Shotgun Movie Quotes

The thing to do is keep your cash in your mattress so in a jam you can grab it and escape out the window.”“That’s it,” Ayumi said, snapping her fingers. “Like in The Getaway. The Steve McQueen movie. A wad of bills and a shotgun. I love that kind of stuff.” It’s not much fun to live like that, Aomame

Did you ever bring girls back here?” I ask, broaching dangerous territory. I’m thinking dangerous thoughts. Having dangerous fantasies. Wanting dangerous things. “Never,” he says earnestly. “Yeah, I don’t believe you.” I cross over to his DVD case by the door, pretending to be curious about what he liked to watch when he was a teenager—and I am—but really, I just need to have some space from him before I let this crazy twitterpated feeling get the best of me. But Chase follows me. “I’m dead serious. Pop has a shotgun. He was always threatening to shoot my dick off if I knocked a girl up. Scared the shit out of me.” I laugh nervously, keeping my eyes on the movies. “And here you are trying to knock a girl up now. You must have gotten over your fear.” “Pop has arthritis. He’d have too much trouble loading the gun.” There’s a soft thud of a door closing, and I look up to see that he has shut us in. “And I have always regretted the lack of action this room has seen.

The instruments of murder are as manifold as the unlimited human imagination. Apart from the obvious—shotguns, rifles, pistols, knives, hatchets and axes—I have seen meat cleavers, machetes, ice picks, bayonets, hammers, wrenches, screwdrivers, crowbars, pry bars, two-by-fours, tree limbs, jack handles (which are not “tire irons;” nobody carries tire irons anymore), building blocks, crutches, artificial legs, brass bedposts, pipes, bricks, belts, neckties, pantyhose, ropes, bootlaces, towels and chains—all these things and more, used by human beings to dispatch their fellow human beings into eternity. I have never seen a butler use a candelabrum. I have never seen anyone use a candelabrum! Such recherché elegance is apparently confined to England. I did see a pair of sneakers used to kill a woman, and they left distinctive tread marks where the murderer stepped on her throat and crushed the life from her. I have not seen an icicle used to stab someone, though it is said to be the perfect weapon, because it melts afterward. But I do know of a case in which a man was bludgeoned to death with a frozen ham. Murderers generally do not enjoy heavy lifting—though of course they end up doing quite a bit of it after the fact, when it is necessary to dispose of the body—so the weapons they use tend to be light and maneuverable. You would be surprised how frequently glass bottles are used to beat people to death. Unlike the “candy-glass” props used in the movies, real glass bottles stand up very well to blows. Long-necked beer bottles, along with the heavy old Coca-Cola and Pepsi bottles, make formidable weapons, powerful enough to leave a dent in a wooden two-by-four without breaking. I recall one case in which a woman was beaten to death with a Pepsi bottle, and the distinctive spiral fluting of the bottle was still visible on the broken margins of her skull. The proverbial “lead pipe” is a thing of the past, as a murder weapon. Lead is no longer used to make pipes.

When I returned from the restroom and Jase saw how much I was bleeding, he began to grill the doctor with every question imaginable. She remained completely stoic, no matter what he said. Every time he asked her a question, she provided the same measured response: “I will not know until I begin to operate.” She began trying to offer various common medical possibilities for this incident, such as a ruptured cyst and other diagnoses. Jase shot down every explanation with the power and speed he would use to blast a duck out of the sky with a shotgun. He was never disrespectful toward her, but he was intense. Due to the pain I was experiencing, I did not realize exactly what was going on, but I did know I was lying on the bed while the doctor and my husband were in a Western movie standoff on either side of me. These two strong personalities were about to collide, and I was in the direct line of fire! At one point, the telephone in my pre-op room rang. Without saying a word, the doctor picked up the phone, stretched it across my bed, and handed it to Jase, never taking her eyes off his. To say that one could cut the tension in the room with a knife is a complete understatement. I was not happy about Jase’s confrontational manner, but at the same time, I was grateful that he was asking the questions I never thought to ask and telling the doctor exactly how he wanted her to treat me. “Like your own daughter,” he said. Jase clearly communicated that he wanted the doctor to rectify the situation. He went on to tell her, “You better not start taking out a bunch of things that need to be left inside of her. I understand that you have to operate, but do not remove anything that does not have to come out.” She confirmed her understanding of his expectations and left the room. “Jason,” I said, using his full name, “she is my boss.” I hated the thought that he might say something to offend her, something that might make my working for her difficult or awkward in the future. “I don’t care,” Jase said, “my main concern is you. I am about to send you back into that operating room with her, and I want to make sure she knows my expectations are high.

...you should’ve seen me ready to shiv security for making me take my ring off earlier.” I frowned as I accidently lost control of my chopsticks, my California roll dropping into the little plastic cup of soy sauce. “See?Sounds like classic Bridezilla behavior to me.” She almost choked on her wasabi-laced sushi piece. “Bridezilla? I am the least likely person to turn Bridezilla you will ever meet. In fact, I am like the Mothra of the Bridezilla world.” “Mothra.” I tsked. “Pedestrian. Destoroyah—no, Bridestoroyah—could totally take on Bridezilla.” “You have the chopstick skill level of a preschooler, and you dare to go around citing Japanese monster movie characters to me?” Laney seethed. “I have my reasons for choosing Mothra.” “Yeah?” I stabbed my chopsticks straight through the middle of my errant sushi piece. “Let’s hear them.” “Don’t, it’s bad luck!” she exclaimed. “What, to talk to a bride about her wedding dress before the big day?” And I thought Sloane was taking the wedding superstitions too far. “No, to stab your chopstick through the middle of your food.” She reached across the table and readjusted my sticks for me with one hand. I noticed she kept her other hand on the garment bag riding shotgun in the chair next to her. Its midnight blue sheen and fancy silver embroidery looked out of place in the middle of the airport food court.

Beth changed her ensemble five times that morning, switching out her shoes, her necklaces, her earrings. I understood. Had I owned more than one suit, I would have done the same thing. As it was, I just sat in a battered old chair in our bedroom and watched her. She was beautiful to me. I could see that she had shaved her legs, supple and taut above the easy grip of her heels. She mussed her hair and pursed her lips at the mirror. “What do you think?” she said finally, turning to me. I stood and went to her, understanding right then that we were already growing older, that we would grow old together. “I think you’re beautiful,” I said. I kissed her. “Hey—watch the lipstick,” she said, swatting me away playfully before pulling me in close again. She set her chin on my shoulder and we slow danced that way, there in our bedroom, the worn carpeting beneath our best scuffed shoes. “I love you,” she said, “even if you’re not a rock star.” “I love you,” I said, “even though you’re not a movie star.” We kissed again and held hands as we walked downstairs, our garments good enough. The

I take great pride in not being that girl in the horror movies who knows a serial killer is axing people out in the woods and so decides that a nature walk is a brilliant idea. I’m the lock-myself-in-the-basement-with-a-shotgun-and-some-napalm sort of woman.

It just occurred to me we are doing the absolute opposite of everything we learned from horror movies,” Jackson said after a few minutes of scanning through her radio presets and giving crisp directions. “This isn’t a horror movie. And there are two of us and only one of her,” Scarlett countered. “Easy for you to say. You’re the Final Girl and I’m that poor sap who called shotgun. If I remember right, it doesn’t turn out well for my character.

My silk slick black muscular back- talking uncle driving me and a school of fish corpses to church. The sick-eyed gap-mouthed bass, the kingfish without kingdom, the silver-thin silver fish--each dead and separate in a cool bucket. Gilded and shapely as a necktied Sunday morning, the fish. Sit uptight, he said, and I sat right up, riding shotgun looking hard at the road. He muttered, Crackers, as if it was something swinging from a thin clear wire, the clump of tiny maggots in a trout's brain, the flies lazing like the devil's jewelry at our backs. Last night when the white boy's arm lassoed his daughter's neck, my uncle said nothing until they left. I let him feed me the anger I knew was a birthright, a plate of bones thin enough to puncture a lung. But the words did things in my mouth I'd heard they killed people for. They went to a movie and sat quietly and touched or did not touch the darkness. My uncle watched the news with the sound turned down until she came in, my silk slick black back- talking cousin, his daughter. He went to work beating a prayer out her skin.