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1 " No more tubs for me." I jumped off the bed and pulled on a pair of Pack sweats. " They make me lose all sense." Curran sprawled on the bed with a big self-satisfied smile. " Want to know a secret?" " Sure." " It's not the bathtub, baby." Well, aren't we smug. I picked up the corner of the lowest mattress and made a show of looking under it." What are you looking for?" " A pea Your Majesty." " What?" " You heard me." I jumped back as he lunged and his fingers missed me by an inch." Getting slow in your old age." " I thought you liked it slow." A flashback to last night mugged me and my mind executed a full stop.He laughed. " Ran out of snappy comebacks?" " Hush. I'm trying to think of one. "
2 " At age 13, I was violently mugged at a busy train station. There were dozens of onlookers, but none of them lent a hand ... That was a defining point in that stage of my life. After that, I could never tell myself that it was someone else's problem, or let a situation pass me by if I felt something had to be done. I knew from experience that all too often, no one else would act. "
― Adrián Lamo
3 " Laughter gurgled up from inside her. She'd just mugged a mugger. Look out, world. "
― Erin Kellison , Night's Deep Hush (Reveler, #4)
4 " The parable about the Good Samaritan tells how a Samaritan rescues a man who is mugged and beaten by robbers on the Jericho—Jerusalem road, a notoriously dangerous stretch of highway. To understand how this story must have shocked the Jews, imagine someone telling a story about “The Good Nazi.” The Jews and Samaritans hated one another. "
― Paul E. Miller , Love Walked Among Us: Learning to Love Like Jesus
5 " It's the silliness--the profligacy, and the silliness--that's so dizzying: a seven-year-old will run downstairs, kiss you hard, and then run back upstairs again, all in less than 30 seconds. It's as urgent an item on their daily agenda as eating or singing. It's like being mugged by Cupid. "
― Caitlin Moran , How to Be a Woman
6 " I always imagined rape as this violent scene of a woman walking alone down a dark alley and getting mugged and beaten by some masked criminal. Rape was an angry man forcing himself inside a damsel in distress. I would not carry the trauma of a cliché rape victim. I would not shriek in the midst of my slumber with night terrors. I would not tremble at the sight of every dark haired man or the mention of Number 1’s name. I would not even harbor ill will towards him. My damage was like a cigarette addiction- subtle, seemingly innocent, but everlasting and inevitably detrimental. Number 1 never opened his screen door to furious crowds waving torches and baseball bats. Nobody punched him out in my honor. The Nightfall crowd never socially ostracized him. Even the ex-boyfriend who’d second handedly fused the entire fiasco continued to mingle with him in drug circles. Everybody continued with business as usual. And when I told my parents I lost my virginity against my will, unconscious on a bathroom floor, Carl did not erupt in fury and demand I give him all I knew about his whereabouts so he could greet him with a rifle. Mom blankly shrugged and mumbled, “Oh, that’s too bad,” and drifted into the kitchen as if I’d received a stubbed toe rather than a shredded hymen. Everyone in my life took my rape as lightly as a brief thunderstorm that might have been frightening when it happened, but was easy to forget about. I adopted that mentality as the foundation of my sex life. I would, time and time again, treat sex as flimsily as it started. I would give it away as if it was cheap, second hand junk, rather than a prize that deserved to be earned. "
― Maggie Georgiana Young , Just Another Number
7 " Louise was an urbanite, she preferred the gut-thrilling sound of an emergency siren slicing through the night to the noise of country birds at dawn. Pub brawls, rackety roadworks, mugged tourists, the badlands on a Saturday night - they all made sense, they were all part of the huge, dirty, torn social fabric. There was a war raging out there in the city and she was part of the fight, but the countryside unsettled her because she didn't know who the enemy was. She had always preferred North and South to Wuthering Heights. All that demented running around the moors, identifying yourself with the scenery, not a good role model for a woman. "
― Kate Atkinson , When Will There Be Good News? (Jackson Brodie, #3)