All dressed up and no one to kill.
Tell me anything. Tell me everything.Revoke our time apart.Love me fierce in danger.
Silver Shirts
I walked to the heart of the neon smear.
Head-on impact. The frontseat men sustain massive chest wounds. Their hearts explode. The backseat men sustain downward-thrust trauma and are thus disemboweled.
He used to pimp and pull shakedowns. Now he rode shotgun to History.
Facts can be bent to conform to any thesis.
You’d be better served taxing your conscience for those who deserve your regret.
There's a beast in me. I destroy those I cannot control. I must be certain that those close to me share my identical interests. I'm benevolent within that construction. I'm ghastly outside of it.
There is no proportion. Pearl Harbor took care of that.
The overarching joy and lasting appeal of noir is that it makes doom fun.
Matsura dribbled blood on the table. Ace threw a head shot. Matsura screamed. Gold bridgework flew.
It's time to demythologise an era and build a new myth from the gutter to the stars. It's time to embrace bad men and the price they paid to secretly define their time.
To me, there's nothing on earth other than women. It's why I get out of bed every morning.
They were heedless of the fact that they’d gain more converts if they just stopped talking.
They moved me and scared me. I replayed the tapes and nailed the source of my fear. The women sounded smug. They were entrenched and content in their victimhood.
These tracts are inherently unradical and fail to critique the systematic bigotry that has fueled this counteraggression for the past two horrible days. This cravenly jingoistic display of yours is an...
Sometimes I felt connections begging to be made, sometimes I cursed myself for not having ten percent more gray matter, sometimes the report carbons just made me think of Lee.
Scripture-pure veracity and scandal-rag content. That conjunction gives it its sizzle. You carry the seed of belief within you already. You recall the time this narrative captures and sense conspiracy...
I settled in to watch a Dragnet rerun. I bought the judge in four of Jack Webb’s drunk-driving beefs. I shtupped Jack’s ex-wife, soaring songstress Julie London.