That's the problem with white horses. You have to pay for them yourself or you'll always be using someone else's reins.

A hand landed on his shoulder like an anvil. “How’d you like to stay for dinner?” Butch looked up. The guy was wearing a baseball cap and had some kind of marking—was that a tattoo, on his face? “How’d you like to be dinner?” said another one, who looked like some kind of model.

Just don't go out fighting. I don't need to know where you're going, that's your biz. But if you get yourself killed, I got ninety-nine problems and you're the biggest one of them." Rehv to John

Falling into ruin was a bit like falling in love: Both descents stripped you bare and left you as you were at your core. And both endings are equally painful.

No Last Meal for you guys, either. Guess we have that in common.” Someone bust out the pom-poms and cheer for the team. Yay.

A cold blast hit him and he laughed at the sting as he stepped outside, surveyed the night sky, and drank deeply. Such a good liar he was. Such a good one. Everyone thought he was fine because he'd camo'd his little problems. He wore a Sox hat to hide the eye twitch. Set his wristwatch to go off every half hour to beat back the dream. Ate though he wasn't angry. Laughed though he found nothing funny. And he'd always smoked like a chimney.

Her bra was cotton and white and, bless its little frickin´ heart, had a front clasp.