“Over the years, I've made good money in real estate, and for some reason, this hurts Stephen's feelings. He's not a churchman, but he's extremely big on piety and sacrifice and letting you know what fine values he's got. As far as I can tell, these values consist of little more than eating ramen noodles by the case, getting laid once every fifteen years or so, and arching his back at the sight of people like me -- that is, people who have amounted to something and don't smell heavily of thrift stores.”

“...I made some more threats. I've got this big knife back here." He poked his thumb over his shoulder. "It attracts a lot of attention sometimes.”

“Snoopy: So this is the last day of the year. Another complete year gone by and what have I accomplished this year that I haven't accomplished every other year? Nothing! (He smiles.) How consistent can you get?”

“Cole, do you feel anything for me?" I don't know what made me ask this, except that Jack had asked him the night of the Tunnels. It obviously surprised him.He backed up. "What?"I inched forward, not quite sure I was going with this. "Do you feel...something for me?"He was quiet, still as a statue, so I moved even closer. "Don't, Nik." His gaze dropped to the ground."If you feel anything, please leave me alone. I don't know why I survived. I don't have your answer. Shadowing me will get you nothing."Then he did something unexpected. He backed down, and as he turned around to his motorcycle, he shook his head and mumbled, "What have you done to me?""I don't know," I said. "But you have ninety-nine years to figure it out."He kicked it on and revved the engine, and at the sound, he found his cocky smirk again. "That's a long time, Nik. Jack is gone, and I'm here. Let's see who gives up first.”

“-- He just gave me some money to go shopping, I don't need his money., I've got a purseful. That's not going to make me feel better anyway, I've been on Prozac since I was fifteen, I need pills now to fall asleep, I go out every night, I drink, I sniff, I go into hysterics, I cry, I scream, and all he can do is give me money, money, money, I'm sick of it, look!”

“And you know what? If there is a God, and it's that same God who's so eager to have temples built in honor of his greatness, and wars fought over him, and people dropping to their knees telling him what a wonderful, magnificent being he is? If this all-powerful, all-knowing creature for some reason just can't get by without my worship? Then let him give me some proof. Or at least get over himself if I decide to go out and get some.”