The Drawing Of The Three

“I love you, Eddie. You have tried so hard. Been so patient. So has he—” she nodded toward the place where the gunslinger lay propped against the rocks, watching. “– but he is a hard man to love.”

When it came to murder, Jack Mort was an equal-opportunity employer.

There ensued a short, violent struggle. The Gunslinger won, but it was a surprisingly hard go. In his way, Jack Mort was as divided as Odetta. He was not a schizophrenic as she was; he knew well enough what he did from time to time. But he kept his secret self—the part of him that was The Pusher—as carefully locked away as an embezzler might lock away his secret skim.

Control the things you can control, maggot. Let everything else take a flying fuck at you, and if you must go down, go down with your guns blazing.

The thunder of his own guns filled him with stupid wonder.

By Profession, He was a Successful C.P.A. Pushing was only his Hobby.

The stairs were choked with people who had reversed their downward course when the yelling and shooting started, obsessed with that morbid and somehow unique New Yorkers’ curiosity to see how bad, how many, how much blood spilled on the dirty concrete. Yet somehow they still found a way to shrink back from the man in the blue suit who came plunging down the stairs. It wasn’t much wonder. He was holding a gun, and another was strapped around his waist.

Also, he appeared to be on fire.

“Well,” Eddie said, “What was behind Door Number One wasn’t so hot, and what was behind Door Number Two was even worse, so now, instead of quitting like sane people, we’re going to go right ahead and check out Door Number Three. The way things have been going, I think it’s likely to be something like Godzilla or Ghidra the Three-Headed Monster, but I’m an optimist. I’m still hoping for the stainless steel cookware.”

Later, with strange galaxies turning in slow gavotte overhead, neither thought the act of love had ever been so sweet, so full.

Jack Mort died alone.

Do-Bees covered all the bases.

I am three women…I who was; I who had no right to be but was; I am the woman you have saved. I thank you gunslinger.

"If we were going to rape you, you would be one well-raped woman by now"

Who was to say he had not sculpted the cosmos today, or might not at some future time? God, no wonder he creamed his jeans!

If you have given up your heart for the Tower, Roland, you have already lost. A heartless creature is a loveless creature, and a loveless creature is a beast. To be a beast is perhaps bearable, although the man who has become one will surely pay hell’s own price in the end, but if you should gain your object? What if you should, heartless, storm the Dark Tower and win it? What could you do except degenerate from beast to monster? To gain one’s object as a beast would only be bitterly comic, like giving a magnifying glass to an elephaunt. But to gain one’s object as a monster…To pay hell is one thing. But do you want to own it?

In a world that was clearly going to hell head-first, what was so low about getting high?

“Won’t somebody please explain where I am and how I got here?” the woman in the wheelchair asked – almost pleaded.“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Dorothy,” Eddie said. “You ain’t in Kansas anymore.”

The door had hinges, but they were fastened to nothing—or so it seems, the gunslinger thought. This is a mystery, a most marvelous mystery, but does it really matter? You are dying. Your own mystery—the only one that really matters to any man or woman in the end—approaches.

Fault always lies in the same place, my fine babies: with him weak enough to lay blame.

"God pisses down the back of your neck every day but only drowns you once".

Had he come this far just to die, then? He would not. And if he were to die in spite of his determination, he would die on his way to the Tower.

"Good. Call it fluttergork if you want, pr... Eddie. Just do it"

“Who are you?” Eddie screams at him.“Your destiny, Eddie,” the gunslinger whispers.

As Henry Dean, the great sage and eminent junkie would have put it, Flip-flop, hippety-hop, offa your rocker and over the top, life’s a fiction and the world’s a lie, so put on some Creedence and let’s get high.

You’re a Tower Junkie, Roland.

"Jesus Christ, when these DO shoot, they really blow holes in things".

When the only fast way you could get rid of the monkey on your back was to snap your spinal cord above that bunch of nerves, you were dealing with one heavy monkey.

There are people who need people to need them. The reason you don’t understand is because you’re not one of those people. You’d use me and then toss me away like a paper bag if that’s what it came down to. God fucked you, my friend. You’re just smart enough so it would hurt you to do that, and just hard enough so you’d go ahead and do it anyway. You wouldn’t be able to help yourself. If I was lying on the beach there and screaming for help, you’d walk over me as if I was between you and your goddamn Tower.