Purple Haze Feedback Quotes
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phfquotes.bsky.social
Purple Haze Feedback Quotes
@phfquotes.bsky.social
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The attack exploded, then vanished like a summer squall. One touch from Purple Haze meant death. This was Pannacotta Fugo's stand.
"Did I go too far? Serves you right for trying to run me down. I suppose you'll still make for a decent hostage." He grabbed her roughly, and yanked her out of the remains of the car. She hung limp, like a kitten held aloft by the scruff of its neck. "Urgh...Voodoo Child!"
Closing her eyes and looking upward, she stood still in the silence until a timid voice sounded from behind her. “Um – I’m just wondering...did you, by any chance...know Bruno?” When she turned toward the voice, Trish saw a well-dressed woman standing there alone.
That was the truth, and nothing would ever change that. Why "Trish is me!", Narancia? What were you feeling? The helicopter flew on towards Syracuse. A Passione pilot was flying it. Murolo sat in the copilot seat.
"Not necessary." "You're hell bent on this, then?" Mista snorted, scowling. They all protested, but Buccellati was very clear. "This is going to happen. You aren't changing my mind." They were forced to drop it. This behavior was very strange, very out of character for Buccellati
"Don't tell me not to come! Trish is me! She's the same as me! The wounds on her arm are my wounds!" The boat stopped to pick him up. Then they were gone. He never once looked back at Fugo. None of them did. And like that...he was all alone.
"We are the the Watchtower Troupe!" The cards chanted like a scene from a children's cartoon. All Along the Watchtower – this was Cannolo Murolo's stand.
"Think it'll work?" "Well...even Kocaqi seemed pretty dubious." "The reason I decided to take the fight to Sicily isn't just because it's my home and I know the lay of the land, or because Passione's influence isn't as strong.
And that's if you don't get stabbed in the back. The family won't protect you, not really. You're better off taking the money, moving abroad, and living it up." "…............." Abbacchio just glared at him. The darkness in his eyes was terrifying.
This was how Fugo found himself stepping closer to the underworld. Buccellati had always been popular, and soon drew others to his side.
"Only one person could do something about that. You. Pannacotta Fugo – you were the only person who could do something about this threat. The only person who can change your stand is you." "…................"
Why? He thought. Why wasn't he mad? None of what had happened was logical, none of it made sense, so why hadn't he lost his temper? Why wasn't he breaking everything in sight? He couldn't figure it out.
He took a test the day she died. He failed it. He was summoned to the professor's office. The moment he stepped in the door the professor was furious.
Vittorio slit his own throat. Blood gushed out, but seventy percent of the damage would transfer to whoever the blade reflected. He would be left with only a small scratch.
The ripple was moving towards her, down the wall, and along the ground, towards her feet. Then something reached up from the gap between the paving stones. A hand. As thin as a piece of paper. The hand was holding a needle, the tip of it poised to poke Sheila E in the back.
"Don't try and fight me," the man said. It was not a threat, but a statement of fact. "Manic Depression can control you completely. You no longer have free will."
He trailed off, staring not at Fugo, but at the seats surrounding the stage. His face had gone pale, and he looked like he couldn't believe was he was seeing.
Buccellati had gone out to investigate, and come back talking about a boy he'd never mentioned before, saying that he might be one of them soon. Fugo and the others had not been able to hide their surprise.
"It's not mine. I'm still bottom rung. I don't have even have any men to call my own. Like you said, I'm low born – I'm a fisherman's son.
"Okay. Come on out, Sheila E." His voice was low, but it carried, projected like a opera singer's. For ten full seconds, there was silence. Then two figures emerged from the shadows, their movements a far cry from the intensity the home team athletes typically displayed.
Faced with the strength of Buccellati's belief, and the force behind his words, Fugo felt nothing but confusion. He had no idea what Buccellati meant by 'right'. That was a belief he had never once encountered, at any point in his life.
"You knew, didn't you? You knew Risotto and the assassins were traitors. You set them up to fight Diavolo, and didn't care which of them won." He had almost reached him now.
“I’m sure that he had no regrets. I believe he died telling his friends his last wishes. But I...unfortunately didn’t get to be a part of that circle.” She gave a gloomy smile.
"Most of the time, you can't use your power on yourself, but this guy clearly can." "Yes. And when he's flat like that, he can slip through narrow gaps, and get close to his targets. That's how he and Sale made their approach."
"Enough about the time you fought Buccellati's team. The point is, a man named Fugo was part of his team?" Zucchero whimpered something. "About the same age, then. I can't say I'd spared a single thought to him since he was expelled, but...I can see him ending up in the mob."