Best 5 quotes of Kingfisher Pink on MyQuotes

In books and movies whenever someone dies there is always an underlying subtext, some kind of grand cosmic lesson to be gleaned from the experience. Popular culture perpetuates the fallacy that whenever someone or something is taken away, someone or something else is always out there waiting in the wings to take its place by the last turn of the page or that final post-credits scene. The reader closes the book with a satisfied smile, the audience leaves the theater filled to the brim with warm fuzzy feelings. But that’s entertainment for you, and the world would be a far less wonderful place without their happy endings. However, in the real world what once was, no longer is, and survivors are more often than not left with no other choice but to move on, cosmic lessons learned or not.

Oliver Marley supposed there were more dignified ways to end his life. A lifelong victim to the twin sins of an infertile imagination and pragmatism, the thought of travel simply never crossed his mind.   Had it occurred to him, Oliver could have jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge, into the abyss of the Grand Canyon or said au revoir off the Eiffel Tower. But truth be told, Oliver never was much of a traveler. Even locally there were certainly higher quality casinos to choose from, taller parking garages from which to leap. Instead he found himself perched atop the nearest appropriately-sized structure to his home, that being the parking garage of the Circus Time Hotel & Casino. His view not of Alcatraz Island and the rough waters of the San Francisco Bay, nor the breathtaking vistas of the Arizona desert, or the romanticism of the Paris skyline for that matter. Rather he found himself bathed in a noxious blend of pink and green neon, staring into a pair of giant blinking pastel eyes belonging to the eighty-foot clown staring down at him like a frilly guardian angel. Then again, when your primary objective is to pancake yourself on a public sidewalk, perhaps you’re not in the best position to nitpick over the intricacies of what does and does not constitute bad taste. Oliver would just have to live with the clown, at least for another minute or two.

Should one find themselves with a proclivity towards savagery – be it discovered through self-diagnosis, the observations of friends and kind strangers, or via legal decree – one should take particular caution before ordering the steak tartare.

To hear Camrose tell of it, as he often does and in excruciating detail, his early years were tantamount to a parallel Dickensian universe inasmuch as every meal was boiled down to gruel. (Please sir, I don’t want any more.) Whatever vegetables the commune were able to come by through barter, theft or scavenging – though oddly not from a community garden which no one had ever thought to plant – were tossed into a pot with a few heaping scoops of lentils and a handful of curry powder, then boiled down until thick and grayish brown. The resulting semi-solid porridge landed in the bowl with a wet thump reminiscent of raw liver smacking the floor and forced its way to the stomach with an angry lurch. Invalids fed through feeding tubes found more satisfaction in their daily bread than young Camrose.

You have a drawer full of dull butter knives and an old pair of kitchen shears. You are hardly armed to the teeth.