You know, considering your IQ, you're really socially retarded sometimes.

He has been mad for you these many months, ever since you prodded him in the nether regions with a hedgehog.

The wolf had begun hunting human prey. They were plentiful in the dark city streets and provided enough good meat to satiate his gnawing hunger. He was still very careful not to let any who saw him live. To do otherwise would displease the Master. He would only stalk those people that were foolish enough to walk alone in the night.

Traveling through the Dragon's Den, it has just been explained that Haroun, the Ifrit, has been caught in a mirror trap. Here is the passage that follows:'So,' said Silas. 'Now there are only three of us.'And a pig,' said Kandar [the mummy]'Why?' Asked Miss Lupescu, with a wolf-tongue, through wolf teeth. 'Why the Pig?'It's lucky,' said Kandar.Miss Lupescu growled, unconvinced.'Did Haroun have a pig?' asked Kandar, simply.

Time flies when you grow fangs and fur.

That was why he still hadn’t called her. He wasn’t sure what the hell he was going to say if she picked up. Evie, I’m really sorry about acting like a complete dick to you. Would you be willing to go out for lunch again? This time somewhere where my brother can’t kill anyone, and my fucked‐up father won’t take revenge for my letting it happen by trying to kill you?

And what if I need something?''Find it yourself.'Connor tsk-ed. 'Where did all the niceties go?''You're not a guest. You're family. Find your own fucking towels.

Nevertheless, the potential and actual importance of fantastic literature lies in such psychic links: what appears to be the result of an overweening imagination, boldly and arbitrarily defying the laws of time, space and ordered causality, is closely connected with, and structured by, the categories of the subconscious, the inner impulses of man's nature. At first glance the scope of fantastic literature, free as it is from the restrictions of natural law, appears to be unlimited. A closer look, however, will show that a few dominant themes and motifs constantly recur: deals with the Devil; returns from the grave for revenge or atonement; invisible creatures; vampires; werewolves; golems; animated puppets or automatons; witchcraft and sorcery; human organs operating as separate entities, and so on. Fantastic literature is a kind of fiction that always leads us back to ourselves, however exotic the presentation; and the objects and events, however bizarre they seem, are simply externalizations of inner psychic states. This may often be mere mummery, but on occasion it seems to touch the heart in its inmost depths and become great literature.

I got a whiff of minty fresh breath. Definitely not, what I'd expect from a wild wolf.

They say the crazies come out at night. I say the crazies come out during election year: Elections have the power to turn once seemingly normal people into certified loonies.