“One only wishes Wayne LaPierre and his NRA board of directors could be drafted to some of these scenes, where they would be required to put on booties and rubber gloves and help clean up the blood, the brains, and the chunks of intestine still containing the poor wads of half-digested food that were some innocent bystander's last meal.”

“She wished he could make her somehow indelibly his; that they were still children so they could cut their fingers and mingle their blood and know this meant something. She longed for some transformation more lasting than that wrought by the law and his name, some visceral change he might effect in her so that anyone on the street with one glance would know she was his.”

“I don't care what your nose says! The last time you smelled half-blood, it turned out to be a meatloaf sandwich!""Meatloaf sandwiches are good! But this is a half-blood scent, I swear. They are on board!""Bah, your brain isn't on board!”

“It's all right Wayne," Waxillium said softly. "I've made a promise. I told Lord Harms I'd return Steris to him. And I will. That is that.""Then I will remain and help," Marasi said. "That is that.""And I could really use some food," Wayne added. "Fat is fat.”

“...A man's religion and love life were nobody else's concern so long as neither of them gouged out some innocent bystander's eyes.”

“I was wishing I'd bought some of that Camp Half Blood orange thermal underwear..." ?!?!”