Thug Smile Quotes

Islington smiled superciliously. “Lucifer?” It said. “Lucifer was an idiot. It wound up lord and master of nothing at all.” The marquis grinned. “And you wound up lord and master of two thugs and a roomful of candles?

Ronan selected a large-caliber marker and leaned deep over the petition. He wrote ANARCHY in enormous letters and then tossed the instrument of war at Henry's chest. "Hey!" Henry cried as the marker bounced off him. "You thug." "Democracy 's a farce," Ronan said, and Adam smirked, a private, small thing that was inherently exclusionary. An expression, in fact, that he could've very well learned from Ronan. Gansey spared Henry a pitying glance. "Sorry, he didn't get enough exercise today. Or there's something wrong with his diet. I'll take him away now." "When I get elected president," Henry told Ronan, "I'm making your face illegal." Ronan's smile was thin and dark. "Litigation's a farce." As they headed back down the shadowed colonnade, Gansey asked, "Do you ever consider the possibility that you might be growing up to be an asshole?

This fucking city is full of nothing but thugs, money grubbing porn-bitches, and hustlers. I’m calling the police.” Ex fumed as he struggled to pull his cell from his pocket. If Syn weren't so damn angry it would’ve been funny as shit the way the man’s jaw dropped when God and Day both pulled their gold badges out from under their shirts. Day smiled that sinister grin and kneeled in front of them, speaking in an official tone, “911, what is your emergency?

I like literature," I said. "We started watching the film version of Romeo and Juliet today." I didn't tell them this, but the love story fascinated me. The way the lovers fell so deeply and irrevocably in love after their first meeting sparked a burning curiosity in me about what human love might feel like. "How are you finding that?" Ivy asked. "It's very powerful, but the teacher got really mad when one of the boys said something about Lady Capulet." "What did he say?" "He called her a MILF, which must be offensive because Miss Castle called him a thug and sent him out of the room. Gabe, what is a MILF?" Ivy smothered her smile behind a napkin while Gabriel did something I'd never seen before. He blushed and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Some acronym for a teenage obscnity, I imagine," he mumbled. "Yes, but do you know what it means?" He paused, trying to find the right words. "It's a term used by adolescent males to describe a woman who is both attractive and a mother." He cleared his throat and got up quickly to refill the water jug. "I'm sure it must stand for something," I pressed. "It does," Gabriel said. "Ivy, can you remeber what it is?" "I believe it stands for 'mother I'd like to...befriend'," said my sister. "Is that all?" I exclaimed. "What a fuss over nothing. I really think Miss Castle needs to chill.

The future of women is uncertain. We don’t breed in the womb any more, and if we aren’t wanted for sex … But there will always be men. Women haven’t gone for little boys. Women have a different approach. Surrounded by hunks, they look for ‘the ugly man inside’. Thugs and gangsters, rapists and wife-beaters are making a comeback. They may smile like beach-boys, but they are pure shark. So this is the future. F is for Future.

Only those who have lost as much as we have see the particularly nasty slice of smile on someone who thinks they’re winning when they say “Get over it.” This is the thing: If you have the option to not think about or even consider history, whether you learned it right or not, or whether it even deserves consideration, that’s how you know you’re on board the ship that serves hors d’oeuvres and fluffs your pillows, while others are out at sea, swimming or drowning, or clinging to little inflatable rafts that they have to take turns keeping inflated, people short of breath, who’ve never even heard of the words hors d’oeuvres or fluff. Then someone from up on the yacht says, “It’s too bad those people down there are lazy, and not as smart and able as we are up here, we who have built these strong, large, stylish boats ourselves, we who float the seven seas like kings.” And then someone else on board says something like, “But your father gave you this yacht, and these are his servants who brought the hors d’oeuvres.” At which point that person gets tossed overboard by a group of hired thugs who’d been hired by the father who owned the yacht, hired for the express purpose of removing any and all agitators on the yacht to keep them from making unnecessary waves, or even referencing the father or the yacht itself. Meanwhile, the man thrown overboard begs for his life, and the people on the small inflatable rafts can’t get to him soon enough, or they don’t even try, and the yacht’s speed and weight cause an undertow. Then in whispers, while the agitator gets sucked under the yacht, private agreements are made, precautions are measured out, and everyone quietly agrees to keep on quietly agreeing to the implied rule of law and to not think about what just happened. Soon, the father, who put these things in place, is only spoken of in the form of lore, stories told to children at night, under the stars, at which point there are suddenly several fathers, noble, wise forefathers. And the boat sails on unfettered. If you were fortunate enough to be born into a family whose ancestors directly benefited from genocide and/or slavery, maybe you think the more you don’t know, the more innocent you can stay, which is a good incentive to not find out, to not look too deep, to walk carefully around the sleeping tiger. Look no further than your last name. Follow it back and you might find your line paved with gold, or beset with traps.

When we go to tell our stories, people think we want it to have gone different. People want to say things like “sore losers” and “move on already,” “quit playing the blame game.” But is it a game? Only those who have lost as much as we have see the particularly nasty slice of smile on someone who thinks they’re winning when they say “Get over it.” This is the thing: If you have the option to not think about or even consider history, whether you learned it right or not, or whether it even deserves consideration, that’s how you know you’re on board the ship that serves hors d’oeuvres and fluffs your pillows, while others are out at sea, swimming or drowning, or clinging to little inflatable rafts that they have to take turns keeping inflated, people short of breath, who’ve never even heard of the words hors d’oeuvres or fluff. Then someone from up on the yacht says, “It’s too bad those people down there are lazy, and not as smart and able as we are up here, we who have built these strong, large, stylish boats ourselves, we who float the seven seas like kings.” And then someone else on board says something like, “But your father gave you this yacht, and these are his servants who brought the hors d’oeuvres.” At which point that person gets tossed overboard by a group of hired thugs who’d been hired by the father who owned the yacht, hired for the express purpose of removing any and all agitators on the yacht to keep them from making unnecessary waves, or even referencing the father or the yacht itself. Meanwhile, the man thrown overboard begs for his life, and the people on the small inflatable rafts can’t get to him soon enough, or they don’t even try, and the yacht’s speed and weight cause an undertow. Then in whispers, while the agitator gets sucked under the yacht, private agreements are made, precautions are measured out, and everyone quietly agrees to keep on quietly agreeing to the implied rule of law and to not think about what just happened. Soon, the father, who put these things in place, is only spoken of in the form of lore, stories told to children at night, under the stars, at which point there are suddenly several fathers, noble, wise forefathers. And the boat sails on unfettered.

I’ve been broke too many times to depend on money to put a smile on my face,

You should be more careful, you know.” Cass opened her mouth but no words came out. Again, she felt her stays crushing down on her chest. “Careful?” she managed to croak. “You’re the one who knocked me over.” “I couldn’t resist,” he said, and he actually had the nerve to wink at her. “It’s not often I get the chance to put my hands on such a beautiful woman.” Cass stared at him, speechless. Without another word, he turned away and followed the group of laughing artists into a crowded campo, his muscular form disappearing among merchants’ sacks of cabbages and potatoes. The scene blurred a little, like a painting, and for a second Cass wondered if maybe she had hit her head and had imagined the whole exchange. Liviana’s uncle Pietro materialized suddenly by her side, followed by Madalena. “What were you thinking, running off by yourself?” Pietro frowned severely. “And that common street thug put his hands on you! Do you want me to go after him?” “No, no,” Cass said quickly. “It was just an accident.” Still, the nerve of the boy to tell her to be careful. He, clearly, was the one who needed to watch where he was going. “Your dress!” Madalena reached toward Cass, but stopped short of touching the soiled fabric. “You must be furious.” Cass looked down at her soggy gown. Even the rosary hanging from her belt had gotten dirty. Cass wiped the coral and rosewood crucifix clean in the folds of her skirt. The dress was obviously ruined, but she had always found it a bit uncomfortable, and she had plenty of others. “You’re lucky you weren’t hurt,” Liviana’s uncle said sternly. “I hope that teaches you not to wander the streets unaccompanied again.” “Who was he?” Madalena asked in a whisper as Cass allowed her to take her arm and lead her back to the church. “No idea.” Cass realized she was trembling. Her heart thudded against the walls of her rib cage. The sting in her palm was already fading to a dull throb, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the boy’s devilish smile, or the feeling of his hands on her. Mostly, she couldn’t shake the image of those bright blue eyes that just for a second had gazed at her so intensely, in a way no one had ever looked at her before.

Raquel drove with a wide smile across her face. She had just went and picked her daughter up.

Nice jacket,” Corey said to Angelo. Hoping to diffuse things a bit, Angelo nodded politely. “Thank you.” Corey smiled. “Did you buy it at ‘Thugs R’ Us’?” Angelo

..."When we go to tell our stories, people think we want it to have gone different. People want to say things like “sore losers” and “move on already,” “quit playing the blame game.” But is it a game? Only those who have lost as much as we have see the particularly nasty slice of smile on someone who thinks they’re winning when they say “Get over it.” This is the thing: If you have the option to not think about or even consider history, whether you learned it right or not, or whether it even deserves consideration, that’s how you know you’re on board the ship that serves hors d’oeuvres and fluffs your pillows, while others are out at sea, swimming or drowning, or clinging to little inflatable rafts that they have to take turns keeping inflated, people short of breath, who’ve never even heard of the words hors d’oeuvres or fluff. Then someone from up on the yacht says, “It’s too bad those people down there are lazy, and not as smart and able as we are up here, we who have built these strong, large, stylish boats ourselves, we who float the seven seas like kings.” And then someone else on board says something like, “But your father gave you this yacht, and these are his servants who brought the hors d’oeuvres.” At which point that person gets tossed overboard by a group of hired thugs who’d been hired by the father who owned the yacht, hired for the express purpose of removing any and all agitators on the yacht to keep them from making unnecessary waves, or even referencing the father or the yacht itself. Meanwhile, the man thrown overboard begs for his life, and the people on the small inflatable rafts can’t get to him soon enough, or they don’t even try, and the yacht’s speed and weight cause an undertow. Then in whispers, while the agitator gets sucked under the yacht, private agreements are made, precautions are measured out, and everyone quietly agrees to keep on quietly agreeing to the implied rule of law and to not think about what just happened. Soon, the father, who put these things in place, is only spoken of in the form of lore, stories told to children at night, under the stars, at which point there are suddenly several fathers, noble, wise forefathers. And the boat sails on unfettered."...

Sophia sweetly smiled as I helped her to her feet. Her white Adidas sneakers were silent as she crossed the tiled floor to stand in front of EBD. I stood by her side, daring that nigga to buck. “Open your mouth,” Sophia demanded. EBD grilled Sophia defiantly. “Baby, tell this nigga I don’t repeat myself,” Sophia said sweetly. I cocked my head to the left, grilling him. EBD opened his mouth, his eyes never leaving Sophia. Before he could blink, Sophia popped a dissolvable pill into his mouth. By the time he was trying to spit it out, it was too late. “You’re allergic to triptans and peanuts, right?” Sophia goaded as EBD fell to the floor in a panic. He began coughing, clawing at his throat as his eyes bulged. “Your friend, Dr. Mitchell knew everything about you. The tablet I just popped in your mouth, I happened to find at the bottom of a brand-new canister of roasted peanuts.” She smiled before dropping to her haunches at his side. EBD was wheezing and struggling for breath. Tears streamed from his eyes as they begged for help. “You’re suffering,” Sophia pretended to care. “That feeling that you feel is how you’ve made a lot of families feel over the years you’ve been carrying on this disgusting lifestyle. Burn in hell, muthafucka!” My baby got up and switched her sexy ass over to Gatah. She kissed his cheek. “Where the hell is my daughter-in-law? You were supposed to stay home with her.” Everyone chuckled. “I had to come make sure you and Pops ain’t fuck shit up.” I scoffed. “The fuck! Boy, I taught you this shit!” We all enjoyed a good laugh while we watched EBD take his last breath.

good. But then something shifted inside me. I remembered who they really were; intrinsically powerful beings playing the part of thugs because they had forgotten their own true power. The gang surrounded me matching my pace. I focused on the leader who had moved in and was walking beside me. Looking him straight in the eye; I smiled and said, “What a beautiful night – don’t you think?” Dead silence. No response from anyone. The gang waited for a cue from him. No one made a sound for what seemed liked much longer than the few seconds it really was. I continued to walk, smiling up at him. Finally, the leader said “What’s a good-lookin’ girl like you doin’ walking these streets alone? Don’t you know how dangerous that is?” Then he insisted that he and his gang walk me all the way to Penn Station so that they could protect me. By remembering my own intrinsic power and separating the behaviors of this gang from the intrinsically powerful beings I knew they really were; my potential attackers became my protectors – my enemies became my friends – and a potentially violent and destructive situation shifted into a positive empowering one for everyone involved. As we recognize our inherent perfection and personal power, we are led to the natural conclusion that others are likewise amazing souls with equal inherent and intrinsic worth and power – even if, in the moment, they are acting otherwise. When we accept any environment into which we are led and pay attention to every soul within that environment; and when we treat them with respect and appreciation for who they really are; we create a larger space for possibilities of powerful positive connection even – especially – with the opposition. We help them recognize or at least feel their true power and make different

Mr. Norman, a wise man once told me to never let your emotions get involved under any circumstances and that’s mentally or physically. I slipped and I admit I slipped,” he said with a smile. “But it’s a flip side to that coin, and once again, from the same wise man that said never give an enemy a chance to seek revenge, it’s just like a game of chess.”               John

Apparently, when the cops arrived, the Outlaw was in the middle of whooping ass. He beat up like fifteen thugs, yo!” “Fifteen,” I smiled, but it faded when I remembered Tee. “One of crooks was so freaked by the Outlaw that he called the cops!” Lee started laughing hard enough that he excused himself to get water.

Patrick—if it is indeed Patrick—is still on the ground gasping for air as I make my arrival. I stop, spread my arms, and offer them my most winning smile. The three thugs stare at me as though I am a museum piece that they can’t comprehend. Melon Shirt takes one step toward me. “Who the fuck are you?” I am still smiling. “You should leave now.” Melon

Four of them got out of the SUV, all heavily built, all wearing jeans, T-shirts, and, despite the heat, jackets. “Hi.” Bishop gave them a wave. “What the fuck are you doing here?” asked their leader. He had a shaved head and looked like his diet consisted mainly of horse steroids. “I’m sorry, didn’t your man at the gate tell you? We’re from Human Rights Watch, just doing an inspection on the conditions of the camp.” “Who gave you permission to do that?” “Oh I can’t remember, some guy from your headquarters.” He looked at Ice. “Do you remember his name? I think it was ‘Simon’ or something.” Ice didn’t miss a beat. “I seem to remember it was ‘Simeon.’ Yeah, Simeon.” “Simeon Isayev?” The man looked surprised. “Simeon Isayev gave you permission to come here?” The other henchmen looked at each other. “Yes, that’s correct.” Bishop smiled. “Lovely fellow.” “I don’t believe you. I’m going to call him.” “There’s really no need.” “Shut your mouth.” The thug started to dial a number on his cell phone. Bishop pulled out his false credentials. “Simeon was nice enough to give us this letter. Do you want to see it?” He stepped forward, offering the document. The Russian grunted. He had his phone to his ear with one hand and held out the other. Bishop’s punch caught him completely by surprise. It hit him square on the jaw, sending him reeling backward. He dropped his phone.

Firestone still smiles when he relates this, playing out each line of the dialogue in Americanized, but nearly perfect, Russian. And he tells me of the time he had to hide out in a government hospital to hide from corrupt cops (they could grab him anywhere apart from a hospital full of ministers); and when his first office was raided by thugs working for his neighbor and his staff were handcuffed to the furniture and threatened at knifepoint; or when he had to fly to New York and buy up all the bugging equipment at the Spy store to give to the antifraud squad in Moscow so they would have the equipment with which to bust other bent cops trying to extort money from him.

She stopped at the foot of the trio of beach chairs and smiled down at Richter and his men. Richter was in the middle. The one on the left was a hairy beast of a man with the fat-over-muscle build of someone who’d earned their conditioning from life experience, not a gym bike. Someone who possessed the brute core strength to physically break you. The man on the right was younger and leaner, but still carried plenty of brawn. It squared with Isaiah’s story—these weren’t techie savants hired to pull a sophisticated vault break. Richter was lining up big scary men to storm a hotel room and take down an army of casino thugs by force.

restaurant, nicknamed "The Municipal Crib" for the number of city officials who dallied there. Margaritte and the owner of Marchand's, Pierre, had contacted Fremont Older after Rolf had raised the tariff for each ninety-day liquor license renewal to $10,000. They offered to testify before a grand jury. And so the war began. We settled in for The Dictator, featuring the emerging legend in American theater, John Barrymore. The door opened behind us and the light from the hallway caught my attention. A tree-stump of a man moved next to Adam Rolf, close enough that I could hear his labored breathing. "Annalisa, I'm not sure you've ever met Mr. John Kelly," Rolf said. The broken-nosed thug plunged into the seat next to Rolf, looking as though meat packers had stuffed him into his tuxedo. "Mr. Kelly here represents our interests along the waterfront. I'm about to announce his candidacy for a supervisor's seat next election." "Miss Passarella," he growled with whiskey breath. "Mr. Kelly. Excuse my ignorance, but are you the one they call Shanghai Kelly?" "We try not to use that nickname," Rolf laughed. I was gratefully distracted when Barrymore arrived on stage to a thunderous reception. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Rolf click open his pocket watch and offer a peek to Kelly, who smiled. The seemingly innocuous gesture disturbed me greatly. The room seemed to tilt and the chair wavered beneath me. The end could not come soon enough.

The award-winning American TV series Breaking Bad has a scene in its second season set in the murder capital of Ciudad Juárez. In this episode, American and Mexican agents are lured to a patch of desert just south of the border looking for an informant. They discover the informant’s head has been cut off and stuck on the body of a giant turtle. But as they approach, the severed cranium, turned into an IED, explodes, killing agents. The episode was released in 2009. I thought it was unrealistic, a bit fantastic. Until July 15, 2010. In the real Ciudad Juárez on that day, gangsters kidnapped a man, dressed him in a police uniform, shot him, and dumped him bleeding on a downtown street. A cameraman filmed what happened after federal police and paramedics got close. The video shows medics bent over the dumped man, checking for vital signs. Suddenly a bang rings out, and the image shakes vigorously as the cameraman runs for his life. Gangsters had used a cell phone to detonate twenty-two pounds of explosives packed into a nearby car. A minute later, the camera turns back around to reveal the burning car pouring smoke over screaming victims. A medic lies on the ground, covered in blood but still moving, a stunned look on his face. Panicked officers are scared to go near him. The medic dies minutes later along with a federal agent and a civilian. I’m not suggesting that Breaking Bad inspired the murders. TV shows don’t kill people. Car bombs kill people. The point of the story is that the Mexican Drug War is saturated with stranger-than-fiction violence. Mexican writer Alejandro Almazán suffered from a similar dilemma. As he was writing his novel Among Dogs, he envisioned a scene in which thugs decapitate a man and stick a hound’s head on his corpse. It seemed pretty out there. But then in real life some gangsters did exactly that, only with a pig’s head. It is just hard to compete with the sanguine criminal imagination. Cartel thugs have put a severed head in a cooler and delivered it to a newspaper; they have dressed up a murdered policeman in a comedy sombrero and carved a smile on his cheeks; and they have even sewn a human face onto a soccer ball.

I thank you, friend, from all my heart; The one you shaped, gently and smart. For all you’ve seen And all you've been For every fight and every pain, And every tear that fell in vain For every how, and every why, For all the times you had to cry For everything that you have taught And all the battles, you have fought. Without your grace, without you calm, I know not what I would become. A beast at best, at worst a thug, Insecure, frightened and smug. You filled the void the best you could And really, who could ask for more? And though, at times, misunderstood; You’ve come out stronger than before. As such, this piece has been to date, The toughest thing I had to write. But out of every rhyme I’ve made, I hope this brings you most delight. And I hope that you do laugh, And when you cry, it is of joy, And I hope that you do smile, For your laughter and your bliss, Has always calmed my worried mind. This poem is for you, mom,

Many converted happily to Christianity, it is true. But many did not. Many Romans and Greeks did not smile as they saw their religious liberties removed, their books burned, their temples destroyed and their ancient statues shattered by thugs with hammers. This book tells their story; it is a book that unashamedly mourns the largest destruction of art that human history had ever seen. It is a book about the tragedies behind the “triumph” of Christianity.

He tried to imagine a face, damned the veils that made it hard to do so. He thought of the enigmatic smile hidden behind them. He smiled and savored for a while the harmonious scene of the palanquin vanishing in the dust. Such visions that do not remain and fly away in a haze were the most delightful, for they were harmless to his married state. He wished to remain faithful to his wife who waited back at home.

The hour was late, the beauty around him barbarous. The many scents brought by the air were toxic or sweet, depending on which way the gentle breeze blew. Sometimes the scents made his nostrils smart. He allowed them to embrace him. Joys of a wonderful nature arose in his heart. He loved his horse, its easy amble, the seductive night and the prying moon. God created the world, the wild, the horse, the breeze, man, birds and - love, and His consort at times agreed and at others did not. Gods played games. Even Gods played games. They fought too. Name a game that does not involve discord. He smiled at the thought.

That means Peter must have wanted to tell him something. Was it something he wanted him to do?” “Probably. The question is, what was it? And who helped Beasley?” They stared at one another. “Come on, Sara, think! If Peter was able to figure it out, we should be able to.” “That’s not true. He is a little older and more experienced than we are and, since he’s at the Yard, he may have information that we don’t have.” “That’s so. And I suppose we ought to allow for the possibility that he may be just a little smarter than we are.” “What are you saying?” said Sara with pretended incredulity. “I know,” said Andrew, smiling. “I don’t really think that’s possible either, but . . . you know what? Tomorrow, just for fun, I’d like to see if we can’t do a little more about this—either find Beasley or figure out what it is Peter wants Sean to do.” “Peter won’t like it. That’s probably why he didn’t want us around when he talked to Sean.” “He didn’t tell us to stay out of it, did he?” “He probably thought we’d have sense enough to know that without his saying anything about it. Those Thugs sound like an awfully scary crew. Still, I suppose if we’re careful . . .

People want to say things like “sore losers” and “move on already,” “quit playing the blame game.” But is it a game? Only those who have lost as much as we have see the particularly nasty slice of smile on someone who thinks they’re winning when they say “Get over it.” This is the thing: If you have the option to not think about or even consider history, whether you learned it right or not, or whether it even deserves consideration, that’s how you know you’re on board the ship that serves hors d’oeuvres and fluffs your pillows, while others are out at sea, swimming or drowning, or clinging to little inflatable rafts that they have to take turns keeping inflated, people short of breath, who’ve never even heard of the words hors d’oeuvres or fluff. Then someone from up on the yacht says, “It’s too bad those people down there are lazy, and not as smart and able as we are up here, we who have built these strong, large, stylish boats ourselves, we who float the seven seas like kings.” And then someone else on board says something like, “But your father gave you this yacht, and these are his servants who brought the hors d’oeuvres.” At which point that person gets tossed overboard by a group of hired thugs who’d been hired by the father who owned the yacht, hired for the express purpose of removing any and all agitators on the yacht to keep them from making unnecessary waves, or even referencing the father or the yacht itself. Meanwhile, the man thrown overboard begs for his life, and the people on the small inflatable rafts can’t get to him soon enough, or they don’t even try, and the yacht’s speed and weight cause an undertow. Then in whispers, while the agitator gets sucked under the yacht, private agreements are made, precautions are measured out, and everyone quietly agrees to keep on quietly agreeing to the implied rule of law and to not think about what just happened. Soon, the father, who put these things in place, is only spoken of in the form of lore, stories told to children at night, under the stars, at which point there are suddenly several fathers, noble, wise forefathers. And the boat sails on unfettered.

The wound that was made when white people came and took all that they took has never healed. An unattended wound gets infected. Becomes a new kind of wound like the history of what actually happened became a new kind of history. All these stories that we haven't been telling all this time, that we haven't been listening to, are just part of what we need to heal. Not that we're broken. And don't make the mistake of calling us resilient. To not have been destroyed, to not have given up, to have survived is not a badge of honor. Would you call an attempted murder victim resilient? When we go to tell our stories, people think we want it to have gone differently. People want to say things like "sore losers" and "move on already, quit playing the blame game." But is it a game? Only those who have lost as much as we have see the particularly nasty slice of smile on someone who thinks they're winning when they say "Get over it." This is the thing: If you have the option to not think about or even consider history, whether you learned it right or not, or whether it even deserves consideration, that’s how you know you’re on board the ship that serves hors d’oeuvres and fluffs your pillows, while others are out at sea, swimming or drowning, or clinging to little inflatable rafts that they have to take turns keeping inflated, people short of breath, who’ve never even heard of the words hors d’oeuvres or fluff. Then someone from up on the yacht says, “It’s too bad those people down there are lazy, and not as smart and able as we are up here, we who have built these strong, large, stylish boats ourselves, we who float the seven seas like kings.” And then someone else on board says something like, “But your father gave you this yacht, and these are his servants who brought the hors d’oeuvres.” At which point that person gets tossed overboard by a group of hired thugs who’d been hired by the father who owned the yacht, hired for the express purpose of removing any and all agitators on the yacht to keep them from making unnecessary waves, or even referencing the father or the yacht itself. Meanwhile, the man thrown overboard begs for his life, and the people on the small inflatable rafts can’t get to him soon enough, or they don’t even try, and the yacht’s speed and weight cause an undertow. Then in whispers, while the agitator gets sucked under the yacht, private agreements are made, precautions are measured out, and everyone quietly agrees to keep on quietly agreeing to the implied rule of law and to not think about what just happened. Soon, the father, who put these things in place, is only spoken of in the form of lore, stories told to children at night, under the stars, at which point there are suddenly several fathers, noble, wise forefathers. And the boat sails on unfettered. If you were fortunate enough to be born into a family whose ancestors directly benefited from genocide and/or slavery, maybe you think the more you don’t know, the more innocent you can stay, which is a good incentive to not find out, to not look too deep, to walk carefully around the sleeping tiger. Look no further than your last name. Follow it back and you might find your line paved with gold, or beset with traps.

I mean no disrespect, but you are offering me things I have not even asked for.” “I am offering you things that will bring contentment in your life.” “I was born content.” He was up on his feet, smile on his lips, his gaze drinking her lovely looks by the eyefuls. “And now,” he added with a bigger smile, “having met you, madam, I can boast to my friends that I am the most favored man of my race.” He brought his palms together. “I must leave now.

He reclines under the dome of mimosa sputtered with a thousand comet-like yellow blossoms and watches her dance and smiles. The gentle breeze that just blew showered yellow dust upon her and him, like people shower flowers when a man accepts his wife, he thinks with a chuckle.

mittens parked on the street corner in a wheelchair, watching nothing go by. Here and there, a little store would have people hanging around, but mostly the streets were deserted. Maybe because it was Sunday, with the Godly in church and the rest sleeping off their sins. “Damn, mothafuckers,” Everett said now and again, until June blew up. “Everett. You’re one of about twelve men I know that aren’t in any kind of trouble. Definitely not a thug. Could we just agree on that being a good thing?” The address turned out to be a rough-looking place. We pulled up in front, killed the engine, and sat looking at this house. Low and wide, flat roof, moldy white paint, a lot of the windowpanes covered with cardboard. It looked like a brutal smile with missing teeth. Everett picked up his Kel-Tec and checked the safety. “You two stay in the car, I’ll bake the cake.” June made this explosion, like a crying laugh. “I really am going to kill you with that.” Everett put the piece on his lap. “I’m just going to knock on the door,” June said. “If it turns out she’s here, I’ll ask if we can all come in and talk to her. For God’s sake, Everett, behave yourself.” To get to the door she had to step over a pile of what looked like Pampers and blue plastic. In her jeans and red winter coat,

The world crashed on me. I smiled like an idiot as I stood up and rushed away hoping he'd forget we had ever spoken. I walked away from the Company and Sonia, but mostly from Giovanni. I had finally met an awesome guy who did not look like a thug and he was four years older than me?