Ray comes out a few seconds later, wiping his hands on a small towel. He’s in a white shirt and tan pants. In good shape. He’s sandy haired and wearing Buddy Holly glasses. Ray could be a computer pro...
On mobile phones: It looks like a TV remote fucked a little typewriter and this is the bastard offspring
Most people are idiots. There's nothing worse than idiots who tell you their opinions.
Maybe he was destined to die under the fading shadow of a plastic dinosaur surrounded by pickpockets, hookers, and panhandlers, but at least he’d never been to Mississippi.
Look at my face. I didn’t get these scars in pillow fights. That seems to convince her. Never doubt the power of ugly.
It’s more than coping. It’s adaptation. You go into the dark one species and mutate to fit your surroundings. Grow better eyes and ears. Get used to the feel of the air so you can tell when something...
It's so quiet and peaceful out here I'm getting bored with breathing. Maybe we'll get lucky and the world will go to Hell again. Fingers crossed.
Is that supposed to impress me? You sound like every supervillain in every comic book ever written.
I say, The Elmer Gantry act is very convincing, but why pretend you’re Wormwood? That doesn’t make any sense.
Cops are generally color-blind when it comes to brown cars, and this Subaru is too boring for even a soccer mom. It looks like it was made for people into competitive tire filling.
Calm down. Deep breaths. Go to your happy place. Oh, wait. I don’t have one.
When you’re drowning in Hell, even a cement life jacket can look good.
We have these meetings every couple of days. We’re rebuilding Hell after it went up in flames like a flash-paper bikini when the original Lucifer, the real Lucifer, blew out of town after sticking me...
They’re a year closer and I’m on the street like a goddamn lost dog wondering if I’ll ever find my way back home.
There’s dead and there’s Hollywood dead, and those are two very different things. Dead is just dead. In the ground. Pennies on your eyes. A cold slab of meat with no slaw and definitely no dessert.
The things we do to stay alive for another year. Another day. Another hour. The deals we make with the universe and ourselves. You start to feel dirty.
The smell that hits me is almost overwhelming. Familiar and alien at the same time. Hellion food tastes like what a butcher shop throws in the trash and then a hobo sleeps on it for a couple of days.
The smaller Hellion was in sleeveless black robes. Every inch of visible skin was tattooed in sacred Hellion script, like he’d been mugged by the tiniest graffiti crew in the universe. Big Boy looked...
The only way I can attract more attention is if I was towing a Spanish galleon full of half-naked cheerleaders with flare guns.
The five of us are the big brains supposedly in charge of Hell. Really, we’re a bunch of second-rate mechanics trying to keep the wheels from coming off a burning gasoline truck skidding toward a scho...