I was garbed all in white, the color of vanilla ice cream and Moby-Dick|Moby Dick.

Anyone who tried to hurt me, to use me, did so at his own peril and now he would receive his due, whoever he was, this one. I felt a strong desire to kill, to destroy whomever had been responsible, and I knew it was not the first time in my life that I had felt this thing, and I knew that I had followed through on it in the past.

Of all my relations, I like sex the best and Eric the least.

The blood billowed above them, and I suddenly realized I had known mad, sad, bad Vincent Van Gogh, and it was really too bad he couldn't have painted this.

I walked among shadows, and found a race of furry creatures, dark and clawed and fanged, reasonably man-like, and about as intelligent as a freshman in the high school of your choice — sorry, kids, but what I mean is they were loyal, devoted, honest, and too easily screwed by bastards like me and my brother. I felt like the dee-jay of your choice.

My sight was returning to me, that's what it meant — that lovely patch of brightness, off somewhere to my right.

"Mon Dieu!" he said. "I am pleased never to have had you for an enemy. Are you certain you are not the Devil?" "Yeah, sure," I said. "Don't you smell the brimstone? And my right hoof is killing me." He actually sniffed a couple times before he chuckled, which hurt my feelings a bit.