Roll us down the mountain and I'm sure the fatman would win.

The legends lie cradled in the seagulls call, and the promise they made are ground beneath the sadist's fall.

She's a warm fart at Christmas.

Did you ever get the feeling that the story's too damn real?

The doer and the thinker, no allowances for the other, as the failing light illuminates the mercenaries creed.

Give us Direction; the best of goodwill; Put us in touch with fair winds. Sing to us softly, hum the evening's song. Tell us what the blacksmith has done for you.

Who would be a poor man, a beggar man, a thief, if he held a rich man in his hand?