Daniel Younger Quotes

There are probably more of us. If we're all zombies, then
there's got to be more. I say we go up to the cemetery and find out."
"Can we get soda on the way?"
Nothing washes down brains better than a can of Coca Cola and a little shameless product placement. (Hey, the undead do have an image problem.)
"Soda and cemeteries! Soda and cemeteries!" they chanted. "And braaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiins!"
"Hey Bernie, you're getting pretty good at that."
"Okay, you try."
"Braaa - " the zombie belched, " - aiiinsss."
Earl heaved the coroner's body out of the way. They headed off for the cemetery, each trying furiously to perfect their own, unique and personal call for brains like an undead choir, out of tune.
"Braaaaiiiiins!" "Braaiiiiiiiinns!" "Braaaaaaaaaains!" "Bray-uns."
"That was just awful." ...Away into the night.

The Creator is infinite in all things, even his douchebaggery.

I'm only doing one more," Ruby said, scrolling through her phone. "Nobody likes a day-drunk hussie."
"Hey, give yourself some credit. You'll be a really cute day- drunk hussie.

It's worth noting here that dragons are magical creatures. It's also worth following that up with a big, fat, duh.

Now, my friends, we go for pizza.

You realize that saving the world and changing it are different things, right?

Here you found a homeless guy wearing a decade's patina of grime and sweat, in for trying to beat up a dumpster (and losing); a street performer coated from head to toe in metallic spray paint, caught trying to fondle a nine-year old; two Elvis impersonators of the pudgy era, apprehended in the midst of a fistfight over who was the real deal (tidbit: one of them was); and a gaggle of drunks in a holding cell, all in varying stages of undress - one of whom wore only a traffic pylon on his head.

The Baron took his cane and put it under the doctor's chin. "You are a very unlikeable man. In my true form, I'd think you as little more than spooge on the bottom of my shoe.

A little difference is still different.

Good threat," the woman chuckled. "Here's mine: you've got about twenty minutes to hightail it over to Venetian before your brother becomes a memory wrote in pink mist. Toodles.

The Baron was good with two things: sex, and death. And what was sex anyway - what was orgasm but what the French (those cunning linguists of the language of love) referred to as a Little Death? What was life but a ticking clock toward the grave, and how did life start but with an unfettered hump toward morning?

There's a surcharge on van repairs."
"What kind of surcharge?"
"I'm a sir and I'm making a charge.

If there's anything in life that's an undisputed fact, it's this: Buildings with strange symbols carved in their lintels are bad news. You rarely find symbols leading to unicorns and fields of candy - and even that's bad news if you're diabetic.

This existenitalist stuff sure is crap

She overslept, was rude to her barista at Starbucks, and had an inexplicable craving for Baskin Robbins. She moped. She pouted. And even though she'd hexed a man to fawn over her, repeatedly going, "Hey, you look familiar, can I buy you a drink?" with no recollection of the ten previous times he'd done it, she found no pleasure in the hijinks. She was in a funk. It bothered her.

Reggie, you wrapped your sports car around a telephone pole after drinking a bar."
"Yeah... But I was wearing my seatbelt.

The Flamingo Casino is a slice of Vegas legacy. It's kind of where it all started. With a reputation steeped in infamy, it's the place tourists go hoping to spot some vestige of the mafia in the glitzy city. And time after time, they go in, poke around, and come out saying: "Well that's totally not what I expected - hey look, naked bronze chicks!

The goblin Vince swung at Noah as the Baron came bounding into the tavern, riding a shadow like a skateboard, his sword swiping viciously. The axe rattled to the floor. The old one's head sailed through the air. The body staggered, exploring the tarry stump of its neck, then toppled over.
"That was totally uncalled for!" the goblin's head said from the floor.

Also fun fact for you Americans: in Canada, the practice of Thanksgiving is celebrated with the slaying of a sacred moose. Once killed, the moose is slathered in maple syrup, apologized to excessively, then roasted over a bed of Maple Leafs ™ until crispy on the outside and succulent on the inside. The meat is then dispersed by carrier goose and beaver to all of our country's people, and our dashing Prime Minister does a naked pagan dance around the flayed carcass, shouting "Hoser!" until his throat's raw.

We're very serious about Thanksgiving in Canada, Eh?

She waited. She waited so excruciatingly long that she could physically feel the time pass; a binding in her chest, her breath shallow and raspy. Silence seemed to stuff itself in her ears like cotton balls.

Little is known about the love lives of the undead. Really, past the brain-eating, reanimated corpse angle, not much is said for the zombie's perspective. So they ate brains - big deal! Sure, they were corpses - so what? Indeed, there was the smell, but whose fault was that?
At first glance they were brain-hungry cannibals, (Mmm, brains. Maybe with a little cilantro or a garlic rub - mashed potatoes and brainsloaf - brains pot pie - penne a la brains...) but in reality, zombies were not the mindless man-eaters or virus-addled lunatics jonesing for human flesh depicted in the movies. Just like everything in life - or rather, unlife - things were more complicated. Zombies were, until very recently, people. And with that came wants, desires, longings. Needs.
Asher had been troubled by the zombie loneliness until Brenda, the attractive corpse he'd met in a less animated state earlier, pulled him into the cemetery, threw him down on a slab and shagged him silly.

Life isn't easy. Would that every story ended happily, every crisis be averted, everything get a pretty shiny bow, but that's not the world we live in. Life is harsh. Things go wrong, People get hurt, and some even die. That's just the way it goes.

If you're looking for good Mexican food in Vegas, you go to the Arts District. Jonesing for stupidly overpriced jeans or a rhine- stone T-shirt? The Fashion Show Mall has you covered. How about some quiet contemplation over that lost trust fund? Lake Mead's your man. Maybe getting stabbed, shot, or beaten to death is your thing, so head on up to North Vegas. But, if you're looking for a snapshot of city history, a reasonably affordable libation, and the rare sensation of getting squeezed through a kaleidoscope's poop chute, then you can't beat Fremont.