— Ballpeen's casa at 7:00.
— Where in the fuck a nigger get a name like that?
— You seen little nigger's arm, right?
— Oh, yeah.
— That's why they call him Ballpeen. He broke Jimmy's arm... with a ten-pound ball peen hammer. Three years ago "Lester James", a.k.a. Ballpeen, was a big, stud motherfucker. Had a stable of bitches he fucked on a regular basis, but every couple weeks... he went out to get some strange. One night, Lester finds himself in this titty bar, and this knockout white girl named Raven, is just gyrating her little tits off. Well, Lester wanted her in the worst way. Even more when she told him to go fuck himself. He sprinkles a little fairy dust on her, somehow gets her to go back to his place. That was all she wrote. He "abused" this bitch. He fucked her every way you can think of and then some. Finally, he gets ready to go again, and he figures he'd "really" degrade this bitch and make her blow him. So, he pushes her head down and, bam! She bites that motherfucker's dick... clean off. Fortunately, they found it and sewed it back on. But it never worked right again. The problem is, a story like that gets around, you know how it is. So to combat this, anytime he even heard anybody talk about it, he'd use this fuckin' hammer on them. "Ballpeen" kind of stuck.
— And Jimmy?
— Over the years, this kind of shit gets out of control. So one day, Ballpeen, shows up late for a meeting and Jimmy made the mistake of asking if he'd been jerking off. Next thing you know,
Jimmy's got a broken arm.
Are we not human? Are we not curious to hear another person’s take?
No woman can compete with Benny's love for himself.
Mon beau tzigane mon amant
Écoute les cloches qui sonnent
Nous nous aimions éperdument
Croyant n’être vus de personne
Mais nous étions bien mal cachés
Toutes les cloches à la ronde
Nous ont vus du haut des clochers
Et le disent à tout le monde
— Now... word in London is that you can be found wandering the streets of Birmingham, stark naked, throwing away money. You talk to dead people. Also, that you believe that you are powerful enough to summon up Jews of a very particular standing up to the gentile wilderness wherein you live in order for them to do your fucking bidding, mate.
— And still, you came.
— Yeah, well, you know... I was passing, weren't I?
But refuse profane and old wives' fables, and exercise thyself rather unto godliness.
You can say nothing. To anyone, ever. Never tell them who you really are. Swear your brother and Samwell Tarly to secrecy, and tell no one else. Or it will take on a life of its own
and you won't be able to control it or what it does to people. No matter how many times you bend the knee, no matter what you swear.
Rumor is a terrible thing. Come nightfall, these men will all reach the same conclusion. That you're a coward and a liar, putting your life above theirs. Good news is there's hope for you, private. Hope in the form of glorious combat. Battle is the great redeemer. The fiery crucible in which the only true heroes are forged. The one place where all men truly share the same rank regardless of what kind of parasitic scum they were going in.
Gossip is what no one claims to like – but everybody enjoys.
A man is what others say he is and no more.