"Wait, Dora Ingerlund?" "Something like that. Half-Vaasan." Vaasa is where beautiful and impossibly blonde people come from.

"Weren't you depressed or something?" "Seven years and going strong!" He nods enthusiastically. "The head doctors are now calling it a medical marvel... no, wait, anomaly was the word they used."

"That's why they spend all their time smoking cigarettes and writing long works of criticism that make you want to commit suicide." "That sounds miserable." "It *is* miserable. That's probably why they're always committing suicide."

"Would you say he seems like a *handsome* man?" "To be completely honest, Firewalker, we are not in a position to say. We can't really make out *faces* from this distance..." "From here all we can really see are his enormous muttonchops. Perhaps he is some sort of motorcyclist?"

Behind the half-built cinder block house at the other end of the village there are three people, drinking. Your *new crew*. You don’t need the old crew, oh no, you have a new crew to get drunk with.

“... then for my daughters’. We had an obligation to defend our sovereignty. We should have *burned* the whole isola down rather than let them have it.” Dark orange flames reflect in her green eyes. An oil fire on the ocean.

Hobocop doesn't need anyone or anything! No one can kick you out, because you don't *have* a home. Never pay rent again. Never again hear: "You're drunk! Why did you even come here, Harry? Go home. You're embarrassing yourself." Downsides: are there any?

"They're sort of like you. Preserve the rule of law and all that. Except it's Evrart's law." He takes a swig from his flask. "But, really, they're just like you." Is he actually comparing you -- an officer of the law -- to some neighbourhood vigilantes?!

"What kind of rope is this?" "Industrial strength. The kind used for tying cargo to lorries." Like in a circus! When the circus leaves town and they tie a black spotted giraffe to the wall of a carry-pen!

"You keep mentioning *hard core*. What does it mean to you?" "Utmost dedication. Thoughts from the spinal cord. It's a potent superlative as well." The term also signifies certain varieties of pornography that depict penetration, just so you know.

“Do you wish you were out there fishing right now?” “Aye, always do… I like it. It’s like being on another planet. A water planet. With water worries… and water joys.”

This is a very, very sad man who has just seen something that's made him forget his sadness.

This is your gun. Now if we could only find your personality...

The prybar feels nice and cold in your hand. Heavier than you'd think. Cold and heavy -- like truth. You feel like you're reunited with *truth* once more.

"I don't answer to *anyone*. Mother fucking anyone, butch." "I think you meant to say *bitch* there." "I know what I meant -- I meant to say *butch*, you have a problem with it?"

Not making money when you're asleep, are you? If you wanna be rich you better work until your fingers bleed. You can sleep when you die. (Your pecs dance.) No more sleep it is. A frazzled ride through eternity without pause. Hissing pistons pushed to the extreme.

A subtle smile lights up his puffy face, like a ray of sun breaking through the stratosphere. He likes reminiscing.

Good god, it's nearly impossible to describe how dirty this texture is. It's like rubbing two jellyfish skins together. You feel about 15% less human for having touched it.

“When is real democracy coming to Revachol?” “We can assure you, it is coming as soon as possible.” “In a few months, then?” “That’s… rather optimistic. Though of course it depends on the contingencies.”

The shards glimmer in the dark -- you see little pearls of light on the edges of the crack that splits the female figure. Something was written there... remains of broken letters line the emulsion. What it said, you do not know.