Connections in Death

The legalized torture of socializing lined right up with premeditated murder when you added the requirement of fancy shoes.

rooms, and being the NYPS-fucking-D, we have a whole division who gets off on going through electronics, records.” “That’s

I wish I didn’t know, absolutely, you sign papers of ours without the reading of them.” “I give them a scan.” Sometimes. “If you fucked me over, I’m a cop. I know how to make you pay without letting it show. Like, the one where I tranq your wine, dress you in a diaper and pasties, get you in your office and transmit the image globally.” “You’ve given this some thought.” “Just in my free time.” She gave his hands a squeeze before drawing hers away and laying them on his cheeks. “Bottom line? She wasn’t wrong to trust a man she loves—because it had to be love. He’s not rich or good-looking or powerful. She just loves the wrong man. I don’t.” “Well now,” he murmured, then leaned in to take her mouth in a soft, slow, sweet kiss. “There’s the one where I coat the inside of all your boxers with a biological that causes your works to develop festering boils.” It made him wince. “Christ Jesus, you obviously have far too much free time.” “I’ve got a whole list,” she said as he opened the front door. “For him, too,” she added, shooting a finger at Summerset. Summerset merely cocked his eyebrows. “No visible injuries once again. We appear to be on a streak.” “For him I have the stick up his ass surgically removed, and without it, his whole body collapses into a puddle of ghoul.” She tossed her coat over the newel post. “You’ll be too busy with festering boils to have him reanimated.

You continue to not be and asshole, Kyung." "I do my best to maintain that benchmark.

I don't know if it's scientifically possible, but I swear there's about six months' worth of trapped boy-farts in this room.