Trench Coats Quotes

The last time I wore an animal hide; but this time I settled for this." Eric had been wearing a long trench coat. Now he threw it off dramatically, and I could only stand and stare. Normally, Eric was a blue-jeans-and-T-shirt kind of guy. Tonight, he wore a pink tank top and Lycra leggings[...]They were pink and aqua, like the swirls down the side of Jason's truck.

He crossed the street toward the man in the trench coat, which left me with two choices: follow my dad and see what was going on, or do what I was told. I decided on the slightly less dangerous path. I went to retrieve my sister

jace's clothes had been clean,stylish,ordinary. Sebastian had been wearing a long black wool trench coat that had looked expensive. Like an evil Burbeery ad, Simon said when she was done.

I will never, ever regret stopping you from walking out of my life a second time, Kyle," she said in an emotional voice. "And I can prove it." She reached for the buttons on her trench coat and undid them, one at a time. Then she opened the coat and let it drop to the floor. And even if she didn't say a single word more, Kyle knew he would never again doubt the way Rylann felt about him. She was wearing his flannel shirt. "You kept it," he said softly. "All this time." She nodded. "For nine years, I've held on to this darn shirt, literally dragging it across the country and back." Kyle touched her cheek, gently brushing away a tear with his thumb. "Why?" She paused hesitantly, and then with a tender smile, finally put it all on the line, too. "I guess I always hoped you'd come back for it someday.

I’ve always been a sort of self-imposed outsider, not a geeky outsider or a snobby outsider but, I just have a natural desire to live on the fringe. I’m not like a weirdo with a trench-coat but I just prefer to be alone or minimally surrounded by people.

Collars, trench coats or jackboots – uniforms allow us to exercise our cruelty without ever feeling guilt.

I’m pretty healthy and I don’t mind the idea of dying, but I also don’t want to get mowed down by some freaky high school kid in a trench coat who’s high on Zoloft and has traded in his Xbox for a semiautomatic.

I’m a stack of hypersensitivities in a trench coat

As if sensing the oncoming theatre, the pigeons arrived from nowhere, and dug in close on the powerlines. They were perched on TV aerials, and, God forbid, on the trees. There was also a single crow, fat-feathered and plump, like a pigeon disguised in a trench coat.

She tried not to slip her arms beneath his trench coat, or spread her palms across his broad, muscular back, or inhale the delicious scent of him, or rest her cheek against his hard, warm chest. She tried. And failed.

Just do whatever feels natural. If you want to call him, call him. If you want him to call you, wait. If you want to show up at his office wearing nothing but a trench coat, send me pictures.

House of Krahr!" the vampire with the banner barked quietly. "Krahr," the other four vampires exhaled and glared at me. Usually they roared their house name at the top of their lungs, trying to intimidate... Oh. They were trying to be inconspicuous. I bit my lip to keep from laughing. I'd never had an attempt at intimidation whispered at me before. "My lord, why are you wearing trench coats?" "We must blend in," he said. "This is a covert operation." Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh..."It's very hot," I said. "Trench coats are a cold-weather garment.

Seven drunk ferrets in a trench coat?

The pastor walked through Clement Park and sniffed the air. Satan. The pastor could smell him wafting through the park. It was an acrid odor—had it been a little stronger, it might have singed his nose hairs. The Enemy had swept in with this madness on Tuesday, but the real battle was only now under way. “I smell the presence of Satan,” Reverend Oudemolen thundered from the pulpit Sunday morning. “What we saw Tuesday came from Satan’s home office. Satan had a plan. Satan wants us to live in fear in Littleton. He wants us to see black trench coats or people in Goth attire and makeup and here’s what he wants us to feel: Look how powerful and scary Satan is!

It’s like watching a James Bond movie. Morpheus—in a black trench-coat-style blazer that hangs to his thighs, gray tweed pants, a dark gray vest, skinny red tie, and black pin-striped dress shirt—could pass for a punk-fae secret agent who’s captured his villain. His thick blue waves touch his shoulders from under a gray tweed flat cap, and his wings drape down his back and across the floor, fluttering sporadically as he keeps his balance against Jeb’s resistance.

Addiction was like a man in a dark trench coat, stalking me, waiting for me to get off the well-lit sidewalk and step into an alley. I had seen the alley. I had watched Nana walk into the alley and I had watched my mother go after him, and I was so angry at them for not being strong enough to stay in the light.

We remember Columbine as a pair of outcast Goths from the Trench Coat Mafia snapping and tearing through their high school hunting down jocks to settle a long-running feud. Almost none of that happened. No Goths, no outcasts, nobody snapping. No targets, no feud, and no Trench Coat Mafia. Most of those elements existed at Columbine—which is what gave them such currency. They just had nothing to do with the murders. The lesser myths are equally unsupported: no connection to Marilyn Manson, Hitler’s birthday, minorities, or Christians.

We are probably this far from donning trench coats, smoking Lucky Strikes, and slinking furtively around town, taking notes in a little black book. Which doesn't actually sound all that bad, truth be told.

Eric Dutro, Chris Morris, and a handful of other boys were pretty much the core of the TCM, but a dozen more were often associated with the TCM as well, whether they sported trench coats or not. Eric and Dylan were not among them. Each of them knew some of the TCM kids, and Eric, especially, would become buddies with Chris. That was as close as they came. Eventually, after the TCM heyday was over, Eric got himself a trench coat. Dylan followed. They wore them to the massacre, for both fashion and functional considerations. The choice would cause tremendous confusion.

Writers fish for the right words like fishermen fish for, um, whatever those aquatic creatures with fins and gills are called.

Why bother taking a DNA Test to discover your genealogy? Just go buy a lottery ticket, and if you win, all your distant relatives will find you.

Size-eighteen women weren’t supposed to show off their legs, which I did. They weren’t supposed to show off their cleavage, which I did. Size-eighteen women were supposed to wear trench coats in the winter, long sleeves in the summer, and somebody better cancel Christmas if they wore a dress that showed off some cleavage. Size-eighteen women were supposed to dress like they were apologizing for taking up too much space. Fuck all that noise. I took up space. I

Reporters quickly keyed on the darker force behind the attack: this spooky Trench Coat Mafia. It grew more bizarre by the minute. In the first two hours, witnesses on CNN described the TCM as Goths, gays, outcasts, and a street gang. “A lot of the time they’ll, like, wear makeup and paint their nails and stuff,” a Columbine senior said. “They’re kind of—I don’t know, like Goth, sort of, like, and they’re, like, associated with death and violence a lot.” None of that would prove to be true. That student did not, in fact, know the people he was describing. But the story grew.

Will you help me strategize?” “Sure,” Becca said, her voice cheery. “First. Remove all your clothes, and then borrow my trench coat. If a hottie like Leo Trevi called me the love of his life, I wouldn’t be eating takeout on the living room floor with my roommate. At least one of us should be having sex with someone who doesn’t require batteries.

Unsolicited dick pics would be better if they were wearing tiny hats.

He lets go of my face. Becomes Mr. Intensely Sincere. Christian Slater with the bomb in his trench coat pocket. Christian Slater with the baboon heart.

Every girl likes a man in uniform,” said Ernst. “Every girl, perhaps,” remarked Beatrix. “But not every uniform.” “You know why people wear uniforms, don’t you, Pierrot?” continued the chauffeur. The boy shook his head. “Because a person who wears one believes he can do anything he likes.” “Ernst,” said Beatrix quietly. “He can treat others in a way he never would while wearing normal clothes. Collars, trench coats, or jackboots, uniforms allow us to exercise our cruelty without ever feeling guilt.

Hollywood raised us. Your mind processes the world through a filter formed by comic books and action movies on Cinemax. That's why kids put on trench coats and take guns to school. The Devil knows how to control us.

People would look at teachers differently if they had to wear the uniform for their second job when on the clock

Being hungry is just being food horny.

The secret, my friend? Everything is an addiction. Just some addictions get called hobbies.

You don't want to be on Electric Avenue when it rains.

Straining to hear, I can make out something acoustic. Coming from...the backyard? I glance down from my bedroom window and feel my jaw fall open. Matt Finch is standing below my window, guitar strapped across his chest. I pull my window up, and I expect the song from that old movie - the one about a guy with a trench coat and the big radio and his heart on his sleeve. But it's not that. It's not anything I recognise, and I strain to make out the lyrics: Stop being ridiculous, stop being ridiculous, Reagan. What an asshole. The mesh screen and two floors between us don't seem like enough to protect him from my anger. "Nice apology," I call down to him. "I've apologised thirteen times," he yells back, "and so far you haven't called me back." I open my mouth to say it doesn't matter, but he's already redirecting the song. "Now I'm gonna stand here until you forgive me," he sings loudly, "or at least until you hear me out, la-la, oh-la-la. I drove seven hours overnight, and I won't leave until you come out here." (...) "This is private property!" My throat feel coarse from how loudly I'm yelling. "And that doesn't even rhyme!" The guitar chord continues as he sings, "Then call the cops, call the cops, call the cops..." I storm downstairs, my feet pounding against the staircase. When I turn the corner, my dad looks almost amused from his seat in the recliner. Noticing my expression, he stares back at his newspaper, as if I won't notice him. (...) "Dad. How did Matt know which window was mine?" "Well..." he peeks over the sports section. "I reckon I told him." "You talked to him?" My voice is no longer a voice. It's a shriek. "God, Dad!" He juts out his chin, defensive. "How was I supposed to know you had some sort of drama with him? He shows up, lookin' to serenade my daughter. Thought it seemed innocent enough. Sweet, even. Old-fashioned." "It's not any of those things! I hate him!

Why is my mother texting me about how hot you are?" "Weird. Think it has anything to do with the fact I just went to the bookstore in nothing but a patent leather trench coat?" Charlie replies with a screenshot of some texts between him and his mom. "Cottage guest is very pretty", Sally writes, then separately, "No ring." Charlie replied: "Oh? Thinking of leaving Dad?" She ignored his comment and instead said, "Tall. You always liked tall girls." "What are you talking about" Charlie wrote back, no question mark. "Remember your homecoming date? Lilac Walter-Hixton? She was practically a giant" "That was the eighth-grade formal" he said "it was before my growth spurt." "Well this girl's very pretty and tall but not too tall." "Tall but not TOO tall," I tell Charlie, "can also be added to my headstone. He says "I'll make a note." I say, "She told me you would bring wood over to the cottage for me." He says "Please swear to me you didn't make a 'too late for that' joke.

When it's raining, I like to drive like a Monet painting, as I turn off my wipers and let the lights blur the shapes. Makes traveling more romantic.

Meatspace and the internet were almost completely separate things, and now its mutated into this horrifying semi-permanent hyperreality.

I had urged Bill to wear his trench coat. The day was unusually warm, and Bill didn’t think he needed it. Now he was glad he’d worn it—a small wifely victory on a torturous day.

If Life flashes before your eyes just before you die....mine will be wearing a trench coat

Livia went to the front closet to find a coat for her sister. After some shuffling, Livia found the white trench coat Kyle had nicknamed “The Romantical.

Lots of old guys wore beige trench coats and those flat caps that made them look like boys who sold newspapers a hundred years ago.

I don’t really make mistakes so much as date them. The last guy I went out with was basically a pile of red flags in a trench coat.

His matted hair was a bit longer than it should have been, his leather trench coat way too worn and soft under my fingertips. There was no incandescent light, just this flawed, wonderful being.

Robin was standing there in her trench coat, her face pink, long red-gold hair loose, tousled and gilded in the early sunlight streaming through the window. Just then, Strike found her beautiful.

Because I have to be honest, I'm having trouble reading you, and I'm usually great at that kind of thing." I finish my beer and try not to show how overjoyed I am that none of my need and loathing have come across. "You're kind of aloof," he says, and all the kids stacked underneath my trench coat rejoice. Aloof is a casual lean, is a choice. It is not a girl in Bushwick, licking clean a can of tuna.

She’s already a bunch of stressors stacked in a trench coat. There are only that many kidnapping and murder attempts a child can endure before developing serious issues and self-destructive behaviors. We wouldn’t want her to grow up and, say, got to grad school.” “Don’t worry,” Misery reassures me, “every day I drill into her that we’ll be disappointed in anything but a Djing career.” “You’re such a good role model.

When giving instructions, or evaluating a proposal, it helps to be a specific and not to assume the other side understands what we mean. We must always be prepared for the fact that the listener may be stupid.

I had a sudden image of a willow wearing a trench coat and dark sunglasses saying, "How do you do, fellow humans?" and I fought down the urge to giggle hysterically and then start screaming and never, ever stop.

When someone asked me what communism was, i opened my mouth to answer, then realized i didn’t have the faintest idea. My image of a communist came from a cartoon. It was a spy with a black trench coat and a black hat pulled down over his face, slinking around corners. In school, we were taught that communists worked in salt mines, that they weren’t free, that everybody wore the same clothes, and that no one owned anything.

In the end, no matter what obstacles a company faces in the Thank You Economy, the solution will always be the same. Competitors are bigger? Outcare them. They’re cheaper? Outcare them. They’ve got celebrity status and you don’t? Outcare them. Social media gives you the tools to touch your consumer and create an emotion where before there might not have been one. It doesn’t matter if you’re not small or cool or sexy—people can get pumped up about the craziest stuff. I mean, really, who could have predicted the guy in a trench coat pulverizing iPhones in a blender? (Seriously, if you haven’t seen it, check out willitblend.com. It’s fantastic!)

I could get a fedora and a trench coat and a wisecracking sense of humor; she could sit poised at hotel bars with a slinky red dress and a camera in her lipstick, to snare cheating businessmen…. I almost laughed out loud.

One of the biggest things I miss is the internet used to be an escape from meatspace. Now "internet" is so ingrained everywhere there is no longer that sense of escape. People don't say "g2g" or "ttyl" anymore because they never sign off.

No, Pasha,” whispered Alexander. “No.” He felt Pasha’s head. He closed Pasha’s eyes. For a few moments he stood over Pasha, and then he sank to the ground. Wrapping him tightly with the trench coat, Alexander took Pasha’s body into his arms and, cradling him from the cold, closed his own eyes. For the rest of the night Alexander sat on an empty road, his back against the tree, not moving, not opening his eyes, not speaking, holding Tatiana’s brother in his arms. If Ouspensky spoke to him, he did not hear. If he slept, he did not feel it, not the cold air, nor the hard ground, nor the rough bark of the tree against his back, against his head. When morning broke, and gray close light rose over Saxony, Alexander opened his eyes. Ouspensky was sleeping on his side, wrapped in his trench coat next to them. Pasha’s body was rigid, very cold. Alexander got up from under Pasha, washed his own face with whisky, rinsed out his mouth with whisky, and then got his titanium trench tool and started to carve a hole in the ground. Ouspensky woke up, helped him. It took them three hours of scraping at the earth, to make a hole a meter deep. Not deep enough, but it would have to do. Alexander covered Pasha’s face with the trench coat so the earth wouldn’t fall on it. With two small branches and a piece of string, Alexander made a cross and laid it on top of Pasha’s chest, and then they lifted him and lowered him into the hole, and Alexander, his teeth grit the entire time, filled the shallow grave with fresh dirt. On a wide thick branch, he carved out the name PASHA METANOV, and the date, Feb 25, 1945, and tying it to another longer branch made another cross and staked it into the ground. Alexander and Ouspensky

According to the Stanford encyclopedia of Philosophy, Socrates never wore shoes, could bench twice his weight, and was impervious to the effects of alcohol and cold. He did not care for fashion and his gait was that of one who truly did not give a shit.

When I first read The Rebel, this splendid line came leaping from the page like a dolphin from a wave. I memorized it instantly, and from then on Camus was my man. I wanted to write like that, in a prose that sang like poetry. I wanted to look like him. I wanted to wear a Bogart-style trench coat with the collar turned up, have an untipped Gauloise dangling from my lower lip, and die romantically in a car crash. At the time, the crash had only just happened. The wheels of the wrecked Facel Vega were practically still spinning, and at Sydney University I knew exiled French students, spiritually scarred by service in Indochina, who had met Camus in Paris: one of them claimed to have shared a girl with him. Later on, in London, I was able to arrange the trench coat and the Gauloise, although I decided to forgo the car crash until a more propitious moment. Much later, long after having realized that smoking French cigarettes was just an expensive way of inhaling nationalized industrial waste, I learned from Olivier Todd's excellent biography of Camus that the trench coat had been a gift from Arthur Koestler's wife and that the Bogart connection had been, as the academics say, no accident. Camus had wanted to look like Bogart, and Mrs. Koestler knew where to get the kit. Camus was a bit of an actor--he though, in fact, that he was a lot of an actor, although his histrionic talent was the weakest item of his theatrical equipment--and, being a bit of an actor, he was preoccupied by questions of authenticity, as truly authentic people seldom are. But under the posturing agonies about authenticity there was something better than authentic: there was something genuine. He was genuinely poetic. Being that, he could apply two tests simultaneously to his own language: the test of expressiveness, and the test of truth to life. To put it another way, he couldn't not apply them.

Dance critics all over the world have called my body moves, “Sculpturesque,” “As full of motion as a Rodin statue,” and “Like watching Helen Keller eat Jell-O with her elbows.” My dancing is so still and silent that it belongs on a shelf in a library, next to other great literature.

The church door creaked, and Cole stood to greet the ladies. The air left the church in a whoosh as Kyle entered. Kyle. She waited in the doorway, her white sundress and trench coat fluttering like flags in the breeze. She ran a hand through her hair, all soft and wild. She looked like a heavenly messenger.

Write me a story, Kitt,” she whispered, kissing his brow, the hollow of his cheek. His lips and his throat, until she felt like love was an axe that had cleaved her chest open. Her very heart was beating in the air. “Write me a story where you keep me up late every night with your typing, and I hide messages in your pockets for you to find while you’re at work. Write me a story where we first met on a street corner, and I spilled coffee on your expensive trench coat, or when we crossed paths at our favorite bookshop, and I recommended poetry, and you recommended myths. Or that time when the deli got our sandwich orders wrong, or when we ended up sitting next to each other at the ball game, or I dared to take the train west just to see how far I could go, and you just so happened to be there too.” She swallowed the ache in her throat, leaning back to meet his gaze. Gently, as if he were a dream, she touched his hair. She smoothed the dark tendrils from his brow. “Write me a story where there is no ending, Kitt. Write to me and fill my empty spaces.” Ronan held her gaze, desperation gleaming in his eyes. An expression flickered over his face, one she had never seen before. It looked like both pleasure and pain, like he was drowning in her and her words. They were iron and salt, a blade and a remedy, and he was taking a final gasp of air.

He wore a tiny trench coat, and a top hat was set between his eyes. He said it was his disguise, but it did little. It’d been his idea, and Linus hadn’t felt like arguing, especially when Chauncey had exclaimed quite loudly that he couldn’t go to the village nude, even though that was how he spent most of his time on the island. Linus had never thought about it that way. And now he couldn’t not. “You look fine,” Linus said. “Dashing, even.” “Like a spy hidden in the shadows about to reveal a big secret,” Sal told him. “Or like he’s going to open his coat and flash us,” Talia muttered. “Hey! I wouldn’t do that! Only if you asked!” Zoe was no longer trying to hide her laughter.

Time was, all you needed for good sleuthing was snappy banter, a wink and a nod with the ladies, comfortable shoes, an assortment of fake business cards, a high tolerance for whiskey, a few extra bucks you could slip a bent maitre d' and maybe a Burberry trench coat with a "gat" stuffed in the deep pocket of thread-bare Brooks Brothers wool slacks.

When slightly open, a door is ajar, but when slightly open, is a jar adoor?

What are words worth if you write like Wordsworth? Not as much as a man named Wordsandpicturesworth. That's so long, so I just call him Memesworth.

History is now being documented in the moment through memes, and they shape our memories. I make them as if to say, "I was here, and I mocked this time and place.

I once worked in a glass shop. We manufactured ceilings to keep women out of upper management.

If being forgetful is a sign of high intelligence, then people with Alzheimer's are like Isaac Whatshisname. You know, that one guy who did that one thing. Or was it two things?

The cat hair floated in the air like a sound vibration, and I plucked it like a guitar string. Sometimes I can be so musical I’m like a living love song.

The sign in the forest said, “Closed For Repairs.” I wrote it and nailed it on a tree myself. I’m a farmer of parking lots, and I grow them like 1980s mall culture.

If you die while tweeting you go to Twitter heaven where you write 72 bangers a day on heaven Twitter.

Ah, the days when your desktop had less than half the memory on your current phone.

Contra prepared me for Metal Slug. Thanks Konami.

Back in the early 2000s you were called a freak, loser, virgin, nerd or weirdo by women for using the internet. Now look at them.

Do you remember how people talked about the internet 15 years ago? It was this weird place full of scammers and fucked up shit, now its totally casualized.

There are moments in life that fracture through an existence hard enough to not allow itself to be compartmentalized, rising above "I had fun once, and it was awful".

I lost a keyboard from the racing mission in Mafia.

I'm sure I wasn't the only one who had like 15 Juno emails just to keep the free dial-up.

I'd commit war crimes for horchata, you don't wanna know what I'd do to never return to the office.

People speak of therapy as if it is some failsafe ordeal with a 100% success rate when it clearly isn't. Its a really strange, childish and reductive way to see the world

Join my gang, the better whites. It's an open ethnocrypto network, basically we're latinos & mediterraneans and don't trust cash

Join my gang, the better whites. It's an open ethnocrypto network, basically we're latinos & mediterraneans and don't trust cash.

Fat is a description. We decide for ourselves, and others, if its an insult or not.

Impressed how some women can use victims of rape and incest to support their decision to have unprotected sex with strangers. They never seem worried about STDs either.

If you start Forrest Gump at exactly 10:38:57 PM on New Years Eve, you can ring in the new year with Lieutenant Dan.

Everyone goes through enough shit that we all look like turds in the end.

Future brain chips will be bootlegged to include the "heroin" option.

Be kind (of an asshole). The funny thing about assholes is they always end up covered in shit.

Here's five energy drinks, go clean the universe.

1976. Remember when Stretch Armstrong was the pinnacle of human achievement?

Everyone is flammable at least once.

Toilet paper is like an unreliable bridge, you are gonna have to walk across mud valley from time to time.

If I left you I'd leave a letter full of lyrics But you wouldn't know me well enough To get it.

Do you enjoy being out in nature? By 2030, when you're living in your 20 by 30 cement stacked box in the city, you'll probably be able to rent walks in the park for ONLY $19.95 per month.

In 2005 software actually had designs. Now everything is flat, colorless, without icons, without borders, gradients, just horrible. Mobile ruined everything, everything is just practical now.

Google hit such a degree of control in their operation of YouTube that they can tweak the algorithms just right to recommend very peculiar kinds of videos to suit economic and social changes.

I often can't remember where I'm at. I'm like that all the time. Not so much forgetful, but more futureful. For me, today is always tomorrow. To all the people who live in the moment I say: Stop living in the past.

I look at Max beside me, swimming in his anarchy trench coat. I stare at his face. The knives and the wolf have fallen away like so much costume makeup. His features no longer shift, no longer recall transcendent moments or former lovers. His face is simply my face. Undisguised at last. Familiar as mud. Punched in with grief. Rage. Suddenly, I want to kill him. This thing I made out of hate and love and air and one fucking animal.

I don't know how to play these guitar strings But I know how to play these heart stings, Play until my fingers bleed Doctors tell me the incision should only sting But even with only a memory I feel compelled to scream

I remember Uncle Boysie telling me that Canada was so safe the policemen wore nice red outfits and rode on horses but according to Roy the country was like Gotham City with crooks around every corner… I pictured them as shady Frank Miller characters with bulging muscles and machine guns poking out from trench coats but the photograph from the papers was of a group of boys my age. They kind of resembled some of my friends from Mayaro too.

Watches and clocks are round, like the product Brick Oven serves with five-star flavor, because it's always pizza time. But I'm always split over what to order, because I make their wings disappear like I'm Amelia Earhart.

If you feel comfortable enough to spill your guts to a stranger you pay per hour to do that with, then you'll be receptive to the idea of taking pharmaceutical dry ice with side effects that range from egregious to deadly.

Because when you’re a 23-year old party girl who has to pee you don’t really think about the possibility that your nerdy bouncer friend might suddenly start acting like a trench-coated pedophile who flashes kids at the park.

So if you'll excuse me I'm going to yell at phantom children to stay off my non-existent lawn. I will tell them how arcade games were the original multiplayer if they make nice and choose not to get help from the bottle kids.

El Lindo tastes like the line from that famous murder mystery movie “Rambo,” when Nicolas Cage rips off his tuxedo and says, “I may be a lot of things, but I ain’t a man to call Taco Bell Mexican cuisine." I love a good romance.

Harrison Salisbury When Amor Towles was ten years old, he threw a bottle containing a short note he had written into the Atlantic Ocean. A few weeks later he received a letter from the man who found it: Harrison Salisbury, the managing editor of The New York Times. From this childhood incident, a correspondence developed between Salisbury and Towles and they eventually met. In his earlier career, Harrison Salisbury was the real-life chief correspondent for The New York Times in Moscow. The author of an important history of the Russian Revolution, Black Nights, White Snow, his memoirs were the source of some of the detail Towles uses in A Gentleman in Moscow. Salisbury’s cameo appearance in the novel, along with the mention of his fedora and trench coat (stolen by the Count as a disguise) pay tribute to Salisbury’s literary legacy on early twentieth century Russia as well as the author’s serendipitous connection with him.

Women who see a therapist who is also a woman is destined to be unhappy and will have endless jargon that can easily be warped and restructured to keep them walking circles in the desert thinking they've crossed the horizon every session.

The brain is in the body, and memories are in the brain. Are my memories therefore not physical extensions of me, and able to be frozen for all of eternity, so that someone in the future can dethaw them and laugh at all the jokes I once enjoyed?

I am concerned for Ana, though,” I hasten to add, tearing my eyes away. “She’s already a bunch of stressors stacked in a trench coat. There are only that many kidnapping and murder attempts a child can endure before developing serious issues and self-destructive behaviors. We wouldn’t want her to grow up and, say, go to grad school.” “Don’t worry,” Misery reassures me, “every day I drill into her that we’ll be disappointed in anything but a DJing career.” “You’re such a good role model.

Frisland is a country that's so powerful it had itself removed off all world maps, so it could stealthily gain influence. It has an ancient ruler named King Anthony, better known as Susan B. Anthony. Susan really do be Anthony. King Anthony began to reign over Frisland just as soon as Susan B. Anthony "died." At first, King Anthony was kept alive through crude cloning techniques, but over the last century, technology has advanced so far that now King Anthony exists as a spirit embedded in a hologram.

Everyone loves the smell of gasoline, but do you think it would make a good scent in a soap? Gasoline-scented soap is a great idea that’s a terrible idea. Plus, if I made soap that smelled like petroleum, The US Military would invade my shower and kill me.

One day, Dorothy Scarritt McKibbin, a forty-five-year-old Smith College graduate, was standing in the lobby of La Fonda, waiting to be interviewed for a job she had been told nothing about. “I saw a man walking on the balls of his feet and garbed in a trench coat and porkpie hat,” McKibbin said. Oppenheimer introduced himself as “Mr. Bradley” and asked about her background. Widowed twelve years earlier, McKibbin had first moved to New Mexico to cure a mild case of tuberculosis and, like Oppenheimer, had fallen

Fishing tip #11: To make your fish look fresher, stick those plastic googly eyes on them—even if your fish are still alive and swimming. Fish are natural clowns, they will find your sense of humor endearing, and they will appreciate you more when you eat them.

For me, publishing books in hardback format is a protest against The World Economic Forum's decree that we will own nothing and be happy about it. In an economy that's subscription based, where we stream or rent everything as a service, this is my tiny, tangible fuck you.

The internet has more or less been in its present form, technology just had to catch up. Trolls, death threats, porn, riveting discussion, free multimedia, art, fandoms, hacking, crimes against humanity and lonely people at your fingertips even on AOL, Compuserve or Prodigy.

Somewhere a girl is working as a waitress in a new city, clean break and sees a guy who got stood up on a blind date. She never tells him why the clean break, why the move, they date and then the wedding is called off years later. This happens once a week somewhere in America.

It used to be you'd search for something and find tons of good results. Now you type "hamburger" anywhere on your phone or computer and now advertising cartels serve you up some ads for hamburgers for the next week. Hell just say it aloud near your phone, it'll just take longer.

There were actual online communities, and the lack of free options prevented people from forming their own personal hugboxes and fiefdoms. There was no discord or free voice servers for the most part. Someone in your crew had to pay for TeamSpeak or Ventrilo server. This meant people had to cooperate and get along.

As we were heading down Mass Ave toward campus, a man stepped out of a doorway. “I’m selling books,” he said. Instinctively I averted my eyes, picked up my pace, and changed course slightly to give him a wider berth—just as Ivan did the opposite, slowing down right in front of the man, looking right at him, right into his eyes. “Books, really?” I was overcome by the sudden sense of Ivan’s freedom. I realized for the first time that if you were a guy, if you were some tall guy who looked like Ivan, you could pretty much stop to look at anything you wanted, whenever you felt like it. And because I was walking with him now, for just this moment, I had a special dispensation, I could look at whatever he was looking at, too. So I, too, looked at the man—at the lines etched into his face, at his crafty and reproachful expression, at his cloudy eye and his piercing eye, overhung by a wilderness of eyebrows. The man opened one flap of his trench coat. Strapped to the inside, contraband-style, was an array of paperbacks: The Fountainhead, Dr. Atkins’ Diet Revolution, an introduction to the philosophy of Heidegger, The Communist Manifesto, a Dear Abby anthology, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, and a Spanish-English dictionary. The man looked awkwardly down over the titles, apparently deciding which one to offer Ivan.

After two weeks came the first letter from Alexander. Tatiasha, Can there be anything harder than this? Missing you is a physical aching that grips me early in the morning and does not leave me, not even as I draw my last waking breath. My solace in these waning empty summer days is the knowledge that you’re safe, and alive, and healthy, and that the worst that you have to go through is serfdom for four well-meaning old women. The wood piles I’ve left are the lightest in the front. The heaviest ones are for the winter. Use them last, and if you need help carrying them, God help me, ask Vova. Don’t hurt yourself. And don’t fill the water pails all the way to the top. They’re too heavy. Getting back was rough, and as soon as I came back, I was sent right out to the Neva, where for six days we planned our attack and then made a move in boats across the river and were completely crushed in two hours. We didn’t stand a chance. The Germans bombed the boats with the Vanyushas, their version of my rocket launcher, the boats all sank. We were left with a thousand fewer men and were no closer to crossing the river. We’re now looking at other places we can cross. I’m fine, except for the fact that it’s rained here for ten days straight and I’ve been hip deep in mud for all that time. There is nowhere to sleep, except in the mud. We put our trench coats down and hope it stops raining soon. All black and wet, I almost felt sorry for myself until I thought of you during the blockade. I’ve decided to do that from now on. Every time I think I have it so tough, I’m going to think of you burying your sister in Lake Ladoga. I wish you had been given a lighter cross than Leningrad to carry through your life. Things are going to be relatively quiet here for the next few weeks, until we regroup. Yesterday a bomb fell in the commandant’s bunker. The commandant wasn’t there at the time. Yet the anxiety doesn’t go away. When is it going to come again? I play cards and soccer. And I smoke. And I think of you. I sent you money. Go to Molotov at the end of August. Don’t forget to eat well, my warm bun, my midnight sun, and kiss your hand for me, right in the palm and then press it against your heart. Alexander Tatiana read Alexander’s letter a hundred times, memorizing every word. She slept with her face on the letter, which renewed her strength.

Socratese was a famous IRL troll of pre-internets Greece credited with inventing the 1st recorded trolling technique and otherwise laying the foundation of western philosophy. Accounts of his successful trolls are in the form of TL;DR copypasta on Plato's livejournal. They have been causing all manner of butthurt and ass disaster for thousands of years in philosophy 101 classes around the world

The global mind control grid doesn't want you thinking about the global mind control grid; it doesn't want you telling anyone about it either. The global mind control grid doesn't want you thinking about the global mind control grid; it doesn't want you telling anyone about it either. The global mind control grid doesn't want you thinking about the global mind control grid it doesn't want you telling anyone about it either.

Like God, you hover above the page staring down on a small town. Outside a window some scenery loafs in a sleepy hammock of pastoral prose and here is a mongrel loping and here is a train approaching the station in three long sentences and here are the people in galoshes waiting. But you know this story about the galoshes is really About Your Life, so, like a diver climbing over the side of a boat and down into the ocean, you climb, sentence by sentence, into this story on this page. You have been expecting yourself as a woman who purrs by in a dress by Patou, and a porter manacled to the luggage, and a man stalking across the page like a black cloud in a bad mood. These are your fellow travelers and you are a face behind or inside these faces, a heartbeat in the volley of these heartbeats, as you choose, out of all the journeys, the journey of a man with a mustache scented faintly with Prince Albert. "He must be a secret sensualist," you think and your awareness drifts to his trench coat, worn, softened, and flabby, a coat with a lobotomy, just as the train pulls into the station. No, you would prefer another stop in a later chapter where the climate is affable and sleek. But the passengers are disembarking, and you did not choose to be in the story of the woman in the white dress which is as cool and evil as a glass of radioactive milk. You did not choose to be in the story of the matron whose bosom is like the prow of a ship and who is launched toward lunch at the Hotel Pierre, or even the story of the dog-on-a-leash, even though this is now your story: the story of the person-who-had-to-take-the-train-and-walk- the-dark-road described hurriedly by someone sitting at the tavern so you could discover it, although you knew all along the road would be there, you, who have been hovering above this page, holding the book in your hands, like God, reading.

It was astonishing how loudly one laughed at tales of gruesome things, of war’s brutality-I with the rest of them. I think at the bottom of it was a sense of the ironical contrast between the normal ways of civilian life and this hark-back to the caveman code. It made all our old philosophy of life monstrously ridiculous. It played the “hat trick” with the gentility of modern manners. Men who had been brought up to Christian virtues, who had prattled their little prayers at mothers’ knees, who had grown up to a love of poetry, painting, music, the gentle arts, over-sensitized to the subtleties of half-tones, delicate scales of emotion, fastidious in their choice of words, in their sense of beauty, found themselves compelled to live and act like ape-men; and it was abominably funny. They laughed at the most frightful episodes, which revealed this contrast between civilized ethics and the old beast law. The more revolting it was the more, sometimes, they shouted with laughter, especially in reminiscence, when the tale was told in the gilded salon of a French chateau, or at a mess-table. It was, I think, the laughter of mortals at the trick which had been played on them by an ironical fate. They had been taught to believe that the whole object of life was to reach out to beauty and love, and that mankind, in its progress to perfection, had killed the beast instinct, cruelty, blood-lust, the primitive, savage law of survival by tooth and claw and club and ax. All poetry, all art, all religion had preached this gospel and this promise. Now that ideal had broken like a china vase dashed to hard ground. The contrast between That and This was devastating. It was, in an enormous world-shaking way, like a highly dignified man in a silk hat, morning coat, creased trousers, spats, and patent boots suddenly slipping on a piece of orange-peel and sitting, all of a heap, with silk hat flying, in a filthy gutter. The war-time humor of the soul roared with mirth at the sight of all that dignity and elegance despoiled. So we laughed merrily, I remember, when a military chaplain (Eton, Christ Church, and Christian service) described how an English sergeant stood round the traverse of a German trench, in a night raid, and as the Germans came his way, thinking to escape, he cleft one skull after another with a steel-studded bludgeon a weapon which he had made with loving craftsmanship on the model of Blunderbore’s club in the pictures of a fairy-tale. So we laughed at the adventures of a young barrister (a brilliant fellow in the Oxford “Union”) whose pleasure it was to creep out o’ nights into No Man’s Land and lie doggo in a shell-hole close to the enemy’s barbed wire, until presently, after an hour’s waiting or two, a German soldier would crawl out to fetch in a corpse. The English barrister lay with his rifle ready. Where there had been one corpse there were two. Each night he made a notch on his rifle three notches one night to check the number of his victims. Then he came back to breakfast in his dugout with a hearty appetite.

Playing the maze game on Microsoft Encarta, downloading Simpsons episodes on IRC, geocities and angelfire websites so shitty it was beyond hilarious, violent stick figure animations made with Macromedia Flash on StickDeath, StickSuicide and SFDT, no moderation on forums, what was a place for elitists and sophisticated outcasts primarily from western countries became streamlined starting with kids getting cellphones around 2000 and texting each other on a keypad that wasn't made for it. By 2003 or 4 hardly any kids went outside during summer.

A man in disheveled clothing approaches you with a knife and tells you to give him your belongings. Imagine... You take a deep breath and blow your community assistance horn, and the local de-escalation enthusiast arrives on his unicycle. He drapes him with the comfort blanket and gives him a hug, whispering in his ear that things will be okay. You are stabbed 37 times and he uses the Subway gift card that was in your purse to buy himself a sweet onion chicken teriyaki sandwich from the $3.99 Sub of the Day menu Isn't this public safety?

If a guy has a thing for black women - jungle fever. If a guy has a thing for asian women - yellow fever. If a guy has a thing for indian women - curry craving. Is there a term for having a thing for white women? What about latina woman? For white women: Calcium deficiency? White delight? Snowburn? Mayo madness? Reverse-colonialism? Racism? The other white meat? Empanada ecstacy? Guacamole grip? Tostones temptation? Arepa amor? Cafe con leche? A taste for churros? Sofrito satisfaction? Cortez' revenge? Catholocism? Arroz con pussy? Chile con culo?

We are approaching a soft data catastrophe. Entire lives, from tastes in music and clothes to deepest personal convictions - all produced by networks of feedback between datamining and content recommendation algorithms. The 'catastrophe' is when these algorithms unconsciously (or maybe, consciously?) lead people down presupposed paths for modern and emerging markets. Algorithms could right now be helping make people convert to a religion, drug addicts, vegan, LGBTQ, ethnonarcissists, fat, cult members, suicidal, narcissists, atheist, poly, mass shooters...

This is the girl in the borrowed trench-coat, moving across the bridge with the river Seine underneath. She pulls something from the jacket's pocket and hits the button, not answering when the man without his coat catches up with her at that moment, calling her name. Pull back fifty metres, and here is the burning apartment, debris floating softly through the air that is filled with screams. Here is the man again, gripping the shoulders of the girl with his coat and yelling into her ears, 'What have you done?' And here is that playful smile that creeps upon her lips as she disappears, the air rushing to fill the space where she had just been.

prospective buyer who knocked on their door in January and found her in a chenille robe, a World War II trench coat, a pair of rubber garden boots, a man’s felt hat, and what appeared to be Uncle Billy’s flannel pajama bottoms. As far as the frozen caller could tell, there was no heat in the house. Being a caring soul, he inquired around and was told that the Presbyterian church had filled up Miss Rose’s oil tank in November, and, on last inspection, it was still full. Most people knew, too, that the old couple walked to Winnie Ivey’s bake shop every afternoon, always hand in hand, to pick up what was left over. Winnie, however, was not one to give away the store. She carefully portioned out what she thought they would eat that night and the next morning, and no more. She didn’t like the idea of Miss Rose feeding her perfectly good day-old Danish to the birds. After their visit to the bake shop, Miss Rose and Uncle Billy, walking very slowly due to arthritis and a half dozen other ailments, dropped by to see what Velma had left at the Main Street Grill. Usually, it was a few slices of bacon and liver mush from breakfast, or a container of soup and a couple of hamburger rolls from lunch. Occasionally, she might add a little chicken salad that Percy had made, himself, that very morning. On balance, it was said, Miss Rose and Uncle Billy fared

Those who have not gone through a similar experience can hardly conceive of the soul- destroying mental conflict and clashes of will power which a famished man experiences. They can hardly grasp what it means to stand digging in a trench, listening only for the siren to announce 9: 30 or 10: 00 A.M.— the half- hour lunch interval— when bread would be rationed out (as long as it was still available); repeatedly asking the foreman— if he wasn’t a disagreeable fellow— what the time was; and tenderly touching a piece of bread in one’s coat pocket, first stroking it with frozen gloveless fingers, then breaking off a crumb and putting it in one’s mouth and finally, with the last bit of will power, pocketing it again, having promised oneself that morning to hold out till afternoon.

Multi-generational sexual child abuse is such a common cause of the proliferation of pedophilia that Hitler/Himmler research focused on this genetic trait for mind control purposes. While I personally could not relate to the idea of sex with a child, I had parents and brothers and sisters who did. I still believe that George Bush revealed today’s causation of the rapid rise in pedophilia through justifications I heard him state. The rape of a child renders them compliant and receptive to being led without question. This, Bush claims, would cause them to intellectually evolve at a rate rapid enough to “bring them up to speed” to grasp the artificial intelligence emanating from DARPA. He believed that this generation conditioned with photographic memory through abuse was necessary for a future he foresaw controlled by technology. Since sexual abuse enhanced photographic memory while decreasing critical analysis and free thought, there would ultimately be no free will soul expression controlling behavior. In which case, social engineering was underway to create apathy while stifling spiritual evolution. Nevertheless, to short sighted flat thinking individuals such as Bush, spiritual evolution was not a consideration anyway. Instead, controlling behavior in a population diminished by global genocide of ‘undesirables’ would result in Hitler’s ‘superior race’ surviving to claim the earth. Perceptual justifications such as these that were discussed at the Bohemian Grove certainly did not provide me with the complete big picture. It did, however, provide a view beyond the stereotyped child molester in a trench coat that helped in understanding the vast crimes and cover-ups being discussed at this seminar in Houston.

We had something real,” Nobley said, starting to sound a little desperate. “You must have felt it, seeping through the costumes and pretenses.” The brunette nodded. “Seeping through the pretenses? Listen to him, he’s still acting.” Martin turned to the brunette in search of an ally. “Do I detect any jealousy there, my flagpole-like friend?” Nobley said. “Still upset that you weren’t cast as a gentleman? You do make a very good gardener.” Martin took a swing. Nobley ducked and rammed into his body, pushing them both to the ground. The brunette squealed and bounced on the balls of her feet. “Stop it!” Jane pulled at Nobley, then slipped. He put out an arm and caught her midfall across her middle. “Here, let me…” Nobley tried to give her a hand up and push Martin away at the same time. “Get off me,” Martin said. “I’ll help her.” He kicked Nobley in the rear, followed by some swatting of hands. Jane planted her feet, grabbed Nobley’s arm, and pulled him off. Martin was still swiping at Nobley from the ground. Nobley’s cap fell off, then his trench coat twisted up around Martin, who batted at it crazily. “Cut it out!” Jane said, pushing Nobley back and putting herself between them. She felt more like a teacher stopping a schoolboy scuffle than an ingénue with two brawling beaus. “M-m-martin’s gay!” Nobley said. “I am not! You’re thinking of Edgar.” “Who the hell is Edgar?” “You know, that other gardener who always smells of fish.” “Oh, right.” Jane raised her hands in exasperation. “Would you two…” A stuffed-up voice over the PA announced preboarding for Jane’s flight. The brunette made an audible moan of disappointment. Martin struggled to his feet with a hand up from Nobley, and they both stood before Jane, silent, pathetic as wet dogs who want to be let back in the house. She felt very sure of herself just then, tall and sleek and confident. “Well, they’re playing my song, boys,” she said melodically.

Jock discovered certain features about real-life detectives to be true. They almost never wore trench coats and hats when on a case. They didn’t carry secret gadgets like Marco Lex, only their cell phones. And they didn’t look like detectives, just ordinary people!

I lived in fear that addiction was like a man in a dark trench coat, stalking me, waiting for me to get off the well-lit sidewalk and step into an alley. I had seen the alley. I had watched Nana walk into the alley and I had watched my mother go in after him, and I was so angry at them for not being strong enough to stay in the light.

Every morning, when I wade through Mum’s sea of green bottles, I think of you. Every morning, when I slip into the trench coat you left behind for me, I wonder if you thought of me for even a moment. If you imagined what your departure would do to me.

I also don’t want to get mowed down by some freaky high school kid in a trench coat who’s high on Zoloft and has traded in his Xbox for a semiautomatic.

Components of Elegant Attire 4.1.1 Simple lines and tailored design Clean lines and well-tailored silhouettes define classy clothing. Perfectly fitting clothing should highlight your body's natural proportions and give off an image of effortlessness. 4.1.2 A subdued color scheme A sophisticated wardrobe is built on neutral hues like black, white, navy, beige, and gray. These hues offer a flexible foundation on which you can create your chic combinations. 4.1.3 Classic Works Invest in classic pieces that will last a lifetime. The essentials of stylish clothing are a timeless trench coat, a tailored blazer, a little black dress, and well-fitted trousers. 3.1.4 Less is more and minimalism Decide on quality above quantity to embrace simplicity. Choose carefully chosen pieces for your capsule wardrobe that you can mix and match with ease.

smile as I look down at myself, I’m wearing pale blue thigh-high boots, a tight leather minidress in exactly the same color and a matching trench coat. “Pretty nice, huh?” Anna circles me. “Incredible, Chanel?

One of the defining features of Beaumont Wear Outwear 2024 is its fearless approach to design. Bold colors, striking patterns, and unexpected details abound, creating a sense of excitement and dynamism. Whether it’s a vibrant trench coat or a daring bomber jacket, each piece makes a statement and demands attention, allowing wearers to express their unique sense of style with confidence.

What is it about a uniform? What magic spell do they cast? The service dress hat, the trench coat, the tunic with its brass buttons.

A customer once asked me if I was really an employee of the store of if I was just three possums in a trench coat. I was so confused by the remark, the customer had to explain it to me. She said that possums are notoriously skittish. I said But what about the trench coat, though? I'm not wearing a trench coat.

A customer once asked me if I was really an employee of the store of if I was just three possums in a trench coat. I was so confused by the remark, the customer had to explain it to me. She said that possums are notoriously skittish. I said But what about the trench coat, though? I'm not wearing a trench coat.

And there she was. In jeans and a trench coat, her hair was pulled up in its signature messy bun. “Thought you could use a lawyer on the ground,” she said, smiling. “Or a friend.” The tears Alicia had been holding at bay all day didn’t stand a chance.

They were going to have a hell of a time trying to pull her out of that tunnel after Buster sandwiched her in there tighter than the belt on Lou Costello. The door of the pub opened, and a man in a long brown trench coat sat down beside Duke.

...I'm a chaotic mess... seven drunk ferrets in a trench coat

would be fighting in the trenches, it was called a trench coat.

Will you lock the door behind me?” he asked. Iris nodded, hugging the trench coat to her chest. Roman finally shut the door. She continued to stand in the empty flat. As if she had grown roots. The minutes flowed, but she hardly sensed time. Everything felt distorted, like she was looking at her life through fractured glass. Dust motes spun in the air around her. A deep breath unspooled from her as she went to lock the door, and then she thought better of it, and looked through the peephole again. He was still standing there, hands shoved into his coat pockets, his dark hair windblown. Waiting. Her annoyance flared until she bolted the door. As soon as he heard the locks slide, Roman Kitt turned and left.

You're a Californian adult and you don't own a car? He raised an eyebrow. No, I'm a bunch of Muppets in a trench coat. I don't know how it took you so long to figure that out.

wonder when the other shoe was going to drop. When was that brilliant, gorgeous, perfect man going to wake up and realize that Derek was nothing more than a couple of mental health disorders and trauma in a trench coat?

You're a Californian adult and you don't own a car? He raised an eyebrow. No I'm a bunch of Muppets in a trench coat. I don't know how it took you so long to figure that out.

unbuttoning a cream trench coat of martial cut embellished with epaulettes, buckles, a belt of highly polished leather and pockets so wide and deep they could well have contained reinforcements from the US cavalry.

The tools of control are diverse—drones and observation towers surveil from above; earth mounds and trenches block the roads below. Gates enclose. Checkpoints inspect. Nothing is predictable. A road that was free yesterday is now suddenly impeded by a “flying checkpoint,” a mobile gate and a squad of soldiers requesting permits and papers. But the randomness is intentional. The point is to make Palestinians feel the hand of occupation constantly—

It’s Michael’s 1937 D-type buffalo nickel. The one I found under the tree where the man in the gray trench coat stood staring at me. The one I then found on the dashboard of my car outside Aidan’s. The one I left tucked safely inside a drawer. I lose my breath. My heart starts to pound. A savage gust of wind rattles the kitchen windows. Then through the ceiling drops a small metal object that lands with a clatter on the table beside the coin. It spins for a moment before settling into stillness, light glinting off its rounded edge. It’s my wedding ring.

He wore a dark trench coat and thick tanker books with chrome spikes on the toes. His

One hand was on his hip, the other holding the knotted belt of his trench coat. My mouth dropped open, because what the fuck was he wearing? But before I could say a word, he said in a low voice, “You ordered my services?” I

I wasn’t usually this slow, but Zane showing up on my doorstep in a trench coat role-playing as a rent boy was a new experience. Even all covered up, he screamed sex. It was impossible to miss that my towel was already tenting. I shook myself out of my stupor and leaned on the door frame, sliding into the role he’d cast me in. “You don’t have to worry about what I do. I can afford you.” “I

And, just as I was about to make a quip about his coat, he tugged at his bun, making his hair fall around his shoulders. Next, he unbelted his trench coat, and it fell to the floor. Zane propped his hands on his bare hips and stood in front of me in nothing but his boots. His hard cock pointed at me like a dare. He’d

He’d showed up at my apartment buck naked under a trench coat, and it was the single most romantic thing anyone had ever done for me. “So

I guess you could say I’ve got a monkey on my back. A monkey named Darwin.” He shrugged off the trench coat and there she was, clinging tightly to his shoulders. The hunch on his back wasn’t a hunch at all, but as fine a specimen of a female chimpanzee as I’m ever likely to see.

Did she honestly believe I could drive knowing that she was wearing underwear under her trench coat? Did she not know that this was like every guy’s fantasy from the age that guys could have fantasies?

Sitting on a bench across the street, a man wearing a brown hat and a tan trench coat held a pen and notepad in hands.

I stood on the ground, pulling the borrowed trench coat around me. I stood on Holly’s cloak, which he had thrown on the ground to keep my bare feet from the rough ground and the cold. “The cloak gets in the way of my ax,” he’d said, as if he were afraid that I might think he was being gentlemanly. Then he moved forward to be with his brother and the other warriors. Only

Another exciting but scary adventure happened in Salzburg, Austria, where we were staying at a youth hostel named Stadtalm Naturfreundehaus. It was at the top of a mountain that surrounded the city and had the most beautiful view. It had bunk beds in the rooms and only had one bathroom that everyone shared. You had to put coins in the shower for the water to come out. It only gave you like two minutes of water. I remember calling down the hill to Willie to bring more coins. Two minutes wasn’t quite long enough. The way you got to the hostel was on an elevator through the middle of the mountain. One night, we got back to the elevator about eleven-thirty P.M., after exploring the city, only to find that the elevator closed at eleven P.M. We had no idea what to do. We certainly didn’t have enough money to get another hotel room for the night, so we went back into the town and asked around to see if there was a staircase that would get you there eventually, but it was a long walk up the mountain. We didn’t have any other choice. We walked what seemed like forever. At one point, we passed a guy in a trench coat, just sitting by himself on a bench on the trail. We were totally freaked out. Well, I was, at least. We finally got to the top about two A.M. We ended up sitting outside under the stars and talking once we got there, and we thanked God for keeping us safe. It ended up being really fun and romantic, but I was scared to death walking in a foreign city up a creepy trail in the middle of the night.

Mackay had just failed to tip the coat-check girl and was now blinking and working his arms into a too-small trench coat; he looked like a seagull trying to lift up out of an oil spill.

To this day, references are made to the Trench Coat Mafia; I even heard the term used on the HBO show Six Feet Under not too long ago.

There was Customer Service, a chirpy brunette with a permanent smile behind the desk. And there was someone waiting there, someone dressed in jeans and a sweater, devilishly normal in the twenty-first-century crowd. He saw her, and he straightened, his eyes hopeful. Apparently, Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s barrister hadn’t been in his office to assure her that being a magazine writer doesn’t nullify a confidentially agreement. “Jane.” “Martin. You whistled?” She laid the rancor on thick. No need to tap dance around. “Jane, I’m sorry. I was going to tell you today. Or tonight. The point is, I was going to tell you, and then we could still see if you and I--” “You’re an actor,” Jane said as though “actor” and “bastard” were synonymous. “Yes, but, but…” He looked around as though for cue cards. “But you’re desperately in love with me,” she prompted him. “I’m unbelievably beautiful, and I make you feel like yourself. Oh, and I remind you of your sister.” The chirpy brunette behind the counter furiously refused to look up from her monitor. “Jane, please.” “And the suddenly passionate feelings that sent you running after me at the airport have nothing to do with Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s fear that I’ll write a negative review of Pembrook Park.” “No! Listen, I know I was a cad, and I lied and was misleading, and I’ve never actually been an NBA fan--go United--but romances have bloomed on stonier ground.” “Romances…stonier ground…Did Mrs. Wattlesbrook write that line?” Martin exhaled in exasperation. Thinking of Molly’s dead end on the background check, she asked, “Your name’s not really Martin Jasper, is it?” “Well,” he looked at the brunette as though for help. “Well, it is Martin.” The brunette smiled encouragement. Then, impossibly, another figure ran toward her. The sideburns and stiff-collared jacket looked ridiculous out of the context of Pembrook Park, though he’d stuck on a baseball cap and trench coat, trying to blend. His face was flushed from running, and when he saw Jane, he sighed with relief. Jane dropped her jaw. Literally. She had never, even in her most ridiculous daydreaming, imagined that Mr. Nobley would come after her.

Then, impossibly, another figure ran toward her. The sideburns and stiff-collared jacket looked ridiculous out of the context of Pembrook Park, though he’d stuck on a baseball cap and trench coat, trying to blend. His face was flushed from running, and when he saw Jane, he sighed with relief. Jane dropped her jaw. Literally. She had never, even in her most ridiculous daydreaming, imagined that Mr. Nobley would come after her. She took a step back, hit something slick with her boot heel, and tottered almost to the ground. Mr. Nobley caught her and set her back up on her feet. Is this why women wear heels? thought Jane. We hobble ourselves so we can still be rescued by men? She annoyed herself by having enjoyed it. Briefly. “You haven’t left yet,” Nobley said. He seemed reluctant to let go of her, but he did and took a few steps back. “I’ve been panicked that…” He saw Martin. “What are you doing here?” The brunette was watching with hungry intensity, though she kept tapping at a keyboard as though actually very busy at work. “Jane and I got close these past weeks and--” Martin began. “Got close. That’s a load of duff. It’s one thing when you’re toying with the dowagers who guess what you are, but Jane should be off limits.” He took her arm. “You can’t believe a word he says. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you earlier, but you must know now that he’s an actor.” “I know,” Jane said. Nobley blinked. “Oh.” “So, what are you doing here?” She couldn’t help it if her tone sounded a little tired. This was becoming farcical. “I came to tell you that I--” he rushed to speak, then composed himself, looked around, and stepped closer to her so he did not need to raise his voice to be heard. The brunette leaned forward just a tad. “I apologize for having to tell you here, in this busy, dirty…this is not the scene I would set, but you must know that I…” He took off his cap and rubbed his hair ragged. “I’ve been working at Pembrook Park for nearly four years. All the women I see, week after week, they’re the same. Nearly from the first, that morning when we were alone in the park, I guessed that you might be different. You were sincere.” He reached for her hand. He seemed to gain confidence, his lips started to smile, and he looked at her as though he never wished to look away.

But mostly Stacey likes the guys with long hair and trench coats. They’ve got the weed, after all. I

Whether in a white dinner jacket or in a trench coat and a snap-brim fedora, he became a new and timely symbol of the post-Pearl Harbor American: tough but compassionate, skeptical yet idealistic, betrayed yet ready to believe again, and above all, a potentially deadly opponent.

Whether in a white dinner jacket or in a trench coat and a snap-brim fedora, he became a new and timely symbol of the post-Pearl Harbor American: tough but compassionate, skeptical yet idealistic, betrayed yet ready to believe again, and above all, a potentially deadly opponent.

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The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.” Joseph Conrad   PROLOGUE     Washington, D.C. – 1945   It was one a.m. and the small pub was closing. The D.C. night was quiet and had died down, and he was spent. A long week of college classes and a part-time job in a small diner had left him purely exhausted. He slipped out of Joe’s Tavern and looked both ways down the foggy street before making his way along the sidewalk. Dim orange streetlights barely lit his way, every other one seemed to flicker, as if about to go out. The snapping of his shoes on the concrete was the only sound to keep him company. The quiet February night was cold and blustery, and the whiskey he’d consumed in the tavern was the only thing keeping him warm. He walked quickly past businesses, such as butcher shops and beauty shops. They were closed up tight for the night, and the weekend for that matter, and lay silent and dark as he passed. His breath turned to mist in the air as he hurried along. He pulled the collar of his beige trench coat up tighter around his throat as he walked with his head down. He only had five blocks to make it to his modest downtown apartment. His father was a high-ranking government official in the FBI and was paid very well for his talents. As a World War I vet, his father had seen his share of horrors and dumped every last ounce of his energy into his job at the FBI, fighting crime. He was well respected and valued amongst his civil service peers, supervisors, and subordinates. He thought about his father and how much he, too, respected him. It was hard to grow up

Hercules came through the roof like a cannonball, his lion-skin trench coat wrapped around him. When I say cannonball, I mean both the metal ball and the type people do off a diving board. It was especially impressive when you realize we were in a five story building. Hermes

By the time I returned to Albany that fall, I was committed to turning things around. I marched into the career-planning office and began researching the firms at which I might still have a shot. Most did their main recruiting from the second-year, not the third-year, class, so I was late to the party, and I knew it. One firm, however, did stand out: Bickel & Brewer. They were based in Dallas, with smaller satellite offices in Washington, DC, New York, and Chicago. They liked to hire third-year law students, and at New York salaries. William Brewer bears a decent resemblance to a young Robert Redford. He walks with a strong gait and wears a tan Burberry trench coat over perfectly tailored navy or gray suits. He was also legendary in the halls of Albany Law School, where he had studied law. I researched him and his firm with vigor and soon found that Brewer’s looks weren’t the only thing attractive about this firm. The term “Rambo litigation” was coined there. They took no prisoners. You hired them when you wanted a fight. At twenty-three years old, I loved that. Kill or be killed! We’re not here to make friends, we’re here to win! You sue my client? F— you and your request for an extension! You want a settlement conference? Pound sand! Our offer is screw you! Looking back, this feels a little silly, but as a young gun it sounded very sexy to me. I could enter a frat or a brotherhood of sorts. The bravado naturally appealed to me, given the protective armor I’d built up since being bullied, not to mention the fact that I’d probably always had a bit more testosterone than most girls. Going on the offensive was thrilling, and the more I acted tough, the tougher I felt. Being a litigator was the perfect job; it not only let me hide my insecurities, it felt like a tool for conquering them.

He had on a red sleeveless jumpsuit, black shirt with bell sleeves, high-heeled black patent leather boots with black laces. A full-length black leather trench coat hung open.

Sam by the shoulders and tell her that they were both still children and no one around them knew, like they were standing on each other’s shoulders in a trench coat and everyone believed it. But Sam already knew, because Sam got in trouble when she stayed out late. Sam got grounded when her mother found the roach of a joint in her room. Sam got her beeper taken away for two weeks after Lorraine got a call from Belvedere saying that Sam had been caught kissing a boy—Noah Carmello—in the back stairs during class. One of the worst parts about being a teenager was realizing that life wasn’t the same for everyone—Alice knew that at the time. What had taken decades was realizing that so many things that she had thought were advantages to her own life were the opposite

from around the precious plants. The fresh air was exhilarating and John’s aunt chatted merrily about times gone by and what Italy had been like when she and John’s mother were children. ‘But that was before the war,’ she sighed. ‘It is far behind us.’ As Mary Anne pulled Mathilda’s blanket a little higher around the cherry-pink face, a thought occurred to her. ‘I think I have something that used to belong to your sister – perhaps to you too.’ ‘Oh?’ Maria eyed her quizzically. ‘Yes,’ said Mary Anne, and went on to tell her about the time John had come to borrow money against a silver crucifix that she’d guessed had belonged to his mother. ‘He’d wanted the money for Daw’s engagement and wedding ring. I gave him the money but never sold the cross on. I couldn’t do it somehow. I kept thinking that one day he might want it back.’ ‘You have this?’ said Maria, her eyes shining. ‘You remember it?’ Maria clapped her hands together. ‘Of course I do!’ ‘Michael found it in the ruins of the pawn shop. I still have it.’ She turned and looked with gratitude into Maria’s dark eyes. ‘You’ve been so kind to me. You must have it back.’ Maria’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘It is a pleasure. I cannot thank you enough.’ They sat on a park bench. Mathilda was sitting up, observing everything with unusual interest. ‘She’s a lovely child,’ said Maria. Mary Anne murmured a reply. Her eyes were elsewhere, her attention caught by a man in a trench coat walking along the path at the side of the bowling green. She fancied he had been staring at them. 19 Lizzie and the wing commander had been travelling between airfields, ‘co-ordinating events’ as Hunter liked to call it, when he’d spotted a dog fight in the distance. Streaks of white vapour trail criss-crossed the sky as the Messerschmitt and the Spitfire locked horns above the English countryside. In their midst was a low-flying bomber, the bone of contention between the two. Hunter got out a pair of binoculars. Lizzie shaded her eyes with her hand. ‘They’re chasing the bomber.’ ‘Correction,’ Hunter said slowly. ‘The Spitfire is chasing the

have food stains on him somewhere. “Where were you all dressed up?” I asked. “Where were you all undressed?” he asked. He smiled when he said it. I felt heat rush up my face and hated it a lot. I hadn’t done anything worth blushing for. “Fine, let’s go.” I grabbed my trench coat from the back of the couch and touched dried blood.

Drew winced. “My back hurts. What did you do to me in your front yard? One minute I was standing, then I was flat on my back in the grass.” “I swept the leg,” she said matter-of-factly. “But why?” “Why not? It’s the fastest way to get someone to the ground.” “But we were standing on your lawn.” “Exactly. We were on nice, soft grass. I would have wrestled you sooner, but it’s not safe on the pavement.” “Do you always wrestle with guys?” “Just the ones I like.” She tapped him on the nose. “Boop.” He tapped her right back. “Boop.” She asked, “Now that I’ve taught you to watch out for the leg sweep, what else can I do for you? Breakfast in bed? Pack you a bagged lunch for work today?” He checked the time on her alarm clock. “It’s Saturday, which is a light day, but I do have a few patients after lunch.” “What do you mean it’s a light day? You’re not fully booked? You must not be a very good dentist. Maybe I should get a second opinion on that cap you glued into my mouth all willy-nilly.” He dropped his jaw in mock outrage. “Not a very good dentist? Those are fighting words, you bad girl.” She raised her eyebrows. “Want to take this back out to the front lawn?” “I think we gave your neighbors enough of a show last night.” “True,” she said. “Plus, we already got grass stains all over one change of clothes.” He wrinkled his nose. “Grass stains.” He groaned. He leaned back, resting his head on Megan’s second pillow, where Muffins normally slept. The sea-foam-green linens were a perfect complement to his skin tone. His brown eyes were a rich chocolate with bright flecks and an inner ring that was nearly green. The sheets had been purchased to complement Muffins, with his orange fur and entirely green eyes, but they looked even better around Dr. Drew Morgan. Drew asked, “What are you thinking about?” He reached up to run his fingers through her tangled morning hair. She normally hated that, but it felt good when Drew did it. “I’m thinking that you look really good in my sheets. You look good in sea-foam green.” “Thanks.” He grinned. “I can’t wait to see how you look in my bed.” “You think you’re going to get me into your bed?” “Sure. I know how it’s done. You just sweep the leg.” “I shouldn’t have told you all my secrets.” Muffins returned and situated himself between them for a bath. Drew propped himself up on one elbow and petted the cat. “So what do I have to do to get you to my place in the first place?” “Reverse psychology works well on me. You could tell me to never come over. You could ban me from your house.” He chuckled. “Whatever you do, don’t show up naked under a trench coat.” “What makes you think I’d show up naked in a trench coat?” “You’re a wild girl. Exactly what I need right now.” “You need me? Are we talking about, like, a medical type of emergency?” “You tell me.” He scooped up Muffins, placed him on the chair next to the bed, and pulled Megan close to him.

I’m throwing a dinner party at my house, and you’re coming over.” “I am, huh? I kinda like it when you tell me what to do. For such a pretty boy, you sure can play butch.” He took a pen from the pen cup and wrote an address on a Post-it Note. “This is the house I live in with my brother. I just want to prepare you ahead of time, before you see the place. I do okay as a dentist, but my brother’s the one who put up the down payment. He’s a software engineer. He sold a few apps.” Megan checked the address and nodded. “He sold more than a few apps,” she said. “When you meet him, you should pretend that sort of thing impresses you, and that you think he’s cooler than me. I’ll know you’re faking it, of course, but he could use the self-esteem boost. The dinner party is in honor of his birthday. He’s turning the big three-oh, and he’s not very happy about getting older.” “Can I sit on his lap and sing him Happy Birthday?” “Seven o’clock,” he said. “Don’t bring any food or wine.” “Are you trying to use reverse psychology on me?” “Not at all,” he said. “My brother always gets enough food and wine to feed an army. All you need to bring is your gorgeous self.” “And I will. Wearing nothing but a trench coat,” she said. “Please wear clothes.

Cool Blue pays the boys in a Trench Coat.

The classic must-haves: Claasic high-heeled pump Ballet Flats Trench coat Classic white shirt The little black dress Cashmere Cardigan/turtleneck A great bag Denim

Yes, you have. Long hair, full beard, smells like cigarettes, always wearing a trench coat, carries a large art pad, always drawing.

​The overcoat wasn't just any coat. It was a trench coat, to be specific. In addition to the trench coat, he had a hat on. An old fashioned hat, atop his head. The kind one could expect to see a character wearing in an old gangster movie. An old, worn out fedora.

Mr. Jones entered wearing his spotless black trench coat, the shiny black shoes, and the ridiculous hat that made him look like a figure from an 1880s London police sketch.

She has no problem attracting guys €”any guys. All the guys. Jocks, preps, burnouts. Sometimes, it seems as though she's dated half the junior class. But mostly Stacey likes the guys with long hair and trench coats. They've got the weed, after all.

Nightingale was wearing what I recognized as his “working suit,” light brown herringbone tweed, double-breasted, leather patches on the elbows. He had his original Burberry trench coat folded over his arm and he was carrying his silver-topped cane—something I’d never seen him do in daylight before.

Every morning, when I wade through Mum’s sea of green bottles, I think of you. Every morning, when I slip into the trench coat you left behind for me, I wonder if you thought of me for even a moment. If you imagined what your departure would do to me. To Mum. I wonder if fighting for Enva is everything you thought it would be. I wonder if a bullet or a bayonet has torn through you. If a monster has wounded you. I wonder if you’re lying in an unmarked grave, covered in blood-soaked earth that I will never be able to kneel at, no matter how desperate my soul is to find you. I hate you for leaving me like this.

Her name was Robin. It was late August of 1984. The place was the strip in East Missoula, a truck town just east of Missoula, Montana, and a place where trouble is always waiting to happen. As she neared the entrance to the Cabin, her eyes targeted the bouncer at the door. He wore a big smile and she couldn’t help noticing his handsome physique, evident under a tight, Star Wars T-shirt worn with the sleeves cut off. His name was Wayne. He recognized right away that this girl was from out of town. She told him that she had just been kicked off a truck after she had gotten into an argument with the trucker. She didn’t have any money. That was not surprising, either, given the slept-in appearance of her trench coat. He also could see that she had beautiful, pearly white, perfect teeth. She said her name was Robin. About five-foot-four, she had auburn hair, which she had recently dyed and—maybe partly because she was heavy set, probably weighing close to 140 pounds—very large breasts, which he couldn’t help but notice.

People expect the guy to be drooling, lurking around in a trench coat. But when I started doing these cases, it became obvious that most abusers are caretakers, respectable people who use that respectability as a cover to carry out their abuse.

As a boy, I admired Humphrey Bogart in a big way. I coveted the homburg and trench coat. I wanted to pack heat and smoke unfiltered cigarettes and give them long-legged dames in mink stoles the squinty-eyed once-over. I longed to chase villains, right wrongs, and restore the peace. Upon surviving into manhood, I discovered the black and comedic irony that is every gumshoe’s existential plight, the secret that dime novels and black-and-white movies always elide: each clue our intrepid detective deciphers, each mystery he unravels, each crime he solves, makes the world an unhappier place. I got smart and became a gangster instead. More money, more women, and better clothes. Much less in the way of mystery. As for the misery quotient? Basically a wash.

Your layered, sweater-y, thickset hug around me—I dared to dream of your bare, balmy, broken-down skin tangled in mine. It was a twist of artless fate in my mind. I watched you pull away... on your "Naked" bike. I was covered in a trench coat, but more than naked enough for the both of us....

The Great Expansion has come to Earth at last. We will celebrate Mogadorian Progress together, granddaughter.’ 2 From the cracked second-floor window of an abandoned textile factory, I watch an old man in a ragged trench coat and filthy jeans crouch down in the doorway of the boarded-up building across the street. Once he’s settled, the man pulls a brown-bagged bottle from his coat and starts drinking. It’s the middle of the afternoon – I’m on watch – and he’s the only living soul I’ve seen in this abandoned part of Baltimore since we got here yesterday. It’s a quiet, deserted place, and yet it’s still preferable to the version of Washington, D.C. I saw in Ella’s vision. For now at least, it doesn’t look like the Mogadorians have pursued us from Chicago. Although, technically, they wouldn’t have to. There’s already a Mogadorian among us. Behind me, Sarah stomps her foot. We’re in what used to be the foreman’s office, dust everywhere, the floorboards swollen and mildewed. I turn around just in time to see her frowning at the remains of a cockroach on the bottom of her sneaker. ‘Careful. You might go crashing right through the floor,’ I tell her, only half joking. ‘I guess it was too much to ask for all your secret bases to be in penthouse apartments, huh?’ Sarah asks, fixing me with a teasing smile. We slept in this old factory last night, our sleeping bags laid on the sunken floorboards. Both of us are filthy, it’s been a couple of days since our last real shower, and Sarah’s blond hair is caked with dirt. She’s still beautiful to me. Without her at my side, I might’ve totally lost it

green trench coat so that it hid brown hair that reached

Walking toward them was a tall man with short, black, spiked hair. He was clearly a warlock: His eyes were cat's eyes, with slit pupils, green and gold. He wore a charcoal trench coat dramatically lined with red that swept out behind him when he walked. "Magnus Bane," said Barnabas, with clear loathing. "The Ultimate Traitor." "Not my favourite nickname," Magnus said, gently wiggling his fingers in Barnabas's direction. "I prefer 'Our Lord and Master' or maybe 'Unambiguously the Hottest.

Tell me you’re butt-ass naked beneath that trench coat,” he said. “It’d really turn my day around.” She crossed her arms. “I’m in costume!” “I can see that,” he said. “Slutty nurse? Oh please, God, be the slutty nurse.

more research with Richard,” Paul said, shaking off my weirdness. “He’s more likely to listen to me.” Actually, in my experience, Richard was less likely to listen to Paul and more likely to listen to himself telling Paul what to do. “I don’t think so,” I said. “I think there’s someone who could do it better.” Paul’s eyebrows, which had returned to their traditional position, rose. “Really.” “Yes. Liss, would you see if Maxie is up in your room, and if she is, ask her to come down here?” Melissa put her glass in the sink and walked toward the kitchen door. “I was going up to change anyway,” she said. She smiled privately. “One more day.” And she was gone. Paul regarded me carefully. “Maxie?” he asked. “Best possible solution. She’s not related to Richard, she has no feelings about him in any direction, and he’s seen that she’s good with research, so she’ll be asking him on a professional basis. The trick is going to be selling it to her.” Paul stayed very still for a moment, which I know is not easy for him to do; the ghosts are sort of ethereal, not really ever being solidly in one place or position. Then he held up a hand, palm out. “Very solid reasoning,” he said. Maxie, wearing the trench coat that indicated she had her laptop with her—nobody was getting that thing away from her now—dropped down through the ceiling and landed in the middle of the center island. I was just glad she hadn’t ended up in the middle of food. “Melissa says you were looking for me,” she said. The trench coat vanished, and sure enough

You gasp, looking at this woman who appeared out of the sky. She’s wearing a red hat and a red trench coat, which whips around in the ocean breeze. Otter Man comes sprinting across the deck. “Stop her, Moose!” he hollers. “That’s CARMEN SANDIEGO!

The woman walked into the bar for the first time in the winter rain. She didn’t have an umbrella on her; her little sleeveless dress ended at her ankles, fully drenched. Her wet dress clung to her body, showing the outlines of her curves. In one hand, she was carrying the skirt of her dress. Suddenly, she let it go, and one long, bare arm moved upward as she tried to fix her damp hair which had darkened in intensity due to the rain. It fell past her shoulders, the strands sticking to her face. She attempted to comb through the tangles with her fingertips. The men watched her movements hungrily, their eager faces drawn to her and at the sight of someone new. Their eyes trailed from her face, to her wet body, then back to the movements of her hands entwined in her hair. Under her other arm, she carried a book and a trench coat. It appeared strange she wasn't wearing the coat when it was pouring outside and freezing in the middle of November. Men were left mesmerized by her, and she turned heads as she walked by. Something radiated from within her, drawing the men around her in. The women who were with some of these men noticed their gaze on the unfamiliar woman. Now they stared at her with jealousy and anger. Who is she? they wondered.

The man wore a sweeping brown trench coat stained with ink and grease spots, and smeared with so many varieties of foodstuff and plain trash that he looked like he made a quilted coat out of a garbage heap. The coat hung open in the front to allow a glimpse of an abomination of a shirt: blue and red with green tartan stripes. His filthy khaki pants were held up by orange suspenders. He wore old steel-toed paratrooper boots and leather gloves with their fingers cut off at the first knuckle. On his head sat a felt hat, an old-fashioned fedora, soiled and stained beyond belief. Thick mousy hair dripped in limp strands from under the hat.

Someone who moves like he's three platypuses inside a trench coat stumbles closer to the van, but then Odysseus lunges at the window and barks like a maniac, and the trench coat platypuses stagger backward and disappear into the night.

If Dante’s the ghost in this house … who’s the kid? And what about the man in the trench coat and hat? How does he fit into all this?” When I look back at Claire and Fiona, they’re wearing identical expressions of sadness, along with another emotion I’ve seen before. I saw it on Destiny’s face, the psychic I visited who wished me safe travels as I was leaving. It’s unmistakable. It’s pity.