Dublin City was quiet when they reached the Waxwork Museum, as if it was holding its breath.

This is your one chance. Tell me where the key is." "Okay." Serpine raised an eyebrow. "Really?" "No, only joking. Do your worst.

Are you sulking?” “Me? No. I don’t sulk.” “You sound like you’re sulking.” “I’m just waiting for the violent urges to subside.

You have an amazing ability to depress me sometimes, you know that?" "I try my best.

While my insides may be rotten, I still like a good reason to kill someone. It has to be either business, personal, or out of sheer boredom.

Talking about one's feelings defeats the purpose of having those feelings. Once you try to put the human experience into words, it becomes little more than a spectator sport. Everything must have a cause, and a name. Every random thought must have a root in something else.

It's a white-knuckle roller-coaster ride.