I’ve seen Bigfoot’s W-2.
Anonymity is better than a bulletproof vest down in the information underground.
The few guys in there were so listless they made Keanu Reeves look like Samuel L. Jackson.
Never talk about religion, politics, or hate group affiliation.
Monsters are a real thing, too—although the preferred term is “cryptid,” mostly so
grown men don’t have to stand around saying “monster.”
It was like candy and I were an estranged couple that was thinking about a night of drunken sex together, but I’d just found out that candy had taken up fucking clinical test subjects for smack money.
Crotch soccer might not be honorable, but sometimes it’s the only option.
Long story short: don’t call a Templar Knight “shitbird” unless you know how to use a
broadsword.
“You’re just stuffed with rainbows and kittens, aren’t you?”
If something has a neat little bow, you can bet pesos to pantaloons it’s bullshit.”
The salesman never pitches you on how many assassins can sleep in the backseat.
That’s all well and good, but I wanted to save myself. It wasn’t like I had a vice-me that could take over in the event of my untimely death.
I was wondering if my life was flashing before my eyes, and all that was coming was
awkwardness and commercials. Hell of a life.
“You catch even more flies with a flamethrower.”
I had some office jobs, but it turned out that I’m no good in an office. I was legitimately
worried that I’d snap and kill everyone.
“Well, you are the Antichrist.”
Apparently I was getting good at spitting my martini across the room.
“You might be confusing Satan with Bizarro Superman.”
“In this business, faith isn’t so much tested as it is beaten about the head and neck with a sock full of batteries.”
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