Who doesn't love Graphic Novels? Indulge in some of the best quotes from The Sandman
I’ll stare the bastard in the face as he screams to God, and I’ll laugh harder when he whimpers like a baby. And when his eyes go dead, the hell I send him to will seem like heaven after what I’ve done to him.
Dames. Sometimes all they got to do is let it out and a few buckets later there’s no way you’d ever know.
The fire, baby. It’ll burn us both. There’s no place in this world for our kind of fire. My warrior woman. My valkyrie. You’ll always be mine. Always. And never
Nancy’s got a guardian angel. Seven feet plus of muscle and mayhem that goes by the name of Marv.
Buddy, I don’t mean to poke my nose in where it don’t belong, but that there is a dame to kill for. Why’d you let her go?
Stay smart. Stay cool. It’s time to prove to you’re friends that you’re worth a damn.
Sometimes that means dying.
Sometimes it means killing a whole lot of people.
The fire, baby. It’ll burn us both. There’s no place in this world for our kind of fire. My warrior woman. My valkyrie. You’ll always be mine. Always. And never.
She doesn’t quite chop his head off.
She makes a Pez dispenser out of him.
Hello, I’m Shellie’s new boyfriend and I’m out of my mind.
If you so much as talk to her or even think her name, I’ll cut you in ways that’ll make you useless to a woman.
The girls all know the score. No escape. No surrender. No mercy. We got to kill every last rat bastard one of them, every last one. Not for revenge. Not because they deserve it. not because it’ll make the world a better place. We need a heap of bloody bodies so when the mob boss, Wallenquist, looks over his charts of profits and losses, he’ll see what it cost him to mess with the girls of Old Town.
Miho. You’re an angel. You’re a saint. You’re a blessing from above. You’re Mother Theresa. You’re God.
It’s one of those clear, cool nights that drops into the middle of summer like a gift from on high. The short hairs on your arms carry an electric tingle, teasing, hinting at a coming storm. The wind rises in wild gusts, rattling windows, forcing hot dog vendors to wrestle with the umbrellas on their carts, ripping dried tree branches free and scattering them like old bones. It’s no kind of night to stay in the city. It’s no kind of night to stay inside anything.
Nothing to do but sit and wait for the damn sun and all the prying eyes to get out of the way. I hate the sun. And the eyes. The air cools. The sounds change. The suits and briefcases scurry to their fortresses and bolt their doors and balance their checkbooks and ignore the screams and try not to think about who really owns Sin City.
I wipe the blood off and I take a deep breath and I take a good long look at the monster in the mirror.
Don’t screw up this time, Marv. It’s too important. Right now, while you’re alone, feel the fear and get past it. Go ahead. Shake like a junkie. Let your heart crawl up your throat. Let your stomach squeeze itself into a golf ball, into one of those black holes that sucks everything into it.
Think about dying. Think hard. Picture it. A bullet through your brains and that’s if you’re lucky, getting it that quick. But it’s just as likely going to be the slow way. A long, bad joke of a trial and a longer wait in a cell until they strap you into that chair and a million volts send you straight to hell and they’ll call you a psycho killer who got what was coming to him.
Picture it. Feel it. Get used to it. Then put it back inside where it belongs. You’ve got some people to kill. And if you do it right it won’t matter what anybody says. You’ll go to your grave a winner.
But I must have you first. Tonight. Now, tonight, and never again. If you can’t love me–hate me. If you can’t forgive me–punish me.
I call her every foul name there is. She makes my name sound like music, like a chant to some dark god. She’s slippery with sweat. Before long my hatred’s spent but she won’t let go. She kisses and coaxes me and the fire grows again. I’m dragged to the round by a jungle cat. She devours me and I thank her for it. We sob and snivel and bawl out loud like a couple of snot-nosed kids. We melt together. The shudder runs through both of us as I scream her name. Ava. Ava!
I say all the things I swore I’d never say again. She owns me. Body and soul.
What is it about some women? The one-in-a-million kind, who make your head go light and your mouth go dry and your heart climb up your throat? It’s not just their looks. It’s something else–something you can feel from across the room. Whatever it is, this babe has it in spades. Be careful, the smart part of me says. Be damn careful. Remember that old enemy. How she smiled and told you that sex always makes you stupid. She was right. Be careful.
There’s no such thing as silence. They say there is, up there in outer space. But not down here. Wherever there’s air, there’s something to breathe it. Something that makes noise. Even at the city’s angry shouts and honking horns and whining sirens fall away behind us, country noise rises in a chorus. Crickets chirp. Bullfrogs croak. A horny coyote complains for all the world to hear. An owl swoops for the kiss, its horrid screech freezing some hapless field rat in its tracks. And they say the city never sleeps. He gives with a muffled gurgle, his final breath whispers out his nostrils. There’s no such thing as silence.
The thunder doesn’t stop. We fire and reload and fire and reload and fire and watch their heads explode and their guts fly like butcher’s scraps and the alley walls get caked with wet wads of skin and meat and the smoke gets so thick that the things we’re pumping bullets into are nothing bit twisted toppling screaming smudges of movement
The Valkyrie at my side is shouting and laughing with the pure hateful bloodthirsty joy of the slaughter and so am I.