I strode toward Mr. Coffee with lust in my eyes. We'd had a thing for quite some time now Mr. Coffee and I.

...and then she glared at me, the same glare my stepmother used to give me when I gave her the Nazi salute. That woman was so touchy about her resemblance to Hitler.

The dead guy looked at me with wide eyes. “I can’t move my legs.” I snorted. “You can’t move your arms either, or your feet or your freaking eyelids. You’re dead.

There is a great need for a sarcasm font.

Nobody wants to look like a fool. Nine times out of ten, that reason alone keeps people from allowing themselves to believe.

I lowered the gun but didn’t holster it. Not just yet. She could turn out to be psychotic. Or a door-to-door salesperson.

You were the one who hit me on the roof? I hit you on the jaw. We just happened to be on a roof at the time.