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The horse seemed to bend time and space as he ran, blurring the landscape and making Frank feel like he'd just drunk a gallon of whole milk without his lactose-intolerance medicine: "Seven hundred and fifty miles per hour. Eight hundred. Eight hundred and three. Fast. very Fast.
— Rick Riordan
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I may be loaded. I may be drunk. But I ain't stupid.
— Phil Anselmo
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