“He’s here. We can smell it. (Arcadian Sentinel)You need to get your head out of your sphincter and stop smelling your own underwear cause the only jackals here, buddy, are you. (Aimee)”

“Fetch Constantine, or I’ll make boots out of your hide, bear. (Arcadian Sentinel)Don’t touch me, or I’ll mount your jewels to the wall over your head. (Aimee)”

“You don't have to place your hand on Mary's heart to get strength and consolation and rescue, and all the other things we need to get through life. You can place it right here on your own heart. Your own heart.”

“You know what, you need to stay out of my bedroom. You have your own.” He smiled. “I know I do. I see it quite often. I just prefer your bed. It smells better.” I made a face. “It smells better? What does your bed smell like? Regret and bad taste?”

“you just can't wait to get out of your head, can you?""if you were in here you might want that too.”

“A good story is like a good bowel movement: it's only really satisfying once it's ended, because if you just keep going eventually your body runs out of shit and moves on to pushing all your internal organs out your sphincter until only a foul smelling shell remains and anyone who wants to get into your incredibly long poo gets turned off because they have to go through all the poo up until that point to have the necessary context.”