If Donald Trump and the Wicked Witch of the West had a kid, it would be Jayne-Anne. She looks like a librarian with some money and good taste in clothes but underneath the Verace, she's Godzilla with tits.

It doesn't matter if you and everyone else in the room are thinking it. You don't say the words. Words are weapons. They blast big bloody holes in the world. And words are bricks. Say something out loud and it starts turning solid. Say it loud enough and it becomes a wall you can't get through.

Let me make sure I have this straight. The cavalry just now rode into town and it's a Czech Gypsy porn-star zombie killer. Have I got that right?

Twenty percent? What am I, your waiter? I got you five vampires, not a BLT.

Being able to embrace contradictions is a sign of intelligence. Or insanity.

Memories are bullets. Some whiz by and only spook you. Others tear you open and leave you in pieces.

Enemies will kill you with a knife in the back. Friends will kill you with kindness. Either way you're dead.