“Only one chance one bullet in the gun. This is my life and I only got one, yeah. The safety’s off and I put on her. Oh stick ‘em up, stick ‘em up. Ready to shoot.”

“Peter: Got that gun?Tobias: No, I figured I would shoot the bullets out of my nostrils, so I left it upstairs.Peter: Oh, shut up!”

“The one thing I had learned in my sixteen years was that you couldn't count on anyone to stick around. Opening yourself up only causes trouble in the end.”

“The way I see it, a person isn't nothing more than a scarecrow... The only difference between one that stands up good and one that blows over is what kind of a stick they're stuck up there on.”

“When people die,” I said, “and you’ll be able to verify this for yourself—most of ’em move on. A few of ’em stick around. But the ones who stick around are usually messed-up. Murders and suicides, or people with unfinished business. As for accidents and illness—at the very worst, they leave a little residue. A repeater. A psychic impression of the final moments, like a moving snapshot. I think the spirits of those repeaters, they’re fine. They go wherever it is people…go. When they die.”

“Journalism is just a gun. It’s only got one bullet in it, but if you aim right, that’s all you need. Aim it right, and you can blow a kneecap off the world.”