Boondocks Saints Quotes Novels & Stories

This immediately pisses Dominic off and he snaps back, “The last time I checked you were the Three Stooges.” “Which,” Joseph says as he just can’t help himself, “It makes you a bit dumber than us.” Anthony is the first to protest, “You are so dumb you just called yourself dumb.” Dominic only continues to snap back, “What do they say, it takes one to know one.” “Did your lame ass just come up with that?” Mathew asks. “At least I have an ass.” “That is about all you got going for you.” “At least I got something going. You probably have not seen a pussy for years.”

“Saint used to say the same thing when he got accused of stealing from the treasury. You remember that?” I stared at him, my jaw tight. “Yeah. I also remember you were the one counting the cash.” The room went dead quiet. For a heartbeat, I thought he might hit me. Instead, he laughed — loud, bitter, forced. “You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that.” He turned away, still laughing. “You think you can dig up ghosts and not end up joining them?” “I’m not scared of ghosts,” I said. He stopped, turned just enough to show me the edge of his smirk. “You should be. The living are worse.”

Lula whistled, ran a finger over the coke. “We’re not just rich. We’re untouchable.” I walked to Saint, still chained, cock half-hard from fear. I grabbed it, squeezed till he groaned. “You set me up tonight,” I whispered. “Thought you’d watch Dax break me, then take it all. Wrong move.” I nodded to Jax. My brother—shaking, but eyes clear—picked up a big wrench. I kissed Saint’s cheek. “Start with the fingers. He won’t need them anymore.”

I said coldly, "Winona, I never realized you were such a saint. You're willing to offer yourself up just to fulfill someone's wish? So, if any random person asked you to sleep with them, you'd do that too?" "Of course not!" she shot back without hesitation. I laughed bitterly. "So, Julian's special to you then. You never got over him these past five years, right?" Winona shouted, "I already told you it was only to make sure he didn't leave this world with regrets. Why are you being so petty about this? Besides, I showed up to the wedding on time today, didn't I? What more do you want from me?"

Saint scolds. "Because out there? It isn't a keyboard and a screen. It’s lead and blood." Studying him, the relaxed posture and the quiet confidence, a different question forms. "Why Saint? Because you have the patience of one?" He chuckles, a low, rich sound. "Because I deliver miracles on the asphalt. When an op goes to hell and the bullets are flying, I’m the patron saint of getting the team out alive." "Modest." "No need for bullshit modesty when you know you’re the best. Besides, Butcher took a scary name, and Kirill doesn't need one. He just walks into a room and people start praying."

I hugged him tighter because of what he said. "Baby" "Hmm?" "You need to control your bloodlust." Since Saint is here, maybe he can help me to properly control my bloodlust. "I won't let you be eaten up by your bloodlust." I nodded at what Saint said. "And first things first, baby. Why are you here? Didn't I tell you about entering this school?" I already said that he will ask me that. "Excuse me, Saint, if I'm not here your memories won't come back! I saved you from danger." I said. I heard him chuckle because of what I said, is there something funny in that?

He sipped from his flask and looked like he had been doing so for the duration of the movie. “Someday big Dicky Boyd’ll be bled dry,” he said, nodding to the camera. “You’ll see. And that sad sack new principal? He’ll be fed to the wolves!” Boris tipped back the flask to finish it off, and then chucked it over the top of the camera. “An’ the good Reverend? He’ll keep turnin’ on lights. Turn on every light in this goddamn town, for all the good it’ll do him. He’ll keep preachin’ about searchin’ for higher truth . . . and then one day he’ll find it. Whether he wants to or not.” The screen cut to black and the tape rattled through.

Inside lay a single silver bullet, a scrap of burned leather that smelled like dog, and a note beneath it, neat and cold. SAINTS DIE FIRST. QUEENS KNEEL LAST. CHOOSE FASTER.

I heard Saint's voice echo in my ear, laced with concern. A pall of quiet descends upon us, broken only by the faint moans of anguish that prick at my ears. I brace myself for the inevitable suggestion from Saint, but no amount of mental preparation could have steeled me for what he proposed next. "Get a puppy," he advises, as if this was a perfectly rational thing to say in the midst of my crisis. "It's what some of my guys do for emotional support. They can help you cope with whatever you're going through."

Darkness is creeping in at the edge of my consciousness. “Let me take the reins, Bronx,” I hear Saint say. “Not yet. I got it.” “Listen, dummy. You don’t get it. Let me take over before you fucking pass out and our mate has to stop healing us,” he snarls at me, “I’m tapping in.”