Sublime

"Do you want the good news or the bad news?" "Cyrus, I hate when people say that. Just hit me with whatever you got."

Scylla went into heat and “[neighbor] Quincy Jones’s dogs were barreling under my gate,” Payne said, “and the next thing I knew Scylla’s pregnant.” Seven puppies later, Mike Nichols called. “Puppies?” he asked. “Killer puppies? I’m coming right over.” (He picked one, named it Louis, and took it home.)

Stenciled over the armored steel door of the wheelhouse, in English, was: WOLF LARSEN, CAPTAIN. When Eiko had asked about the name, one of the other crew members—one of the other slaves—had laughed bitterly. “It’s a joke. A reference to some old book or movie. But there’s nothing behind that door but the AI core.

“You’re one of the best I’ve ever seen, period, man or woman. What kills me is that you are a complete fucking pushover who’s hung up on worthless words in front of a person that doesn’t matter.” His cheeks were flushed. “Grow some balls, Casillas. Fight me for this. Fight anyone that tries to take this away from you,” he urged.

“But I’d like to see—” “Beat it!” Henderson said, pushing Hoke’s shoulder. “All right. But call me tomorrow, Sanchez. There’re a few things—” “I’ll call you,” Sanchez said. “But right now you’d better get going.” “You call me, too, Bill.”

“Lock him up,” Beckett mutters from the corner. He’s backed himself into the space next to my office tree, cloaked half in shadow. He looks like the Grinch, sounds like him too. “Throw away the key.”