Purple Haze Feedback Quotes
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Purple Haze Feedback Quotes
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Their eyes met, and a second later – for reasons he himself did not understand – Fugo walked over to the boy, took his arm, and dragged him to the restaurant. The boy didn't fight it, just let himself be led.
They became a team, of sorts; everyone knew them. They weren't part of any syndicate, and the townsfolk trusted them completely. The gangsters decided it was easier to leave them be. "Fugo, you should be more adventurous," Narancia said. Mista laughed.
"Giorno joined the gang specifically to defeat the boss and take over. Buccellati was helping him all along. Makes sense, doesn't it? You don't look surprised. The moment he joined our team, Giorno was no ordinary recruit.
"Hot damn! That's so sweet! Is this really Buccellati's!?" Narancia was straight up dancing with excitement. He was seventeen, but his eyes shone like a six-year-old's.
"As far as we can tell, you spent the last six months playing piano in a bar. You play piano? I had no idea. All that time we knew each other..." "….............." "Guess rich kids get to learn all sorts of fancy tricks."
...back then, Fugo and Narancia were on even ground. Buccellati had saved them both. They were both working to pay him back. There was little difference between them. But now? Narancia was dead. And Fugo had to kill the narcotics team to prove he wasn't a traitor.
Before Vittorio had a chance to be surprised that Murolo was still alive, Murolo picked the mask up with one hand while biting the index finger of his other hand hard enough to break the skin. Then he held his bleeding finger over the mask.
When these violent fits of rage came upon him, he couldn't stop himself. He had no idea what he would do. The owner jumped back, frightened. Expressionless, not glancing at him, Fugo pulled out his wallet. Bits of plate sticking out of his burned, bleeding hand.
He was unable to swallow anything, and had been living on an IV for the past week. The stitches sealing the wound in his side had yet to be removed, either. Even in this condition Passione had seen fit to summon him
She nodded curtly, and jammed her fingers in her ears with such force it was a wonder they didn't bleed. Sealing off all outside sound. Her obedience was downright pathological. Mista did not seem concerned.
Like the bacteria that fill our world, existing without our help, rebuffing all attempts to get rid of them. Something you didn't want, but were, for some reason, certain you could never be free of. A shadow of conflicted emotion. It looked down at him, and he looked up at it.
It was drugs that brought him and Abbacchio together. And now he was about to meet the source of those – Massimo Volpe, and his team – and fight to the death.
Milano, Italy – the Stadio Guiseppe Meazza. One of the most famous soccer stadiums in the world.
"There is one problem with this power," Volpe said. "I can't use it for long. But Vittorio has gone to acquire the means to overcome that flaw. A treasure that grants humans eternity. Do you know what that means?" "….............." "It means your last hope just crumbled."
"I don't know what this Giorno is capable of, but if we're bringing someone new on board, it must be time." "…............" "I'm sure they're making Buccellati capo," Fugo said, excitedly. "He's got the results. He's got the support. He should have been promoted by now, but..."
I'd have to use our mother's maiden name, of course – couldn't have that stain on the Volpe name. I'll call myself Trussardi." "Who cares what you call yourself?" "Father will." "You hate him. Enough to leave. Why bother worrying what he'll think?"
Fugo stopped moving forward. He was tensed to act at any moment, but hesitant to do so. Thoughts flooded his mind. Maybe he shouldn't kill Kocaqi. If he wasn't going to resist, maybe they should capture him for questioning.
After the tyrant Gelon conquered Syracuse in the fifth century, he rebuilt the ancient Temple to Athena with a thenmodern Doric edifice; the walls of the current building include the Dorian columns prominently.
"My stand has the ability to lock any sensation. Humans are always sensing things. No matter how much they may not want to, they are always aware.
or eliminating those who tried to embezzle from the mob, or executing the minimal number of Passione members required to contain internal conflicts; nothing the police would be involved in, just problems that needed to be taken care of.
He put his head down and forced his way forward. He couldn't afford to retreat. The moment he turned his back the horde would be on him like zombies. He had to get through them. Their nails cut into him.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the show! There are fifty-three of us, here to entertain you! I'm the joker, and I'll be your host for this evening." "Ah, joker, joker. You always did like to joke around."
A figure stood at the entrance to the Temple of Apollo. The figure's legs were shaking. There was a knife sticking out of his side, and he could barely stand. He must have forced himself to come here despite his injury.
If Buccellati were swearing fealty, and he was standing behind him, watching, that would be so simple. He was sure everyone would have something to say. He could almost hear them.