared out in hopelessness and grief. She was gone.#Ren

Nice girl who knew cars. Wow. I stared at her face harder, wishing I knew how to make it work. C’mon, Jake – imprint already.

It's a McLaren SLR 722 Roadster." "How big is it?" "It's a convertible." "Will a tiger fit?" "No. It seats only two, but the boys are man half the day now." "Is it more than $30,000?" He squirmed and hedged, "Yes, but-" "How much more?" "Much more." "How much more?" "About $400,000 more." My mouth dropped open. "Mr. Kadam!" "Miss Kelsey, I know it's extravagant, but when you drive it, you will see it's worth every cent." I folded my hands across my chest. "I won't drive it." He looked offended. "That car was meant to be driven." "Then you drive it. I'll drive the Jeep." He looked tempted. "If it will appease you, perhaps we can share it." Kishan clapped his hands. "I can't wait." Mr. Kadam wagged a finger at him. "Oh, no! Not you. We'll get you a nice sedan. Used.

Sneaky would be a lime-green Volkswagen. Nobody would suspect the assassins in the lime-green Volkswagen.

I listened to the men's voices outside, muted by my car walls. "...went at it with a flamethrower in the online video. Didn't even pucker the paint." "Of course not. You could roll a tank over this baby. Not much of a market for one over here. Designed for Middle East Diplomats, arm dealers, and drug lords mostly." "Think she's something?" the short one asked in a softer voice. I ducked my head, cheeks flaming. "Huh," the tall one said. "Maybe. Can't imagine what you'd need missile-proof glass and four thousand pounds of body armor for around here. Must be headed somewhere more hazardous." Body armor. Four thousand pounds of body armor. And missle-proof glass? Nice. What had happened to good old-fashioned bulletproof?

Because I could kill every spider in her home, cut the thorns off every rosebush she might one day touch, block every speeding car that got within a mile of her, but there was no task I could perform that would make me something other than what I was.

The seat at the other end of the table was empty. Ayt had not arrived yet. Hilo checked his watch. He leaned back in his chair and smiled at those assembled, apparently at ease as he waited. "Ayt-jen must've stopped to key my car.

I looked around me to make sure it was clear. That's when I noticed the still, white figure. Edward Cullen was leaning against the front door of the Volvo, three cars down from me, and staring intently in my direction. I swiftly looked away and threw the truck into reverse, almost hitting a rusty Toyota Corolla in my haste. Lucky for the Toyota, I stomped on the brake in time. It was just the sort of car that my truck would make scrap metal of. I took a deep breath, still looking out the other side of my car, and cautiously pulled out again, with greater success. I stared straight ahead as I passed the Volvo, but from a peripheral peek, I would swear I saw him laughing.

We dropped down, and Diego quickly threw the cars into a new arrangement, so that it sort of looked like they'd hit each other rather than been piled up by a giant tantrum-throwing baby. -Bree

Let go!” I insisted. He ignored me. I staggered along sideways across the wet sidewalk until we reached the Volvo. Then he finally freed me – I stumbled against the passenger door. “You are so pushy!” I grumbled “It’s open,” was all he responded. He got in the driver’s side. “I am perfectly capable of driving myself home!” I stood by the car, fuming. It was raining harder now, and I’d never put my hood up, so my hair was dripping down my back. He lowered the automatic window and leaned toward me across the seat. “Get in, Bella.” I didn’t answer. I was mentally calculating my chances of reaching the truck before he could catch me. I had to admit it, they weren’t good. “I’ll just drag you back,” he threatened, guessing my plan.

The house was quiet. Silently, I walked down the stairs and passed the peacock room where I found Mr. Kadam sitting and waiting for me. He took my bag and walked with me out to the car, then he opened my door, and I slid in to the seat and buckled my seatbelt. Starting the car, he circled the stone driveway slowly. I turned to take one last look at the beautiful place that felt like home. As we started down the tree-lined road, I watched the house until the trees blocked my view. Just then, a deafening, heartrending roar shook the trees. I turned in my seat and faced the desolate road ahead.

When they got to her place, he helped her out of the car and pulled her close to him. Finally, a chance to get an idea of what he was packing. And he was packing. It pressed into her stomach, and she swallowed at the prospective size of it. Well. Her inner sex kitten was going to climb trees tonight.

Because I could kill every spider in her home, cute the roses off of every rose bush she might one day touch, block every speeding car that got within a mile o her, but there was no task I could preform that would make me something other than what I was.

I discovered that you aren’t compensating for anything with your giant house and fancy cars.” He looked down at the bulge in his groin, bringing her hand down to touch it. “You’ll find out soon enough.

I want to come home. Not just for a few days or a couple weeks. I want to stay. Can I stay?" Cam drew off his sunglasses, and his eyes, smoke-gray, met Seth's. "What the hell's the matter with you that you think you have to ask? You trying to piss me off?" "I never had to try, nobody does with you. Anyway, I'll pull my weight." "You always pulled your weight. And we missed seeing your ugly face around here." And that, Seth thought as they walked to the car, was all the welcome he needed from Cameron Quinn.

like a tank following a sports car through a slalom course.

Jane sobbed even harder, not noticing the sounds of footsteps coming up behind her. A cold wind blew, and she shivered in it. As her eyes hung between tears, she looked out and saw a shape where the car had been. It was a figure, slim and wrapped in a gray shroud. Almost the whole body was covered, save for a single blue eye that stared at her intently. Jane stared back until she felt a warm hand touch her shoulder and a cold voice whisper in her ear. “You are never alone.

My life is hard. No one would rob me of that. The clothes I am wearing came out of a knotted up black plastic trash bag from a resale shop downtown. And not the downtown where shiny cars wink at you in the sunlight. If a car winks at you in this area it’s being driven by a person you would be best to avoid. My side of downtown is crumbling and skirted by chain link fences. --Rocky Evans

A dozen or so miles out, Churchill abruptly asked, “Where is Nelson?” Meaning, of course, the cat. Nelson was not in the car; nor did he appear to be in any of the other vehicles. Churchill ordered his driver to turn around and go back to No. 10. There, a secretary cornered the terrified cat and trapped him under a wastebasket. With Nelson safely aboard, the cars resumed their journey. —

I didn’t want to answer any weird questions about Ren. I knew he’d probably tell his side of the story when he became a man again, but I didn’t care. I kept my version of the trip factual, unemotional, and, more importantly, Renless. Mr. Kadam said we’d be stopping at a hotel soon, but he wanted to find a good place to leave Ren first. I demurred, “Of course,” and smiled a sickly sweet smile back at the attentive tiger. Mr. Kadam worried, “I hope our hotel won’t be too far away for him.” I patted Mr. Kadam’s arm and reassured him, “Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s very good at getting what he wants. I mean…taking care of his needs. I’m sure he’ll find his long night alone in the jungle extremely enlightening.” Mr. Kadam shot me a puzzled glance, but he eventually nodded and pulled over near a forested area. Ren got out of the Jeep, came around to my side of the car, and stared at me with icy blue eyes. I just turned my body away so I wouldn’t have to look at him. When Mr. Kadam got back in the Jeep, I peeked out my window again, but Ren was gone. I reminded myself that he deserved it an sat back against the seat with my arms folded over my chest and an intense expression on my face. Mr. Kadam spoke softly, “Kelsey, are you alright? You seem very…tense, since I last saw you.” I muttered under my breath, “You have no idea.

Freedom is not a couch. It’s not a television, or a car, or a house. It’s not an item you can possess. You cannot put freedom on layaway; you cannot refinance freedom. Freedom is something you need to fight for, not once, but every single day. The nature of freedom is that it is fluid; like water in a leaking bucket, the tendency is for it to drain away. Left untended, the holes through which freedom escapes widen. When politicians restrict our rights in order to “protect us,” freedom is lost. When the military refuses to disclose basic facts, freedom is lost. Worst of all, when fear becomes a part of our lives, we willingly surrender freedom for a promise of safety, as if freedom weren’t the very basis of safety.

The world beyond is vast, but so small. Men putting themselves in boxes. Sitting at desks. Riding in cars. Ships. Here, the world is small, but without end.

Shay picked that moment to walk back to the car. Thank God. Now we could leave, and I could get away from Nox and home to the beautiful Salvatore brothers. Shoot—were they Elven, too? Probably.

He insisted on keeping a Bren light machine gun in the trunk of his car, having vowed on numerous occasions that if the Germans came for him, he would take as many as possible with him to the grave.

My primary motivation behind buying a car, despite the scarcity of my funds, was that I refused to be driven around town in a car with red and blue lights on top. Nothing slows down traffic like a cop.

About a week earlier I had finished a book (on the Hell's Angels, scheduled this fall by Random House) and I felt that I needed about a week of total degeneration to cool out my system. To this end I went down to Big Sur and Monterery and filled my body with every variety of booze and drug available to modern man. For six or seven days I ran happily amok - spending money, sitting in baths, and futilely hunting wild boar with a .44 Magnum revolver. At one point I gave my car away to a man who paid $25 for the privilege of pushing it off a 400-foot cliff. - to Max Scherr editor, Berkley Barb 7/20/1966

I could hear them, staying as far back as they'd been before. A blue car turned onto the street from the south and drove quickly past me. I thought of jumping out in front of it, but I hesitated, inhibited, unsure that I was really being pursued, and then it was too late.

What would you like for your own life, Kate, if you could choose?” “Anything?” “Of course anything.” “That’s really easy, Aunty Ivy.” “Go on then.” “A straw hat...with a bright scarlet ribbon tied around the top and a bow at the back. A tea-dress like girls used to wear, with big red poppies all over the fabric. A pair of flat, white pumps, comfortable but really pretty. A bicycle with a basket on the front. In the basket is a loaf of fresh bread, cheese, fruit oh...and a bottle of sparkly wine, you know, like posh people drink. “I’m cycling down a lane. There are no lorries or cars or bicycles. No people – just me. The sun is shining through the trees, making patterns on the ground. At the end of the lane is a gate, sort of hidden between the bushes and trees. I stop at the gate, get off the bike and wheel it into the garden. “In the garden there are flowers of all kinds, especially roses. They’re my favourite. I walk down the little path to a cottage. It’s not big, just big enough. The front door needs painting and has a little stained glass window at the top. I take the food out of the basket and go through the door. “Inside, everything is clean, pretty and bright. There are vases of flowers on every surface and it smells sweet, like lemon cake. At the end of the room are French windows. They need painting too, but it doesn’t matter. I go through the French windows into a beautiful garden. Even more flowers there...and a veranda. On the veranda is an old rocking chair with patchwork cushions and next to it a little table that has an oriental tablecloth with gold tassels. I put the food on the table and pour the wine into a glass. I’d sit in the rocking chair and close my eyes and think to myself... this is my place.” From A DISH OF STONES

Cooper had been at a scene once where a car had collided with an agent and pinned him against a metal barrier, shattering everything from the ribs down, severing both legs at midthigh. Massive physical damage, unsurvivable. What had haunted him most, though, was that the man was calm. He didn't scream, didn't seem to feel any pain. Some wounds were too enormous to feel.

Here’s the thing about freedom: Freedom is not a couch. It’s not a television, or a car, or a house. It’s not an item you can possess. You cannot put freedom on layaway; you cannot refinance freedom. Freedom is something you need to fight for, not once, but every single day. The nature of freedom is that it is fluid; like water in a leaking bucket, the tendency is for it to drain away. Left untended, the holes through which freedom escapes widen. When politicians restrict our rights in order to “protect us,” freedom is lost. When the military refuses to disclose basic facts, freedom is lost. Worst of all, when fear becomes a part of our lives, we willingly surrender freedom for a promise of safety, as if freedom weren’t the very basis of safety.

Not much of a gentleman, but what did I care? I just wished he’d walk a little slower. I needed a little more time before the dreaded car ride. I followed him to a shiny burgundy Mercedes. The Steels had money. A lot of it. While I went home from college during the summers and did secretarial work for my father’s construction company, Marj took whirlwind tours to Europe and cruises to the Greek Isles.

About a week earlier I had finished a book (on the Hell’s Angels, scheduled this fall by Random House) and I felt that I needed about a week of total degeneration to cool out my system. To this end I went clown to Big Sur and Monterey and filled my body with every variety of booze and drug available to modern man. For six or seven days I ran happily amok—spending money, sitting in baths, and futilely hunting wild boar with a .44 Magnum revolver. At one point I gave my car away to a man who paid $25 for the privilege of pushing it off a 400-foot cliff.

Most galling was that his own Air Ministry appeared to be unable to account for 3,500 airplanes out of 8,500 frontline and reserve aircraft believed ready, or nearly ready, for service. “Surely there is in the Air Ministry an account kept of what happens to every machine,” Churchill complained in a subsequent minute. “These are very expensive articles. We must know the date when each one was received by the RAF and when it was finally struck off, and for what reason.” After all, he noted, even automaker Rolls-Royce kept track of each of car it sold. “A discrepancy of 3,500 in 8,500 is glaring.

At length Lincoln climbed onto the end platform of a train composed just for this first leg of his journey, a small but cheery “Special” with a locomotive and wood-filled tender, baggage car, and a single bright-yellow passenger car. The locomotive was a tried-and-true 4-4-0—four unpowered small wheels on a guide “bogie” up front, four giant fifty-four-inch-diameter drive wheels under the cab and body—built by the Hinkley Locomotive Works of Boston, and, per custom, given a name: “L. M.Wiley.” Whether Lincoln knew it at the time or not, the engine’s namesake, Leroy M. Wiley, sixty-six, a wealthy director of the Great Western Railroad, was a slaveholder from Alabama with plantations in Eufaula and Macon County. He would soon be declared an “alien enemy.

My whole sorry existence has been building towards this one night. The night of the Reynolds’ Fortuna Ball. A celebration that invites the entire town to eat, drink, and dance the night away. It’s become tradition in these parts for the Reynolds family to hand over all the properties, businesses, offshore accounts, cars, and whatever else rich people own, to the heir on his twenty-fifth birthday. Nice, right? And the ball is their public way of celebrating the handover, or so everyone thinks. The truth is way weirder. Try an ancient curse; a deal signed in blood and a pair of families joined in perpetuity. The whole thing gives me the itches and I sound certifiable to boot, but for the last four hundred years the women in my family have been ripping off the Reynolds family, and those a**eholes throw us a party so we can do it in style.

Soames screwed up his eyes; he seemed to see them sitting there. Ah! and the atmosphere—even now, of too many stuffs and washed lace curtains, lavender in bags, and dried bees’ wings. ‘No,’ he thought, ‘there’s nothing like it left; it ought to be preserved.’ And, by George, they might laugh at it, but for a standard of gentle life never departed from, for fastidiousness of skin and eye and nose and feeling, it beat to-day hollow—to-day with its Tubes and cars, its perpetual smoking, its cross-legged, bare-necked girls visible up to the knees and down to the waist if you took the trouble (agreeable to the satyr within each Forsyte but hardly his idea of a lady), with their feet, too, screwed round the legs of their chairs while they ate, and their “So longs,” and their “Old Beans,” and their laughter—girls who gave him the shudders whenever he thought of Fleur in contact with them; and the hard-eyed, capable, older women who managed life and gave him the shudders too. No! his old aunts, if they never opened their minds, their eyes, or very much their windows, at least had manners, and a standard, and reverence for past and future.

About three things I was absolutely positive. First, Edward was a vampire. Second, there was part of him—and I didn’t know how potent that part might be—that thirsted for my blood. And third, I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him. 10. INTERROGATIONS IT WAS VERY HARD, IN THE MORNING, TO ARGUE WITH THE PART of me that was sure last night was a dream. Logic wasn’t on my side, or common sense. I clung to the parts I couldn’t have imagined—like his smell. I was sure I could never have dreamed that up on my own. It was foggy and dark outside my window, absolutely perfect. He had no reason not to be in school today. I dressed in my heavy clothes, remembering I didn’t have a jacket. Further proof that my memory was real. When I got downstairs, Charlie was gone again—I was running later than I’d realized. I swallowed a granola bar in three bites, chased it down with milk straight from the carton, and then hurried out the door. Hopefully the rain would hold off until I could find Jessica. It was unusually foggy; the air was almost smoky with it. The mist was ice cold where it clung to the exposed skin on my face and neck. I couldn’t wait to get the heat going in my truck. It was such a thick fog that I was a few feet down the driveway before I realized there was a car

When Wen was seventeen years old, she'd sharpened a kitchen knife and slashed the tires on her brother's bicycle. She never told Kehn, who gave on of the neighbor boys a beating over it. After that, Kaul Hilo came around their house in his car every day to pick up Kehn and Tar when the three of them went around town together, junior Fingers fresh out of the Academy, hungry to win jade and earn their reputations. Every day, Wen walked out to the Duchesse to bid her brothers goodbye and to welcome them home. Hilo once laughed as he pulled up to see her standing in the rain. He said she was the kindest and most devoted sister he'd ever met, that his own sister would never do such a thing. Wen had to admit with some chagrin that she had been a lovesick teenage girl, but she hadn't simply pined uselessly. A small thing like a ruined bicycle could change fate, just as a stone-eye could tip the scales in a clan war. She searched now for the one thing she could say that would make Hilo turn towards her, the way he used to when he rolled down the window and leaned across the seat with a grin. But she was too weary. 'I have to go back out there,' Hilo said. Wen turned onto her side. She felt the pressure of him lift off the mattress, and when the next burst of light from the fireworks struck the room, it lit empty space.

A team of Mass-Observation researchers, experienced in chronicling the effects of air raids, had arrived on Friday afternoon. In their subsequent report they wrote of having found “more open signs of hysteria, terror, neurosis” than they had seen over the prior two months of chronicling air-raid effects. “The overwhelmingly dominant feeling on Friday was the feeling of utter helplessness.” (The italics were theirs.) The observers noted a widespread sense of dislocation and depression. “The dislocation is so total in the town that people feel that the town itself is killed.” In order to help stem the surge of rumors arising from the raid, the BBC invited Tom Harrisson, the twenty-nine-year-old director of Mass-Observation, to do a broadcast on Saturday night, at nine o’clock, during its prime Home Service news slot, to talk about what he had seen in the city. “The strangest sight of all,” Harrisson told his vast audience, “was the Cathedral. At each end the bare frames of the great windows still have a kind of beauty without their glass; but in between them is an incredible chaos of bricks, pillars, girders, memorial tablets.” He spoke of the absolute silence in the city on Friday night as he drove around it in his car, threading his way past bomb craters and mounds of broken glass. He slept in the car that night. “I think this is one of the weirdest experiences of my whole life,” he said, “driving in a lonely, silent desolation and drizzling rain in that great industrial town.

The engineers are in charge,” he told me. “They’re not broad-thinking people. In their mind, their job is only to move traffic. They’ll have cars running from one end of the country to the other, and they’ll just drop them off in the Atlantic or the Pacific Ocean.

Many years ago I learned that we discover the best and worst in people when they’re under duress. I think that principle has certainly borne out with my pitiful friend. I wish I had not been witness to it. I take his car keys and drive him to my home and keep him there until he’s sober. He weeps in shame before he drives himself home.

Fine. Call me when you get home?” “So clingy. We need to find you a significant other. Or a cat.” “I do like cats. I’d also like you to call me.” “Oh, look, there’s my dad,” said Arlo with some exaggeration. She waved at an oncoming car as it slowed to a stop bedside them. Bye, Cel. Thanks for walking me from school.” “Bye, Arlo! If you don't call me tonight, I'll just assume you've been murdered, shear off all my hair in mourning, and write lengthy poetry immortalizing that one time you beat me at Mario Kart.

Delaney’s themselves had an underground bunker built in the 1960’s for a nuclear attack, which was currently filled with weapons of all sorts, including military grade machine guns. All that was needed was a tank, a small aircraft equipped with guns, and some howitzers to protect the town. Then they would have no problem defending the town or farm from the regular, every day Americans in the big cities should they feel the need to attack the town for the food. Brian considered something like that happening to be unlikely, since they were too far away from the major cities for anyone to make it that far on foot if cars weren’t running.

sports car, was it so impossible that two-thousand

You’ll have to file paperwork with the TSA before we make a car trip of more than five hundred miles, you know.

The Massey’s have been taken care of. Their car is also sitting at the bottom of a ravine in Black Mountain, so we can claim they’re dead,

The car bounced up and down along the dusty ground like the tits of a jumping, braless fat lady.

My appreciation for order and regularity, even if it inconvenienced me, meant I never had much trouble with one of the main traditional objections to Christianity (or any religion that posits a loving God): the problem of evil - the question of how any pain and suffering could be countenanced by an all-powerful, all-good God. Consider the simpler problem of natural evils and accidents (falling masonry, flooding, car crashes, virulent flus, etc.). For God to deliver us from all natural pains, the laws of physics would have to be studded with asterisks specifying all the times that flying, twisted metal would need to flout the conservation of linear momentum to stop just short of breaking our bones. I knew what such a world would look like, for it had already been imagined in the sagas of Norse mythology. In one legend, the godling Baldr prophesies his own death, and all the other gods of the Norse pantheon try to save him. The gods and goddesses of Asgard travel the world, extracting a vow from every natural and created thing, be it bird, plant, stone, or sword, never to do Baldr any harm. Once his safety is secured, the Asgardians amuse themselves at feasts by throwing knives and other weapons at Baldr, in order to watch the objects keep their promises, defy their natures, and leave him unhurt. Blades blunt themselves, stones soften, and poison neutralizes itself, all to avoid inflicting any pain on Baldr. To preclude the problem of evil, it seemed, any god would have to give us the same guarantee afforded Baldr. The world around us would have to warp itself to shield us from the weather, from accidents, from gravity, until the laws of physics were unworthy of the name. There couldn't be scientists or empiricism in this kind of world, since the nature of matter would be too protean for us to gain intellectual purchase on. The problem of evil has always seemed to me to be the price we pay for having an intelligible world, one that we can investigate, understand, and love. If miracles were to be possible, they would have to stay below some threshold level of frequency so that they remained clear exceptions to the general course of causality (as in the case of poor, strange Baldr) instead of undoing the rule entirely.

Nirob laughed and said, "You are exactly right my dear boy; I will not harm you. I will love and cherish you. Just like this car of mine. I care for it with utmost love. I'm drawn to beautiful things, Young, as is the Hadrah. He and I work well together; we both have similar tastes and objectives.

2014 Andy’s Email   My dearest Young,               How are you, kid? Thanks for the password to Turpitude. It brought smiles to my face when I saw the photos you posted with each chapter. We were so young. I barely recognize myself. I remember the hippie commune and a couple of key events from our week at this out-of-nowhere place.               To be honest, I was thrilled to spend a couple of nights at that charming Barcelona hotel (I can’t remember its name) after Lorenzo loaned us his car. As much as I love the beauty of Andorra, I’m not one for communal living. I prefer my privacy when on vacation.               As much as I enjoyed the company of the residents in the commune, I didn’t care for a couple of the guys, especially the Swede. He kept writhing into your pants the entire time. I loathed his arrogance and the way he lusted after you. I knew he was up to no good the first time we met.               The highlight of our holiday was the Vivaldi concert at the Basilica and Expiatory Church of the Holy Family. That afternoon, when you had a bout of your external detachment, I was in a state of panic. During those early years, I couldn’t understand your ‘out-of-body’ experiences. I wasn’t sure if you feigned your fainting spells or if you actually lost consciousness. The only thing I was sure of was that I needed to be there for you when you awoke. There were times I thought you would never wake, and I would never be able to forgive myself. That, Young, was how enamored I was with you. Boy oh boy, you were a handful. Need I say more…?☺ Love, Andy.

I stammered, “There’s a cheque and a proposal letter.” The men waited for me to continue. I reached into my shoulder bag, pulled out an envelope and handed to my lover.               Andy read the contents out loud:               Young, You are a handsome boy. I’m enamoured by your youthful intelligence and masterful lovemaking skills. You possess an innocent naturalness I find difficult to resist. I’m beguiled by you. The short time we spent together was an analeptic sexual rejuvenation for me. I had not felt such virility for years. I’m not the type of person who makes ex tempore decisions, but your sensual sexuality had smitten me to inscribe this proposal for your consideration. I hope you will consider this proposition seriously. ●       I will purchase a London flat in your name if you agree to be my beau. This will be my gift for your loyalty. ●       In order for you to travel around the country with ease, a city car together with regular maintenance will also be gifted to you. ●       To ensure financial security on your part and in the event of my untimely demise, a monthly stipend will be deposited into a Swiss bank account in your name. In return, I ask for your confidentiality - never to reveal the nature of our relationship to anyone. Our dalliance must be kept a secret. Please be mindful that I will not hesitate to take legal action against any slanderous aspersions inflicted upon me or my family.               Please consider my offer. You can reach me at my private number… I look forward to your speedy response.   Yours sincerely, Ernest O.M.

Who does it belong to?” I wondered. Before Ghali could reply, the Nubian gentleman jumped into the driver’s seat and was searching for something in the glove box. "He is a business associate of Hakim. He owns several oil rigging enterprises in the Emirates and in the United States." "I see! He sure has great taste, at least when it comes to cars." I commented. Just then Ghali was called away to meet other arriving guests; I was left with the black man who now carried an elaborately wrapped gift under his left arm. "I believe we have not met. You are?” he asked, extending his hand to shake mine. "Hello Sir! I am Young, a student from England. The Hadrah has very kindly taken me and my guardian, Andy, into his Household. It’s part of an exchange program, through our school." The gentleman said, "So nice to meet you. I hope to make the acquaintance of your guardian." "I'm sure you will. He is probably looking for me as we speak. Andy doesn't like me out of his sight for too long.” "Understandable. Shall we head in, and join the other guests?” He guided my arm as we proceeded toward the mansion.

1974 Bangkok   On my way from London to Kuala Lumpur that summer, I stopped in Bangkok for a few days, since I had never been to Krung Thep Maha Nakhon (Bangkok in Thai). I thought it an excellent idea to visit this vibrant city, known to some as the ‘Sin City of the East’ due to its liberal stance in sexual issues.               As soon as I’d stepped out of the airport to flag a taxi to the legendary Oriental Bangkok Hotel, I was confronted by hordes of haggling Thai men jostling for my business, bargaining with me in broken English to deliver me to my luxury lodging for the best price. But just then, a suave-looking foreigner in his thirties stepped in to dissipate their heated transactions. He wasted no time to disperse all the drivers except one. The gentleman had bargained in Thai for the best price on my behalf. He spoke in German-accented English, “I’m Max. The cab driver will take us to our hotel?”               “Oh, you are also staying at the Oriental?” I chirped.               “Hop into the cab so we can get out of this madding crowd,” he expressed vehemently, opening the car door to let me in.               As soon as we were comfortably situated at the back seat, he asked, “What brings you to Thonburi, Mr.…?” He trailed off.               “I’m Young. Thank you for your assistance! It’s my first time to Bangkok. I wasn’t expecting such a rowdy welcome. If it weren’t for you, I may have landed in a Thai hospital,” I joked. “Where’s Thonburi?”               He sniggered mischievously. “Thonburi, the city of treasures gracing the ocean, is Bangkok’s official name, although some refer to it more appropriately as Meụ̄xng k̄hxng khwām s̄uk̄h kām, the city of erotic pleasures,” he quipped.               Overhearing the words Meụ̄xng k̄hxng khwām s̄uk̄h kām, the cab driver commented, “You want boy, girl or boy-girl or girl-boy? I take you to happy place!”               Max burst out in laughter. He proceeded to have a conversation in Thai with the driver. I sat, silent, since I had no idea what was being said, until my acquaintance asked, “What brings you to Bangkok?”               “I’m on vacation. What brings you to Thonburi?” I queried.               “I’m here on business, and usually stay a while for leisure,” was his response. “Since we are staying in the same hotel, we’ll see more of each other. I’m happy to show you the city,” he added.               “That’ll be wonderful. I’ll take up your offer,” I said appreciatively, glad I’d met someone to show me around.               By the time our cab pulled up at the Oriental’s entrance, we had agreed to meet for dinner the following evening.

The animals had filled the tidy new freight cars with the lingering smell of their sweat and waste, parasites infesting the cracks between the hoof-dented boards, the feeling of imminent slaughter staying with the train forever. Soon

Professor Andrew read the invite and said, "I will consult with Hadrad Hakim immediately." Andy and I stood waiting while Dr. Andrew spoke in Arabic with Hakim. When my teacher lowered the receiver he looked at us and said, "Young and Andy, go pack your bags immediately. The Hadrah is sending his private helicopter to collect you in an hour. He will fly both of you to Dubai airport to board his private jet to Douz. At Douz, his car will be waiting at the airfield. You will be driven to the Sahara Douz Hotel where you'll be staying for four days, during the festivities. Hakim will make arrangements to meet the two of you and his other guests at the hotel after your arrival.

Question four: * Did your mom try distancing you from your dad? Answers: a) I think the answer lies not in my mum trying to distance me from my father but in my dad distancing himself from his family. He was seldom at home, so I saw very little of him. When he was home, he was often temperamental; no one dared get close to him. I was afraid I would be the next victim. I choose to distance myself from my father without my mother having to do it for me. There were numerous occasions when he would shout at our gardener for not trimming the dividing hedges between us and our neighbors, trimming them too low or trimming them too high. Ah Choi (the gardener) would be under fire, or if Bakar (our chauffeur) did not bring the car to the Porte Cochere fast enough, the Malay man would suffer the wrath of his tyrannical boss. This was the nature of my father; he endeared himself to very few of his employees.

I, too, was taken aback by this turn of events. I was speechless. My mind raced to find a possible answer. Finally, I muttered apathetically, “If I’m to be a kept boy, I’ll expect to be housed in a luxury penthouse, not in a run-of-the mill flat. “Secondly, I’ll want a top-of-the-line sports car –a Ferrari or a Lamborghini, not a city car. “Last but not least, I’ll insist on a healthy remuneration to keep me in a princely style.”               Andy stared at me as if I was a whoreson, while Uncle James broke out in comedic exuberance. Shocked by my uncle’s boisterous outburst, my lover gaped, not knowing what to make of my guardian. “You can take the boy out of China, but you can’t take China out of the boy,” the Englishman vociferated hilariously.               My chaperone scrutinized my uncle, wondering if the man had lost his mind. He waited for James’ laughter to subside. “What are you talking about?” he expressed.               I twittered, “In the event that you’ve lost your mind, sir, I’m not from China. I’m from Malaya.”               James iterated enthusiastically, “Nevertheless, you, young man, are Chinese. Having dealt with Chinese businessmen for most of my life, you are a true-to-form Chinese.” He resumed, “Like the Hong Kong Chinese I’ve dealt with over the years you are an excellent negotiator. You’ve inherited your parents’ genetic ability to strike an optimum bargain to your advantage.” He paused. “In all seriousness, I think your counter-suggestions may be just the ammunition you’ll need to fend off Mossey. That is, if you desire to forgo his offer,” he opined.               Quick-witted Andy responded cheerfully, “What an awesome idea. I’ll be more than happy to draft the counter-proposal for you, my lovely one.” For the most part, I’d been a silent observer of this imprudent frivolity. I answered calmly, after giving the matter some thought, “I’ll sleep on this and have answers for you before our return to Daltonbury Hall.

Andy remained seated. I chirped, “Sir, please tell me the reason for your visit. My guardian is fully aware of your proposal.” Struck by my candidness, Ozwalt stammered, “Very well, I will tell you the reason I’m here,” he raised his voice in displeasure. “Your counterproposal is deplorable!” My lover remarked aggressively, “What’s deplorable about Young wishing to be kept in the style he is accustomed to?” The Englishman exclaimed, “He’s not even of age to drive, and he wants a Lamborghini or a Ferrari? What is he thinking?!” “You offered him a city car,” my Valet countered. “He has every right to ask for what he desires.” The man repudiated defensively, “I offered him a city car upon his coming of age to drive, not before!” He was seething with anger. “Atop this, he demands a luxury penthouse in Mayfair or Park Lane, not to mention the live-in personal tutor! Is he insane? Most adults wouldn’t be able to afford a luxury flat and experienced educator, let alone an adolescent who is barely out of his teens.” “Sir, if you do not have the financial capabilities to accommodate the boy’s expectations, there are others who are perfectly capable of doing so,” my chaperone asserted. “Andy! Are you telling me that the lad has other well-endowed suitors willing to pay for such frivolousness?” My lover and I sniggered at the Englishman’s comment, but we managed to suppress our mirth. My guardian answered solemnly, “That, Sir, is none of your concern. I presume you’re here to discuss Young’s counterproposal, not the proposals of his other suitors.” He was taken aback by my mentor’s forthrightness. He raised his voice in retaliation. “I’m here to talk to Young. I would like Young to speak for himself.” I spoke unrelentingly, “I have asked Andy to negotiate on my behalf. I have heard everything he has said and challenge none of it. If my terms are not met, I’m afraid our arrangement is over. There is no further need for discussion.” By now, Ozwalt was on fire. He waved his fist at me and shouted, “You rapacious whore! You’re nothing but a self-indulgent sybaritic slut from a third-world country!” Before he could continue lambasting me with further insults, Wilhem entered. “What’s going on here?” my big-brother questioned. Mossey resumed berating my integrity, calling me a barrage of repugnant names while my chaperones carted him off the campus grounds to his waiting chauffeur and Bentley. Groups of students stood gaping at the wild man, speculating about the nature of the ruckus they were witnessing.

K.T. stops dead in her tracks, her eyes locked on Horace’s car. “Holy crap,” she mutters, eyes wide. “Is that a ’69 Camaro SS?” I glance back at her as I unlock the door. “Yeah. You know cars?” She shakes her head, her lips trembling. “Just this one.” Her reaction is too strong to be normal. People don’t usually get choked up at the sight of a car. There’s something about this car specifically that freaks her out. It takes a second for her to smile, but she forces the expression onto her face. “It’s my sister’s favorite car.

Si le Mal veut te causer du tort, t’infliger de la souffrance, devance-le et porte-lui le coup fatal, de préférence quand il ne s’y attend pas. Si tu n’es pas parvenu à le prendre de court, si tu as été meurtri par le Mal, alors rends-lui la monnaie de sa pièce ! Tombe-lui dessus, de préférence quand il aura relâché sa vigilance et qu’il se sentira en sécurité. Fais-lui deux fois, trois fois plus de mal qu’il t’en a fait. Œil pour œil ? Non ! Les deux yeux pour un seul œil ! Dent pour dent ? Non ! Pour une dent toute la gueule ! Réclame vengeance ! Fais-le hurler de douleur, jusqu’à ce que ce hurlement fasse péter les globes de ses yeux. Et alors, en baissant les yeux vers le sol, tu pourras affirmer ouvertement et avec assurance : ce qui gît là ne meurtrira ni ne menacera plus personne. Car comment peut-il menacer quelqu’un s’il n’a plus ses yeux ? S’il n’a plus ses deux mains ? Comment peut-il meurtrir quelqu’un quand ses viscères sont répandus sur le sol et que son sang s’infiltre dans le sable ?

What is the typical spy? To start with, they think that they are on a mission to save the world. The worlds of Matt Damon and Daniel Craig are slick, fast-paced and sexy. Their suits never crinkle, women always say yes, and their cars shoot missiles. Real-life spy sagas unfold with far less panache. Overseas research has shown intelligence agents at the CIA to be often college graduates with low-value degrees; they are outsiders or loners, they have family or friends in the intelligence or armed services, they can't work with money and love firearms. Much of a spy's work these days is sifting through data.

We might have destroyed ourselves, but at least it would have been our own fault.” “Would it, though? Whose fault exactly? Yours? Mine? No, it would have been the result of several billion human beings making relatively innocuous choices: to have kids, drive a car to work, keep their job, solve the short-term problems first. When you reach the point at which even the most trivial acts are punishable by the death of the species, then obviously, obviously, you’re at a critical juncture, a different kind of point of no return.

Oscar’s Merc 1001 coupe drove him through the main gate at seven forty-five and slid right into the Operations Director’s parking slot. He smiled at the few envious stares the car earned him from other members of the team as they pulled up outside the administration block.

Logan’s guts twisted a little more with each of Maddie Eastman's stuttered words. A horrific accident... Oliver's new Pathfinder... Jaws of Life... the coroner's van…

Ridley is playing Carly Rae Jepsen loud and singing along. Rebecca doesn’t particularly like Jepsen, but constant exposure has awakened in her a Stockholm-like joy when she hears the eighties-inspired bubble-gum poppiness that is the singer’s signature vibe.

And so I was down on Fifth and Olive, where the big street cars chewed your ears with their noise, and the smell of gasoline made the sight of the palm trees seem sad, and the black pavement still wet from the fog of the night before.

A9, the road that Bea was traveling this early morning after leaving the Isle of Skye, was part of Scotland’s answer to Route 66. It was also a driver’s sort of road as it wound its way along the north coast of the highlands above Inverness, and this time of year was the perfect jot in time to be on it. It was early enough in the day for the sun’s rays to still break across the landscape, highlighting every tree, shrub, mountain, loch, or beach in the crisp and clear Kodachrome of late autumn, and it was also just late enough in the season for the road to be safely navigated at speeds just a bit above normal. Her car was running great, and her tunes were vibrating the sideboard speakers with rhythm and base and melody. Using her gears, she took the corners and adjusted to the rise and fall of the road in a syncopated rhythm that made she and her car one. With her left hand on the gearshift, her right grasping the steering wheel, and her eyes shifting from road to scenery and back again, she felt the exhilaration of being on her first road trip alone and free.

starting the car as quietly as she could

He somehow looked both noble and wild—like he’d open your car door for you one second and then throw you off a cliff the next.

Non c’era tempo da perdere. Iniziai a correre per il vicolo che portava alla strada del college. Avrei solo controllato il suo stato, una controllata veloce e poi… poi me ne sarei andato. Andato per sempre stavolta. St. Jillian non era più casa mia e mai più lo sarebbe stata. Dovevo solo essere certo che lei fosse viva, solo che lei… lei… Due fari accecanti. Una frenata assordante. Mi girai automaticamente. Le mani contro il parabrezza bloccarono l’avanzata del maggiolone verde. I suoi occhi. I suoi occhi. I suoi occhi.

Two hours later, I arrived in the small town near the New Mexico border. The address hadn’t shown up on GPS, so I had to drive the roads of the town until I found what I was looking for. It was a cracker box house on the outskirts of town. A one- car detached garage sat off to the side.