Stephen King

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.

"Shake the hand that shook the world."

"All is silent in the halls of the dead."Eddie heard himself in a falling, fainting voice. "All is forgotten in the stone halls of the dead. Behold the stairways which stand in darkness; behold the rooms of ruin. These are the halls of the dead where spiders spin and the great circuits fall quiet, one by one."

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.

TOUGH TITTY, SAID THE KITTY.

Blaine is a pain, and that is the truth.Yet his heart, that silent, watchful, lifelong prisoner of Ka, received the words of this promise not just with wonder but with doubt.

I do not aim with my hand;

He who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his father.

I aim with my eye.I do not shoot with my hand;

He who shoots with his hand has forgotten the face of his father.

I shoot with my mind.I do not kill with my gun;

He who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father.

I kill with my heart.