Nice Dress. Take It Off.

We Don't Usually Write Up Accidents Involving Rabbits. - Joe Morelli

My Mother Had Been Slicing Up The Chicken. She Took A Drumstick And Dropped It On The Floor. She Kicked It Around A Little, Picked It Up And Put It On The Edge Of The Plate. "there," She Said, "we'll Give Him This Drumstick." "deal.

That Might Work," I Said. "i'm Good At Faking It." This Led To A Couple Moments Of Uncomfortable Silence From Both Of Us. "you Didn't Mean... ?" Morelli Asked. "no. Of Course Not." "never?" "maybe Once." His Eyes Narrowed. "once?" "it's All That Comes To Mind. It Was The Time We Were Late For Your Uncle Spud's Birthday Party." "i Remember That. That Was Great. You're Telling Me You Faked It?" "we Were Late! I Couldn't Concentrate. It Seemed Like The Best Way To Go.

I’ll Be Real Discreet,” Tank Said. As Discreet As A Six-foot-six, No-neck Guy Weighing Three Hundred And Fifty Pounds, All Dressed In Black Swat Clothes, With A Glock Holstered At His Side Could Be.

You Have The Super Soaker Filled With Holy Water?” “yeah. I Sucked It Out Of The Church. You Know That Bird-bath Thing They Got Right Up Front?” “the Baptismal Font?” “that’s It. They Got It Filled With Holy Water, Free For The Taking.” “brilliant,” I Said To Lula. She Tapped Her Head With Her Finger. “no Grass Growin’ Here.