Ski Mask Quotes

What do you have there?” Mouse perked up at her interest. “I’m making ski masks to have on hand for bank robberies. Last night I finished the fingerless mermaid gloves for Eve. She likes her fingers free for gunplay.” Mouse’s needles clicked together in a peaceful rhythm.

That must be Bogrov,” Alexei said as he put on a black ski mask. Laughing, he tossed one to Torn. “Don’t worry, it’s clean. Let me do the talking. This is how we take depositions in the Wild Wild East!

Instead of learned young people we have donkeys with University degrees. Instead of future leaders we have mollusks with expensive blue jeans and phony revolutionaries with ski masks. And do you know what? Maybe this is another reason why our Moslem invaders have such an easy game.

Amy was profoundly shocked. "A little over an hour ago, our bus was attacked by three men in ski masks. They definitely knew me, and probably Dan, too. We fought them off, but it could've gone either way." "Like if they'd used a cookie truck instead of a gas tanker," Dan added. "Nobody's scared of Oreos.

Why my wife owned a shotgun, I had no idea. Or ski masks. Neither of us had ever skied. But she didn't explain and I didn't ask. Married life is weird, I felt.

Most craft give a nod, however brief and unfriendly, towards beauty. Vogon ships did not nod towards beauty. They pulled on ski masks and mugged beauty in a dark alley They spat in the eye of beauty and bludgeoned their wait through the notions of aesthetics and aerodynamics. Vogon cruisers did not so much travel through space as defile it and toss it aside.

having kids is in many ways like trying to drive a bulldozer through a china shop. With broken legs. Wearing a back-to-front ski mask. While drunk.

Some people at the party, she adds, are freaks, then mentions a drug I've never heard of, and tells me a story that involves ski masks, zombies, a van, chains, a secret community, and asks me about a Hispanic girl who disappeared in some desert.

And you brought the ski mask?” “Yes. It’s not cold, though, even up above.” “It’s not for the cold. The pegasi like to chase birds. Birds don’t like to be chased.” “Okay.” Whatever that meant. Chapter 10 BIRDS WERE ASSHOLES.

You excelled at the stealth sidle. But your heydey prowess has no value anymore. Your skill set has been phased out. The tables have been turned. Virtual windows are opening all around you. You, the master watcher, are an aging, lumbering target in their crosshairs. A ski mask won't help you now.

By now it was too late to call St. Jude. He chose an out-of-the-way patch of airport carpeting and lay it down to sleep. He didn't understand what had happened to him. He felt like a piece of paper that had once had coherent writing on it but had been through the wash. He felt roughened, bleached and worn out along the fold lines. He semi-dreamed of disembodied eyes and isolated mouths in ski masks. He'd lost track of what he wanted, and since who a person was was what a person wanted, you could say that he'd lost track of himself.

If you're asking me to wear a ski mask, check the Darkwood handbook, Levi says. Page one hundred thirty-seven. Dress Code. Second Paragraph, fourth line. Prohibited item number forty-two: ski masks or other masks that cover the face. Prohibited item number forty-two? Is this kid serious?

I think Joy sleeps in strange places. We're always looking for her in shiny, happy, fun times, assuming that Joy prefers her twin brother, Pleasure, when she often hangs out with her somewhat stoic big sister, Strength. Joy is not always easy to recognize, dirt-smudged and sweating, brambles in her hair. I want to believe she sometimes wears a ski mask.

Speed masks accuracy

A friend of mine'll follow him home tonight", Tiny said, "to get me the address. He's on the four to twelve. Around one, I'll put on a ski mask and go to that guy's house and put his head in his holster." "A ski mask," Dortmunder echoed. He was thinking how much good a ski mask would do to disguise this monster. In order to be effectively disguised, Tiny would have to put on, at a minimum, a three-room apartment.

We had two black ski masks in the glove compartment. Why my wife owned a shotgun, I had no idea. Or ski masks. Neither of us had ever skied. But she didn't explain and I didn't ask. Married life is weird, I felt.

The timing of Moroun’s hat giveaway stunt was as unfortunate as the selection of hats themselves. They were not your run-of-the-mill knitwear; they were, in fact, ski masks. The type gunmen use to stick up liquor stores.

The biggest threat to children is always inside their houses. The predator with the ski-mask who grabs the kid out of a van, while a real thing, is a tiny percentage of those who prey upon children. Most victimization of children is within the Circle of Trust — not necessarily a parent, but somebody who was let into that circle, who can be a counselor, or a coach, or someone at a day-care center. The biggest danger to children is that they're perceived as property, not human beings.

The person in the ski mask, gloves, and all-dark clothing hunched forward to bring his truck engine to life. His lookout a mile north had signaled the target car was on the way. Nobody could have spotted him in the hide spot near the highway. He’d been there throughout the darkness of the night. Since the sun began its climb, he’d been enshrouded in the smoke. And with all the hissing and booming the fire was causing, what he was about to do wouldn’t be heard, either. Conditions couldn’t have been staged any better.

they share this common idea that a rapist is a guy in a ski mask, wielding a knife, who drags women into the bushes. But these undetected rapists don’t wear masks or wield knives or drag women into the bushes. So they had absolutely no sense of themselves as rapists and were only too happy to talk about their sexual behaviors.

Tuco Medrano, wearing a black ski mask, walked quickly across the busy Bulevar Ignacio Bernardo Norzagaray and put two rounds through the driver side window of the lead truck. The bullets struck Officer Ignacio Reyes in the head, killing him instantly, and sprayed bloody bits of brain matter and bone all over his wide-eyed female partner.

he hates skiing but he loves the mountains and like that with everything.

Think about it. Ever look in a closet or under the bed, when you’re alone in the house, to ensure an intruder isn’t hiding there? Now, if you really believed the Man in the Black Ski Mask was lurking in those places, would you behave the same way? Of course not. But it’s more comfortable to believe the danger only in the abstract, and to act on it only halfheartedly. That’s denial.

John says to Peter, “Remember that one time I had you, and I was hiding behind your dad’s car before school, but it was your dad that came out, not you? And I scared him, and he and I both screamed?” “Then we had to quit altogether when Trevor came to my mom’s store in his ski mask,” Peter guffaws. Everyone laughs, except for me. I’m still smarting from Genevieve’s “killer instinct” dig. Trevor’s laughing so hard he can barely speak. “She almost called the cops!” he manages to sputter.

Mom?'' ''Its your first bank heist, son. I couldnt sit at home and worry. I had to come and help'' ''But ... but... How did you get here? How did you know'' ''A mother knows these things, Jimmy. You put your favorite ski mask in the wash. And I heard you talking to Mikey'' ''Mom! Dont use our real names!'' hissed Jimmy Brenda had to look away. Her body was shaking with silent laughter. She had to cover her mouth with a hand. 'You put your favourite ski mask in the wash'. Brian had excelled himself

​In 2012, George Zimmerman left his home to follow and accost his neighbor, Trayvon Martin, who was walking through their gated community in Sanford, Florida. Zimmerman, who brought a gun to the encounter, shot and killed Martin because, as he said in his trial, he feared for his life. Zimmerman was found not guilty by a jury. In 2015, less than a mile from my home, four white men wearing ski masks appeared at a peaceful event protesting the recent killing of Jamar Clark by a white policeman. At least one of the four men, Allen Scarsella, carried a gun, which he allegedly described in a text message as “specially designed by Browning to kill brown people.” Protestors, most of whom were African American, noticed the four men in masks, surrounded them, and asked why they were there. They also demanded that the men remove their masks. Scarsella then drew his gun and shot five protestors. At his trial, Scarsella’s public defender explained that Scarsella fired the shots because he was “scared out of his mind.” These and other similar incidents raise some questions. First, under what circumstances is it legitimate to deliberately precipitate a conflict, shoot one or more people, and be considered guiltless because you were scared? Second, if “I feared for my life” or “I was scared out of my mind” becomes a legitimate defense, then can anyone who fears dark skin guiltlessly shoot any Black body that comes near? What about any Black body he or she seeks out, accosts, and shoots? Does your reflexive, lizard-brain fear of my dark body trump my right to exist? A Minnesota jury provided one answer to these questions in February of 2017: It found Scarsella guilty on all counts. He was given a fifteen-year prison sentence. A different Minnesota jury provided the opposite answer four months later: it found Jeronimo Yanez not guilty.

We got into my old Corolla and started drifting around the streets of Tokyo at 2:30 a.m., looking for a bakery. There we were, me clutching the steering wheel, she in the navigator's seat, the two of us scanning the street like hungry eagles in search of prey. Stretched out on the backseat, long and stiff as a dead fish, was a Remington automatic shotgun. Its shells rustled dryly in the pocket of my wife's windbreaker. We had two black ski masks in the glove compartment. Why my wife owned a shotgun, I had no idea. Or ski masks. Neither of us had ever skied. But she didn't explain and I didn't ask. Married life is weird, I felt.

toe. He was even wearing a ski mask with strange meshlike coverings over the eyes. We didn’t get a lot of ninjas in Half-Moon Hollow. And I’m pretty sure Jed would have responded. So I wasn’t quite sure how to react here. Was this some sort of test from Jane to determine whether I would survive a parking-lot attack? Couldn’t I just roll around in a gym with a practice dummy or something? The figure cocked his head to the side, staring at me like some predatory creature considering his best approach. I dropped my bag and kicked out of my sandals. I could do this. Sure, I had no fighting experience, but I had superstrength and speed on my side. Then again maybe this guy did, too. He could be a ninja chupacabra for all I knew. But

Blake took off his jacket and blanketed her undergarments on the ground. He unbuttoned his shirt with the carelessness of a man standing in front of his dresser. His hands never hitched. Livia wanted to cheer as he revealed his chest to the sun. But Blake had other plans. He put his chest against hers, and his sun-drenched hands ran from her shoulders to her lower back, pulling her to him with a hard jerk. He was a gentleman, but not necessarily a gentle lover. Their hearts beat as if they were trying to touch from the inside out. Blake ghost-kissed Livia, not quite letting their lips touch. She felt his hot mint breath on her cheek. Blake reached for his pants, and Livia longed to release the button for him, but he needed to do this. He removed his pants and boxer briefs in one swift motion. He kicked off his socks and shoes. All that remained was the mask. Blake and Livia stood apart for a moment before he gathered her again in his arms. With no more material between their bodies, he touched every part of her. He spun her so her back pressed against his chest and he could warm her breasts with his hands. “I always wanted to know if your lips were the same color as your nipples. But they’re not. I think the sun has faded your lips just a bit.” Blake’s liquid silk voice tickled her neck. Livia could feel the scratch of the ski mask. She remembered that the first time she’d heard his voice it was just like this, from behind her. She begged her hands not to remove his mask. They were having a hard time listening. She squirmed until she and Blake were chest to chest again. She kissed his shoulder instead of his mouth. Blake was glorious naked. Powerful.

Wave after wave of an orgasm broke over her, but soon it would be over for him. “Stop,” Livia panted. Blake paused as Livia swallowed to try to compose herself. She was here for a reason. “The mask. Take it off. I want you to kiss me.” Livia watched his eyes. He was scared. “Blake, you’re inside of me. I’ll keep you safe. You’re inside of me.” Livia squeezed him again, reminding him exactly where he was. Blake smiled at the sensation. “Do it for me, Livia. Please.” And even though they were naked and locked in the most intimate embrace, this was the striptease. Livia went slowly, rolling up the knit ski mask like a stocking. First his jaw came into the light. Livia slowed, tracing its strong line with her finger. Next, his lips lost their frame, then his eyes left their prison. He closed them. Finally, his wild, messy hair was free. Livia tossed the mask aside. And waited. Open your eyes. After a moment Blake looked around his sunny meadow. A breeze stirred the trees high up, and they released a shower of fall colors. In the silence of the day, the leaves hitting the ground sounded like applause. Quiet applause for a quiet victory. The o in sorry vanished. Blake looked at Livia beneath him. She smiled. “Five hundred ninety-eight,” he whispered. Still counting. “Yes! Yes. I knew you could do this. I knew you could do this.” Livia beamed with pride. Blake blurred as her eyes became two pools of tears. He kissed her softly, but Livia wanted the rough thrusts back. She pulled away and wiped her eyes. “Giddy up!” Livia spanked Blake playfully. He gave a little chuckle before he put her out of her misery. If she thought he was going fast and hard before, she was wrong. Blake was almost done when he let Livia’s leg slip from his shoulder. He kissed her with his clever tongue and moaned loudly into her mouth.

Okay.” The leader stood on the bed of his truck and clapped his hands over his head. “Listen up, everyone.” No one was really listening, though they had dressed right. Everyone was all in black. A few guys wore ski masks, and others had black marks on their cheeks like football players. Personally, I didn’t understand the need for the black camouflage. Caden had explained that the cops had already been looped in on the operation. A few of the lawns getting flocked tonight actually belonged to cops, and anyway the whole blending-with-the-night effect didn’t work when you were carrying a bright neon-pink flamingo. Still, I couldn’t deny the little spark of excitement building in my stomach. We were all standing in some guy’s driveway, and as I looked around, I seemed to be the only girl. These guys meant business. I was in the middle of a real life Call of Duty operation. The leader began speaking, his voice booming. “This is going to happen with precision and professionalism. No lingering, loitering, acting like stupid shits, and definitely no joking around. We’re not ladies. This isn’t going to be run like a bunch of pansy-shopping, pink-nail-polish pussies. You got that?!” I frowned, tucking my nails inside my jacket. “Every vehicle’s been filled with birds. The driver should have a text with all the locations, and the number of birds for each target. Pull up, find the group of birds labeled for that house, and work together. Take one bird a trip, two if you can manage, and ram those suckers down in the grass. Hurry back to the truck and keep going until all the birds for that location are in the ground. Shotgun Sally is in charge of hanging the sign on the bird closest to the street. Once the sign is hung, get back in the truck, and move to the next target. NO TALKING! This mission is all radio silent. Communicate with signals, and if you don’t know the appropriate signals, just SHUT THE HELL UP! Okay? Now, go flock some fuckers!

That girl is me. Me and Peter, in the hot tub on the ski trip. Oh my God. I scream. Margot comes racing in, wearing one of those Korean beauty masks on her face with slits for eyes, nose, and mouth. “What? What?” I try to cover the computer screen with my hand, but she pushes it out of the way, and then she lets out a scream too. Her mask falls off. “Oh my God! Is that you?” Oh my God oh my God oh my God. “Don’t let Kitty see!” I shout. Kitty’s wide-eyed. “Lara Jean, I thought you were a goody-goody.” “I am!” I scream. Margot gulps. “That…that looks like…” “I know. Don’t say it.” “Don’t worry, Lara Jean,” Kitty soothes. “I’ve seen worse on regular TV, not even HBO.” “Kitty, go to your room!” Margot yells. Kitty whimpers and clings closer to me. I can’t believe what I am seeing. The caption reads Goody two shoes Lara Jean having full-on sex with Kavinsky in the hot tub. Do condoms work underwater? Guess we’ll find out soon enough. ;) The comments are a lot of wide-eyed emojis and lols. Someone named Veronica Chen wrote, What a slut! Is she Asian?? I don’t even know who Veronica Chen is! “Who could have done this to me?” I wail, pressing my hands to my cheeks. “I can’t feel my face. Is my face still my face?” “Who the hell is Anonybitch?” Margot demands. “No one knows,” I say, and the roaring in my ears is so loud I can hardly hear my own voice. “People just re-gram her. Or him. Am I talking really loud right now?” I’m in shock. Now I can’t feel my hands or feet. I’m gonna faint. Is this happening? Is this my life?

At the top of Anonybitch’s feed, there is a video of a boy and a girl making out in a hot tub. Anonybitch is particularly famous for her hot tub videos. She tags them #rubadub. This one’s a little grainy, like it was zoomed in from far away. I click play. The girl is sitting in the boy’s lap, her body draped over his, legs hooked around his waist, arms around his neck. She’s wearing a red nightgown, and it billows in the water like a full sail. The back of her head obscures the boy. Her hair is long, and the ends dip into the hot tub like calligraphy brushes in ink. The boy runs his hands down her spine like she is a cello and he is playing her. I’m so entranced I don’t notice at first that Kitty is watching with me. Both of our heads are tilted, trying to suss out what it is we’re looking at. “You shouldn’t be looking at this,” I say. “Are they doing it?” she asks. “It’s hard to say because of her nightgown.” But maybe? Then the girl touches the boy’s cheek, and there is something about the movement, the way she touches him like she is reading braille. Something familiar. The back of my neck goes icy cold, and I am hit with a gust of awareness, of humiliating recognition. That girl is me. Me and Peter, in the hot tub on the ski trip. Oh my God. I scream. Margot comes racing in, wearing one of those Korean beauty masks on her face with slits for eyes, nose, and mouth. “What? What?” I try to cover the computer screen with my hand, but she pushes it out of the way, and then she lets out a scream too. Her mask falls off. “Oh my God! Is that you?” Oh my God oh my God oh my God. “Don’t let Kitty see!” I shout. Kitty’s wide-eyed. “Lara Jean, I thought you were a goody-goody.” “I am!” I scream.

The first signal of the change in her behavior was Prince Andrew’s stag night when the Princess of Wales and Sarah Ferguson dressed as policewomen in a vain attempt to gatecrash his party. Instead they drank champagne and orange juice at Annabel’s night club before returning to Buckingham Palace where they stopped Andrew’s car at the entrance as he returned home. Technically the impersonation of police officers is a criminal offence, a point not neglected by several censorious Members of Parliament. For a time this boisterous mood reigned supreme within the royal family. When the Duke and Duchess hosted a party at Windsor Castle as a thank you for everyone who had helped organize their wedding, it was Fergie who encouraged everyone to jump, fully clothed, into the swimming pool. There were numerous noisy dinner parties and a disco in the Waterloo Room at Windsor Castle at Christmas. Fergie even encouraged Diana to join her in an impromptu version of the can-can. This was but a rehearsal for their first public performance when the girls, accompanied by their husbands, flew to Klosters for a week-long skiing holiday. On the first day they lined up in front of the cameras for the traditional photo-call. For sheer absurdity this annual spectacle takes some beating as ninety assorted photographers laden with ladders and equipment scramble through the snow for positions. Diana and Sarah took this silliness at face value, staging a cabaret on ice as they indulged in a mock conflict, pushing and shoving each other until Prince Charles announced censoriously: “Come on, come on!” Until then Diana’s skittish sense of humour had only been seen in flashes, invariably clouded by a mask of blushes and wan silences. So it was a surprised group of photographers who chanced across the Princess in a Klosters café that same afternoon. She pointed to the outsize medal on her jacket, joking: “I have awarded it to myself for services to my country because no-one else will.” It was an aside which spoke volumes about her underlying self-doubt. The mood of frivolity continued with pillow fights in their chalet at Wolfgang although it would be wrong to characterize the mood on that holiday as a glorified schoolgirls’ outing. As one royal guest commented: “It was good fun within reason. You have to mind your p’s and q’s when royalty, particularly Prince Charles, is present. It is quite formal and can be rather a strain.

You said he carries a gun?" "Yeah, that's the bad news." Perry whispers, "What's the good news?" I pause. "I read recently that eggs aren't bad for you anymore. There's, like, new research." "That's not even remotely funny,"Perry says. "This is me not laughing, Vin." "It's hard to tell you with you in ski mask. You might have thought it was hilarious." "Trust me. Not laughing.

Books of silver; books of bone; and yet the strangest thing you see in all your years at Galvanic is a boy in a ski-mask, sitting in a basement, using a computer.

All four stumps of his arms and legs had been cauterized with a blowtorch. He was barely alive and almost unrecognizable as a human being. He had no idea who he was and never would again. His wife, daughter, and his brother could not bear the trauma of visiting him in the hospital. Finally one night, someone dressed in black donning a ski mask mercifully pulled the plug on him.

The participants in the study had no qualms about being research subjects, Lisak told me, “because they share this common idea that a rapist is a guy in a ski mask, wielding a knife, who drags women into the bushes. But these undetected rapists don’t wear masks or wield knives or drag women into the bushes. So they had absolutely no sense of themselves as rapists and were only too happy to talk about their sexual behaviors.” Most of the student rapists interviewed by Lisak were regarded by their peers as nice guys who would never rape anyone, and regarded themselves the same way.

Ski masks might be traditional attire for a burglary, but buying four of them when there was no snow on the ground was a great way to stand out like a sore thumb. Believe it or not, cops follow up on that kind of thing, and cashiers remember it.

little curious as to where exactly they’ve sent that coupon as I do not recall actually giving them an address. If it was a mandatory field on their form then chances are I just started typing things about horses, as per usual. Looks like there’s going to be one lucky horse out there somewhere... and one confused postman.   Trevor Mcinsley to: Cape Kidnappers Golf Course   Hello, I was wondering what the dress code for your course is. Specifically if ski goggles/paintball masks are allowed? We will have rather a large gathering and we are... erm, afraid of getting hit in the eyes by stray balls. Yes, that’s it. WE ARE DEFINITELY NOT AN INTERNATIONAL CRIME SYDNICATE. Thanks.   Cape Kidnappers Golf Course to: Trevor Mcinsley   Trevor,   Thank you for your inquiry.   The dress code at Cape Kidnappers is generally considered tidy but requires collared shirts and khaki pants or bermuda shorts. While we understand you are concerned about your eyes, ski goggles and paintball masks are not allowed. Traditional safety

I understand individuals and their personal motivations, but when those same individuals become a part of something bigger, some amorphous corporate ball of greed, I can't anticipate the logical next move, because it has long ago stopped being human. Your average human being has a conscience and the world is structured with checks and balances to shed light on that individual should he or she become something ugly and cruel. But a company can hide its corruption; the individuals responsible can sit innocently and united behind their desks for years before they are discovered. They are as guilty as the guy robbing the liquor store in the ski mask, only they're free to show their faces. I had no idea whether I should be looking for the worker bee or the nest, or both, and my nearsightedness cost my boss his job.

FACE ONE WEARS as an adult is a mask that’s cut to fit in her youth.” There are many kinds of masks, Anna thought. Theater masks and Halloween masks and surgical masks and fencing masks and diving masks and wrestling masks and ski masks. Welding visors and face cages, blindfolds and dominos. And death masks. The Doktor continued. “Every mask becomes a death mask when you can no longer put it on or take it off at will. When it conforms to the contours of your psychic face. When you mistake the persona you project for your living soul. When you can no more distinguish between the two.

tossed the mask and snorkel aboard and with surprising ease, pulled his upper body quickly out of the water, allowing his legs to find the rungs.  He reached back and unbuckled each fin, tossing them up and grabbing his towel in the same motion. He retrieved a bottle of orange juice from the small refrigerator and went forward to relax on the trampoline.  Peering at the larger island, he could make out the faint image of a jet ski skirting across the water.  It amazed him how many people loved noise.  Insistent that they need a break from the grind, they travel to a remote area to unwind, only to shop with a thousand other tourists, or zip across the bay on a rocket running at 80 decibels.  He smiled to himself and tipped his orange juice in their direction.  To each his own, he thought.  He should, in fact, be thankful.  If they were not over there, they would probably be here next to him.  With that, he stood up and squinted at the glimmering horizon.  Having to decide what to do every day was just the type of problem he wanted. His body suddenly stiffened.  The sound was extremely faint but unmistakable, and he felt a flutter of grim acceptance before reaching for the binoculars.  He wiped the water from his

Ash had the gun in his gloved hand. The ski mask was in place. Ash had learned over the years that ski masks don’t offer enough peripheral vision, so he’d already made the eye holes a little bigger. He stayed in his squat and waited. To his left, he could see Dee Dee had moved closer to the periphery. He frowned. She should know better and stay back. But that was Dee Dee.

In every previous classroom, I had been responsible for decoding teachers’ references to white middle-class experiences. It’s like when you’re sailing…or You know how when you’re skiing, you have to…My white teachers had an unspoken commitment to the belief that we are all the same, a default setting that masked for them how often white culture bled into the curriculum. For example, when teachers wanted to drive home the point that we should do something daily, they often likened it to how you wash your hair every morning. It never occurred to them that none of the Black girls in the class did this. Knowing it was true for white people, and having gotten used to white teachers’ assumption of universality, we would all nod our heads and move on. Who had time to teach the teacher?

In every previous classroom, I had been responsible for decoding teachers’ references to white middle-class experiences. It’s like when you’re sailing…or You know how when you’re skiing, you have to…My white teachers had an unspoken commitment to the belief that we are all the same, a default setting that masked for them how often white culture bled into the curriculum.

Yet, if I were to adhere to my mom's advice, I would have had to drop out of school years ago (since a lot of folks in our inequitable education system refuse to love us), quit engaging public health offices (because I walked in as a human in need of medical services and walked out as a patient whose subjective world was mad invisible by research lingo: "MSM," otherwise known as "men who have sex with men'), sleep in my bed all damn day (knowing it is more likely that I would be stopped by police when walking to the store in Camden or Bed-Stuy while rocking a fitted cap and carrying books than my white male neighbors would be while walking around in ski masks in the middle of summer and dropping a dime bag on the ground in front of a walking police and his dog)...

McClury folded back the rifle’s bipod and stood, disturbing the light covering of snow that lay across his body. His weapon was an Accuracy International L96, a bolt-action rifle made by the Brits. In McClury’s opinion one of the best all-round rifles in the world for this type of work. Precise and powerful but not too big or heavy. He’d used enough of them in the past to qualify his opinion. He wore white Gore-Tex pants, a jacket with a hood, and a white ski mask. The rifle’s furniture had been wrapped in strips of white electrical tape. McClury unbuttoned and unzipped the jacket and threw it off. It was camouflage and protection against the cold but impeded movement. Underneath he wore a black thermal shirt. He felt the chill immediately, but for now he could live with it. He left the white ski mask in place. His hide was a little under five hundred yards away, overlooking the target’s chalet. McClury had been set up just under the crest of a snowy outcrop dotted with trees to hide his silhouette and to make him virtually invisible.

Bohnes slips on a skeleton mask—cute—and Widow accepts a ski mask from one of my girls. Alexei is now wearing a KN95 mask, like he’s neck-deep in that weird coronavirus shit from way back when.

When I told friends I was going to a hostage negotiation and training session, they immediately imagined banks and a small gaggle of men in ski masks. Though the numbers are not tracked consistently, around 80% of all hostage situations in this country are a result of domestic violence,

If you know someone with a skylight in their house, put on dark clothes and a ski mask and climb on their roof. When they walk into the room make a loud noise and stare at them before running away.

The Night Bomber by Stewart Stafford Stefan and Elyse came home by rote, To find a stranger's chilling note, "I’m going to kill you" scrawled in red, Pranks locked out with nothing said. Then the hall window smashed, In a firework’s screaming flash, They threw it out before it burned, Danger had not passed, they learned. A ticking device left behind, Elyse kicked it away just in time, A garden explosion's massive bang, Their ears and windows loudly rang. They wondered what psycho did this deed, And how they'd crossed this evil breed, Then they heard them bomb their neighbours who thought Stefan and Elyse were perpetrators. Then another blast three doors down, Stefan ran to help with a worried frown, Concerned to see who else got hit, Seeing their attacker was still at it. A bomber in a ski mask did a backflip, To dodge their lunging, angry grip, He swung on ropes and vaulted high, An acrobat mocking with a stylish eye. The bomber fled in his getaway car, A neighbour leapt on before he got far, He held on tight but got dragged along, Rolled to the kerb, he couldn't hold on. The Night Bomber of Sheila’s Cabin On the loose, an explosive phantom, Stalking without any reason or pity, His laughter echoed across the city. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

We were in the middle of a three car caravan accompanied by Jim Carlisle, a career diplomat and the perfect Charge’ de Affaires. His manner was formal but always with a practiced smile to make his counterparts feel at ease. He sat in the jump seat in front of Owen, Alex and I sat together in the back near the double cargo doors guarding the luggage. The driver was Pakistani as was the security guard on the passenger side. The cars were crossing a bridge when it happened. First the blinding flash, then the delayed sound, it was deafening with the unmistakable smell of high explosives. The Ford Expedition in front erupted in a mushroom cloud of smoke and fire as it leaped off the road and settled back in a black pile of melting plastic, glass and metal. Our driver slammed on the brakes, ramming the gear into reverse while twisting his body around for a better view out the rear door windows. It was to late, the car behind us had met the same fate, we were bookended by smoking heaps of scrap metal as the masked bombers, five of them, surrounded our SUV. This was a professional hit team, their leader was calm, he directed the others with chilling efficiency. They wore black ski masks, bullet proof vests and ear phone sets, only the leader spoke, the others took orders. The shortest one had a knapsack, he turned his back to another who unzipped it and removed the gray matter, it looked like putty, he slapped it hard against the double rear doors. These would be the most vulnerable, they locked together rather than to the structural integrity of the vehicle. Both doors exploded out and away from the car dangling precariously on their hinges. The short one jumped in first, throwing the luggage out and scrambling towards us as our security guard leveled his government issue Glock-45, he hesitated to long, the red dot sighting device from the backup shooter was in the center of his forehead. The bone and brain fragment from the melon sized exit wound in the back of his head splattered against the windshield. The driver went for the concealed weapon under the front seat but thought better of it as the bombers surrounded the vehicle. Outside the driver side window, the leader hit the bullet proof glass with the butt of his matt black automatic, he wanted the doors opened, the driver had already hit the lock release.

The fifth, in a rumpled plaid suit and plastic devil mask, plunked a ukulele. Even without the Satan-head mask, I realized Hawaii was a hell of a long way from Mexico, and I didn’t freeze, didn’t pause, just made a U-turn and cut back through the crowd. The last thing I saw was Ski Mask Guy’s neck twisting in my direction. I flew down the hall and then remembered that I was in the Commodore, and that the name of the Outfit-run hotel probably began with the third letter in the alphabet for a reason. I stepped around a corner and stared at a wall covered in flocked wallpaper. The pattern was end-to-end diamond shapes with small raised C’s in the middle. I pushed one, and then another, and another—I realized Ski Mask Guy would be rounding the corner any second—and pushed another, and one more, and then I thought screw it and took a fire extinguisher from the wall, listened for galumphing footsteps, and stepped out swinging. I nailed him at solar plexus level. He staggered backward groping at air, caught himself, and charged. I went low on the next shot, kneecapping him, and he squealed like a debutante. And then I was gone, down the hallway, pushing through the revolving door briefcase-first and sprinting for the Lincoln, yelling, “Al! Throw me the keys!” “Head’s up, Al!” he said, flipping them through the air. I snagged them, leaped in, and called out, “Thanks, Al!” “My pleasure! Watch your back, Al!” I roared from the curb, waved from the window, and hoped for more Als just like him

Identity is a posture that we steal and assemble as a protective coating, but it's also a ski mask, camouflage and protection from the cold.

Keith looped the plastic around Mouse’s wrists, cinching it tight, while Sean did the same to the man’s ankles. Then Keith lifted his weight from Mouse’s back and flipped him over, then said, “Let’s see who we have here.” Sean reached down and plucked off the ski mask, revealing a sweaty, freckled face that looked vaguely familiar to Keith. Then he remembered. He’d seen the guy at Rav’s house, weeks ago. Trina gasped. “Derrick Vole?

The man had worn the ski mask he’d initially attacked her in, but she had been able to identify him by his voice, his smell, and other physical attributes, as her downstairs neighbor, Marshall Landish.

I love a girl with a head on her shoulders,” Rudy Jack Nicholsoned while Steve Martining—Rudy’s words; not even Danny could tell you fully what they meant, but it was the only way to accurately describe it. “I hate necks.” “There’s nothing more beautiful to me than a woman in a black evening gown, and a ski mask, with only her breasts and crotch exposed,” Yu exclaimed, characteristically offbeat with the entire conversation.