Oh fine. I'll play nice with the pretty people.

There was just no good way for a dead son to greet his mother almost two weeks after his funeral.

She watched me with a creepy sort of detached curiosity, as if I were a bug crawling across the sidewalk in front of her. I wondered briefly if she was the ant stomper type.

It's not the length of the word; it's how well you use it!

You think he left a big flashing arrow pointing to a filing cabinet labeled 'Evidence Here!'? He's a Stray, Ethan, not Wile E. Coyote!

Wonderful, a death match on my first day behind bars. Some girls have all the luck

The dead have a way of becoming saints in the eyes of their survivors.