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Pic of the Day: “I don’t believe that story about Josey Wales.” “You don’t?” “No, sir, I don’t. I don’t believe no five pistoleros can do in Josey Wales.” “Maybe it was six. Could’ve even been ten.” “I think he’s still alive.” “Alive? No sir.” “I think I’ll go down to Mexico, and try to find him.” “And then?” “He’s got the first move. I owe him that. I think I’ll try to tell him the war is over. What do you say, Mr. Wilson?” “I reckon so. I guess we all died a little in that damn war.”
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Pic of the Day: “He was growing into middle age, and was living then in a bungalow on Woodland Avenue. He installed himself in a rocking chair and smoked a cigar down in the evenings as his wife wiped her pink hands on an apron and reported happily on their two children. His children knew his legs, the sting of his mustache against their cheeks. They didn’t know how their father made his living, or why they so often moved. They didn’t even know their father’s name.”
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Pic of the Day: “You don’t have to do me no favors, pappy.” “If I was doing you a favor, I’d let ’em hang you right now and get it all over with. But I don’t want you to get off that light. I want you to go on, being a big, tough gunny. I want you to see what it means to have to live like a big, tough gunny. So don’t thank me yet, partner. You’ll see what I mean.”
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