Vlad The Impaler Quotes

He was impolite while making a point? This is Vlad the Impaler. His points usually come at the end of a long pole.

It touched me to be trusted with something terrible.

I am your brother. I was supposed to be your brother before either of us was born. Karmic debt. It appears I was Vlad the Impaler or Genghis Khan in a past life.

I’ve heard that Vlad the Impaler established without a doubt that having a stick up one’s ass was detrimental to one’s health. And I am very interested in keeping you healthy.

Though a good cop, Luc Claudel has the patience of a firecracker, the sensitivity of Vlad the Impaler, and a persistent skepticism as to the value of forensic anthropology. Snappy dresser, though.

She was in love with a vampire. Bela Lugosi. Nosferatu. Vlad the Impaler. Count Chocula . The urge to laugh seized her and she buried her face in her hands and cried instead.

A bird named Vlad the Impaler, who spent the bulk of his life hissing and looking at himself in a little mirror hanging[...] in the iron cage, a mirror so dull and cloudy with Vlad the Impaler’s bird-spit that Vlad the Impaler could not possibly have seen anything more than a vague yellowish blob behind a pane of mist[...] A bird that not infrequently literally bit the hand that fed it, before returning to dance in front of its own shapeless reflection, straining and contorting always for a better view of itself.

Did Genghis Khan take his coffee black?" Oberon asked me. After my bathtime story, he wanted to be the Genghis Khan of dogs. He wanted a harem full of French poodles, all of whom were named either Fifi or Bambi. It was an amusing habit of his: Oberon had, in the past, wanted to be Vlad the Impaler, Joan of Arc, Bertrand Russell, and any other historical figure I had recently told him about while he was getting a thorough cleansing. His Liberace period had been particularly good for my soul: You haven’t lived until you’ve seen an Irish wolfhound parading around in rhinestone-studded gold lamé.

Among the nations of Earth in all its history, ours is one of the precious few that has not brought forth its Hitler, its Stalin, its Pol Pot, its Mao Tse-tung, its Vlad the Impaler, the one who is never satisfied to have every knee bend to him but wants also to be the architect of a new world by destroying the existing one.

He shuffled up to the stake and examined the impaled, naked, dead man. The stake entered his anus and protruded through his gaping mouth, his death mask frozen in a look of horror.

I felt sure, glaring at the children as they settled onto the sand with their shovels, that these creatures were never threatened by the grimness of history, either. Then, looking down on their glossy heads, I realized that they were indeed threatened; they were simply unaware of it. We were all vulnerable.

that's like Vlad the Impaler calling Maggie Thatcher a bit insensitive.

Vladimir Putin had once been known as Vlad Tepes, or Vlad the Impaler, the inspiration for Dracula. And that he had also, in fact, been Grigori Rasputin before the Russian Revolution of 1917.

...The strange thing, you know, is that Stalin openly admired Ivan the Terrible. Two leaders who were willing to crush and kill their own people-to do anything necessary- in order to consolidate their power...Can you imagine a world in which Stalin could live for five hundred years...or perhaps forever?

I forgot to mention that Paul in person looks just as outlandish as his house—a claim I lay with the utmost aesthetic respect. He has thick dreadlocks, a beaded wizard’s beard, and tattoos. He traveled in a purple velvet frock coat and a top hat with an ermine skull attached to the brim. No one knows his age. He was once described by a mutual friend of ours as “an eighteenth-century highwayman reimagined by Tim Burton.” Paul refers to himself as “a cross between Prince and Vlad the Impaler.

Apparently, Clive left out a lot of things. And since vampires are not the most communicative, and I am apparently the equivalent of Vlad the Impaler—and have been since profession #2 in the 1600s—no one has stepped up to give me the vampire birds and bees talk.

Even though he’d released only a sliver of his power, it still felt as if I’d just gotten subconsciously scalded. If I were anyone else, I’d be terrified at pissing off the legendary Vlad Tepesh, meaning “Impaler,” aka Dracula, aka don’t-ever-call-him-Dracula-if-you-want-to-live, but I was Mrs. Vlad Dracul, thank you very much.

The thing that haunted me that day, however, as I closed my notebook and put my coat on to go home, was not my ghostly image of Dracula, or the description of impalement, but the fact that these things had- apparently- actually occurred. If I listened too closely, I thought, I would hear the screams of the boys, of the ‘large family’ dying together. For all his attention to my historical education, my father had neglected to tell me this: history’s terrible moments were real. I understand now, decades later, that he could never have told me. Only history itself can convince you of such a truth. And once you’ve seen that truth-really seen it-you can’t look away.

Larissa's father was Vlad Dracul? Vlad Tepes? Vlad the fucking Impaler?" Tepes translated meant "the Impaler," something Connor clearly knew. "Yeah." Surprising him, Connor let out a loud laugh. "Man I bet her family just loved that she mated with a shifter." A weight on Aiden's chest lifted at his Alpha's reaction. "You have no idea.

None of us like each other, but one thing is for sure, we all hate you.

Autumn comes early to the foot of the Slovenian Alps. Even before September, the abundant harvests are followed by a sudden poignant rain that lasts for days and brings down leaves in the lanes of the village. Now, in my fifties, I find myself wandering that direction every few years, reliving my first glimpse of the Slovenian countryside. This is old country. Every autumn mellows it a little more, in aeternum, each beginning with the same three colors: a green landscape, two or three yellow leaves falling through a gray afternoon. I suppose the Romans - who left their walls here and their gargantuan arenas to the west, on the coast - saw the same autumn and gave the same shiver. When my father's car swung through the gates of the oldest of Julian cities, I hugged myself. For the first time, I had been struck by the excitement of the traveler who looks history in her subtle face.

Privindu-l pe cronicar, mila îmi creştea în suflet din nou, rămuroasă, deasă şi înfiorată ca un tufiş fabulos, înfigându-şi rădăcinile prin străfundurile întunecate ale amintirilor mele, prin acele straturi uitate, de omeneşti datorii, până în mâlurile lunecoase ale neputinţei şi resemnării, vârstate cu fluturii şi şerpii de lumină ai îndurării şi ruşinii.

Monsters lurk in every culture’s life blood – the history of the world is as much the history of its monsters as its angels, and who is the more fascinating: Elizabeth Bathory and her blood-bathing, or Mother Teresa and her poor? Vlad Ţepeş and his impalings, or Saint Francis and his birds? I wish I could give you better answers, I really do, but monsters throng about us; they always have.

In the window were displayed the covers of several pornographic videos. “The Story of O-Positive,” Armod said aloud. “I don’t understand. Is that like HIV positive?” “Idiot,” Mordr said, slapping Armod lightly upside the head. “Ah, but I am in the mood for good literature,” Ivak said with a grin. “How about these? A Tale of Two Vampyres. The Stakes of Wrath. Or that one.” He pointed to the left. “Great Neckspectations.” “I still don’t understand.” Armod was frowning, although his white skin did color when he craned his head from side to side and realized what one of the pictures depicted. “Now me, I always did like a good classic mystery movie,” Sigurd added, also grinning. “A Tomb with a View.” Vikar worried that they were embarrassing Alex, but then she said, “My favorite is Vlad Really Did Impale Her.” His brothers glanced at him, then Alex, and burst out laughing. “Mayhap I will not kill her after all,” Mordr declared, giving Alex a wink that did not sit well with Vikar. Not one bit. “Can we buy some?” Armod asked.

I nodded numbly and moved toward the bed, passing him while trying to put a name to the grey nemesis he had failed to conceal.  Womb Raider?  Vlad the Impaler?  Dongzilla?

Dracula cemented his legacies as Ottoman scourge, national hero, and extravagant, almost unbelievable sadist. He was like the Jack Bauer of Wallachia: patriotic almost to a fault, steadfast in defending the region from external enemies and internal provocateurs, misunderstood by co-workers, and always ready to face-punch anyone who got in his way.

Şi-a nins apoi mereu, iarnă de iarnă , un fulg, mii, stoluri de mii, întuneric alb şi imens de năluciri aparent imateriale căzând şi amestecându-se încă din plutirea lor rânduită şi iute-pieritoare cu însăşi vieţile şi gândurile oamenilor de pe acest pământ iubit şi frumos, lacom de rod şi linişte, de-nţelepciune şi-nnoire, de dăruiri şi perenitate...

...îşi aminteşte că logofătul Filon, sfetnicul şi prietenul tatălui său Mircea, numise cândva vremea sau poate viaţa, un lanţ ... Un lanţ de încercări, ispite şi frământări, bune şi rele, ce leagă naşterea de moarte. Crugul existenţei omului... lanţ pe care-l porţi neştiutor până-ţi sună ceasul cel din urmă...

I didn’t do anything wrong, he killed himself. Anyone perishes like this when storming into the house of a great ruler

You’re right. You are the messenger of a great ruler. I made this spike for you!

Or you’d go – look, women in power, not always good: Margaret Thatcher, Queen Isabella of Spain, Katie Hopkins. And he’d reply “yes, I will take your Margaret Thatcher and I will raise you a Pol Pot, a Stalin, a Franco, a Genghis Khan, a Vlad the Impaler.

He’s not happy with the new bartender. He thinks there are not enough bottles of the blood the count is said to prefer, according to an interview in American Vampire.” I tried to imagine Vlad Tepes, impaler of so many of his own countrymen, chatting with a reporter. I sure wouldn’t want to be the one holding the pad and pencil. “What brand would that be?” I scrambled to catch up with the conversation. “The Prince of Darkness is said to prefer Royalty.” “Ew.” Why was I not surprised? Royalty was a very, very rare bottled blood. I’d thought the brand was only a rumor until now. Royalty consisted of part synthetic blood and part real blood—the blood of, you guessed it, people of title. Before you go thinking of enterprising vamps ambushing that cute Prince William, let me reassure you. There were plenty of minor royals in Europe who were glad to give blood for an astronomical sum.

Vlad the Impaler–style on an old speed-limit sign,

[Prince Stefan’s] family was of Eastern European descent, with some real royalty thrown in via a connection to Vlad the Impaler—who hung from a branch that Ian wouldn’t kept secret had the family tree been growing in his yard.

A precarious smile crept onto Dracula's cheeks. "I wanted to shout it out to the entire world: how I was wronged. But I found that no one really cared. Such is injustice. Such is the world. Pretenders to compassion." "You alone wronged yourself. Too blinded by the darkness." "My entire life, I have felt betrothed to darkness. Perhaps a little light would have been nice," the Impaler whispered as his soul vanished from his eyes. Light fell from the clouds, and as the sun ascended the sky, Vlad's corpse caught aflame. Soon, he became ash; forgotten, withered, and whisked away by the wind.

Vlad.” “Why do you call me that?”  He nuzzled the side of her neck. “Vlad the Impaler.”  It came out as a moan.  “He was a big, scary guy who… impaled people.” “I like that.”  His tongue touched her ear.  “Will you let me impale you, Kara Lynn?

Vlad the Impaler,

as well have stuck my fingers in my ears. Warm air blew softly down the hall with a low roar that, coupled with a buzz from the lights and a hum from the elevator shaft, swallowed all other sounds, no matter how hard I concentrated. But that could work both ways. I padded down the hall, noiseless in sneakers. The hall branched to the left several times, forming the bottom end of a T. At each branch I listened intently, then bobbed my head into the hallway for a quick check. I reached the end of the hall. Nothing. Nobody. No Charles Manson or Ted Bundy or Vlad the Impaler. Definitely no Michael Wheeler. I considered for a second. I didn’t know which office I was looking for and could spend half the night checking doors and poking my head into rooms while Amanda might or might not be stuck in an elevator. And if Wheeler was holed up somewhere on this floor, it would be child’s play to sneak up and pop me while I was going up and down hallways, rattling doorknobs. It wasn’t a one-man job and I could afford to wait for backup. My first priority was to make sure Amanda was safe. Quick but cautious, I headed back to the elevators. Halfway there, my cell buzzed in my pocket. I answered. “Singer.” “Detective Singer, this is the dispatcher with the George Washington University police. We spoke earlier. Are you in the Krueger building?” “Yeah,” I said, keeping my head up and watching the doors to at least a dozen classrooms as I continued the walk back to the elevator. “I’m on the ninth floor now.” “Is Ms. Lane in danger?” “I don’t know.” I explained how I’d lost the call. “We’ll need to get someone to override

Oberon asked me. After my bathtime story, he wanted to be the Genghis Khan of dogs. He wanted a harem full of French poodles, all of whom were named either Fifi or Bambi. It was an amusing habit of his: Oberon had, in the past, wanted to be Vlad the Impaler, Joan of Arc, Bertrand Russell, and any other historical figure I had recently told him about while he was getting a thorough cleansing. His Liberace period had been particularly good for my soul: You haven’t lived until you’ve seen an Irish wolfhound parading around in rhinestone-studded gold lamé.

The white hands of the tenebrous belle deal the hand of destiny. Her fingernails are longer than those of the mandarins of ancient China and each is pared to a fine point. These and teeth as fine and white as spikes of spun sugar are the visible signs of the destiny she wistfully attempts to evade via the arcana; her claws and teeth have been sharpened on centuries of corpses, she is the last bud of the poison tree that sprang from the loins of Vlad the Impaler who picnicked on corpses in the forests of Transylvania. The walls of her bedroom are hung with black satin, embroidered with tears of pearl. At the rooms four corners are funerary urns and bowls which emit slumbrous, pungent fumes of incense. In the centre is an elaborate catafalque, in ebony, surrounded by long candles in enormous silver candlesticks. In a white lace negligee stained a little with blood, the Countess climbs up on her catafalque at dawn each morning and lies down in an open coffin.

One of many legends of the Impaler is that, trapped in a loveless marriage, he wandered the streets of his capital, Tirgoviste, picking up prostitutes on the way. So, too, Carol II Hohenzollern, king of Romania when archaeologists first came looking for Dracula’s grave had his string of mistresses.

Dracula had some time to kill, and what better way to kill time than killing a whole bunch of assholes getting up in his business?