De tall, dark vun--dere's nothing special about him at all," ter Borcht said dismissively of Fang, who hadn't moved since the doctor had come in. Well, he's a snappy dresser," I offered. One side of Fang's mouth quirked.

Dead Max was the biggest oxymoron in history.

Not saving you from this storm, mutant,” he said. “Saving you for your later fate, we are.” His voice was weirdly inflected and metallic, like an automated answering machine. “Oh, good. Yoda captured us,” Fang whispered.

I'm a very good storyteller; I have a lot of compassion for people. That's very useful for a novelist. A lot of novelists are snots. They're just mean people. I'm not a terribly skilled stylist, nor do I want to be. I want a lot of people to read one of my stories and go, 'That was pretty cool.'

What are you guys doing? If you anted me to take a shower, all you had to do was pay me ten bucks, like you usually do

Total?" I called. He looked up alertly, then ran over to me, small pink tongue hanging out. Total?" I said when he was close. "Can you talk?" He flopped down on the grass, panting slightly. "Yeah. So?" Jeezum. I mean, mutant weirdos are nothing new to me, you know? But a talking dog?

You're my best friend, my first and only love, and the most beautiful girl I've ever seen