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(Source: gunsintheground)
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I’m forty-seven. Forty-seven years old. You know how I stayed alive this long? All these years? Fear. The spectacle of fearsome acts. Somebody steals from me, I cut off his hands. He offends me, I cut out his tongue. He rises against me, I cut off his head, stick it on a pike, raise it high up so all on the streets can see. That’s what preserves the order of things. Fear.
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If you shoot a bullet, someone dies. When you drop a bomb, many die. You hit a woman, love dies. But if you say the f-word…nothing actually happens.
— The Count, Pirate Radio


